The plan was one of breathtaking audacity, a symphony of risk conducted on a scale they had never before attempted. The River Aven was the lifeblood of the region, a powerful, wide waterway that flowed from the northern glaciers down past the very walls of Ain itself. The Church's bell-boats were a show of force, but Elara's plan was an act of subtle insurrection.
It required the core group and one other: a quiet, nervous woman named Anya (a different Anya from the captain), whose Unattuned Aspect was an affinity for mist and fog. Her role would be to provide a natural, concealing shroud for their work.
They traveled for two days, moving like shadows, avoiding the main roads that were now patrolled with zealous intensity. The air itself felt different—heavier, charged with the fear the Church's decree had sown. They reached a secluded, rocky bend in the Aven where the current was strong and deep, far from any villages. The sound of the bell-boats was a distant, ominous clanging downstream.
"This is the place," Elara said, her voice barely a whisper over the rush of the water. She turned to Lyra. "Can you feel it? The river's pulse?"
Lyra knelt at the water's edge, placing her palms on the surface. Her eyes closed. "Yes," she murmured. "It's... anxious. The Church's words are like stones thrown into its flow. It carries the disturbance."
"Good," Elara said. "We will give it a different song to carry." She looked at Kaelen. "This is the most delicate work you have ever done. You are not decaying anything. You are... imprinting. Weaving a vibration into the water's own energy that will not fade, but travel."
She explained the concept. Kaelen would use his power not to end something, but to create a resonant pattern of entropy—a specific, gentle decay of the random sonic energy within the water molecules themselves, leaving behind a coherent, low-frequency harmonic. It was like carving a message into the fabric of sound.
Lyra would then act as an amplifier, using her will to guide this "song" into the main current, ensuring it would travel for miles without dissipating.
The mist-maker Anya began her work, and a thick, cool fog rolled out from the riverbank, enveloping them in a ghostly blanket. The world shrank to the sound of the water and their own breathing.
Kaelen waded into the shallows, the cold water biting at his legs. He placed his hands on the surface, feeling the immense, chaotic power of the current. He closed his eyes, seeking the quiet within. He had to find the "noise" in the water—the random vibrations of countless collisions—and gently encourage them to settle into a pattern, to find a resting state that was a specific, melodic frequency.
It was an agony of concentration. It was like trying to hear a single voice in a roaring stadium and then persuade the entire crowd to hum in tune. He felt the void within him stir, not as a hungry force, but as a loom. He began to weave, thread by infinitesimal thread, a tapestry of silence that was, paradoxically, a note. A single, pure, calming tone—the musical equivalent of a deep, steadying breath.
Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cold. The effort was immense, a spiritual weight that threatened to crush him. He felt Elara's presence on the bank, a steady, supportive focus. He felt Lyra's power, a gentle guide waiting to take the thread he was spinning.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, it was done. A section of the river directly around his hands seemed to… still. Not freeze, but its chaotic roar softened, taking on a faint, humming resonance. It was the song. A lullaby of peace. A single, wordless message: You are not alone. Do not be afraid.
"Now, Lyra," Elara whispered, her voice tight with tension.
Lyra's face was a mask of concentration. She gestured, and the humming patch of water swirled, merging with the main current. The song was caught by the flow, a secret message hidden in the river's heart. It began its journey downstream.
They waited, shrouded in fog, listening. For a long time, there was only the river's roar. Then, Wisp, who had been scouting downriver, faded back into view, his eyes wide with wonder.
"It's working," he breathed. "I heard it! Just for a second, near the bank. It's like… like the river is singing to itself."
It was a victory more fragile than any battle won. They had no army to show for it, no captured standard. They had a whisper.
As they retreated back into the forest, exhausted but exhilarated, the implications began to dawn. They had just turned the Church's own tool—the river as a highway for propaganda—against them. Every village, every farm that drew water from the Aven would now drink a subtle antidote to fear. The song would be a ghost in the wells, a hum in the teacups, a quiet truth under the Church's loud lies.
Days later, scouts began to bring back strange reports. Rumors from villages along the Aven spoke of a "river spirit" that soothed nightmares. People reported feeling an unexplained sense of calm near the water. The Church's priests found their decrees meeting with a new, quiet apathy. The fear was still there, but it was now competing with a mysterious, pervasive hope.
The avalanche of fear had not been stopped. But the Echo Hold had planted a forest of quiet resistance in its path. The war was no longer just on land. It was now flowing in the very water of the world. And the song, once released, could not be called back.