The Warden led Kaelen to the very center of the Sky-Anvil, where the lines of silver energy in the black rock converged like rivers flowing into a silent sea. The air thrummed with potential, a pressure that was felt not on the skin, but in the soul.
"The First Note was Acceptance. The Second, Distinction," the Warden's voice was a low tremor in the stone beneath their feet. "The Third Note is Communion. It is the bridge between the singer and the song. You will not merely listen, and you will not merely suggest. You will share. You will ask the stone to know your intent as its own."
Kaelen's newfound resolve from the night before wavered. "Share? How can I share with something that has no mind?"
"Everything that is has a nature. A purpose. A memory," the Warden replied. "The stone's nature is to endure. Its purpose is to be the foundation of the world. Its memory is the history of the world itself, written in layers of pressure and time." He gestured to the smooth floor. "Your nature is to create. Your purpose, you must define. Your memory is your own. To commune is to find the common ground between your song and its own, and to weave them together, if only for a moment."
He pointed to a palm-sized, ordinary river stone that lay apart from the others, its song a simple, lonely pebble in the grand chorus. "Your task is not to mend it, or to break it. Your task is to ask it to remember the light."
Kaelen picked up the stone. It was cool and smooth, its melody a faint, steady hum of water-worn patience. "Remember... light?"
"A stone buried in a riverbed knows only the dark and the pressure of the water. But it was born in fire and light. All stone is. You must reach into its deepest memory, to the moment of its creation, and ask it to reveal that fire once more."
Kaelen closed his eyes, holding the pebble in both hands. He sank into its song, past the simple rhythm of the river, seeking the ancient, foundational notes. He found the memory of the current, the tumble and grind. He found the memory of the glacier that had carried it. He went deeper, through eons of silence and weight. It was like diving into a dark, bottomless well, the pressure building around his consciousness.
He pushed further, searching for a spark, a flicker of heat. But there was only the deep, cool dark. The stone's nature was to be solid, patient, and dark. His own desire for it to hold light felt like an imposition, a violent, foreign demand. He pushed his will against its ancient patience, trying to force the memory of fire to the surface.
A sharp, stabbing pain lanced through his temple. The pebble grew warm in his hand, not with inner light, but with a feverish, angry heat. A thin wisp of smoke curled from between his fingers. He was not communing; he was corrupting. He was burning the stone from the inside out, trying to remake it in his own image, just as the Blight sought to unmake it in its own.
The whisper from the blighted lands slithered into his mind. See? This is the way. Force it. Break its will. Make it serve you.
Gasping, he tore his consciousness away, dropping the stone as it scorched his palm. It clattered onto the Anvil, now marred by a blackened spot, its simple song now a pained, dissonant whine.
He stared at his reddened hand, then at the damaged stone, shame and despair washing over him. "I... I hurt it." The realization was a physical blow. He had become the hammer, not the anvil. In his desperation to succeed, he had committed a tiny, personal act of Blight.
The Warden did not reprimand him. He knelt, his movements slow as continental drift, and picked up the wounded pebble. He cradled it in his granite palm, and a low, soothing hum emanated from him. The blackened spot faded, and the stone's song regained its steady, patient rhythm.
"The Third Note is not about force," the Warden said, his voice softer than Kaelen had ever heard it. "It is about empathy. You cannot command the stone to remember light. You must make it want to. You must show it what it is protecting. You must share your reason."
He handed the healed stone back to Kaelen. "Again. But this time, do not seek the stone's fire. Show it your light."
Trembling, Kaelen took the pebble. He closed his eyes, but instead of diving into the stone's depths, he first turned inward. He built a memory in his mind, not with force, but with tenderness. He remembered the lantern in Master Corbin's workshop, casting a warm, golden glow on the tools and the half-carved stone. He remembered the feeling of safety, of purpose, of home. He remembered the way that light made the dust motes dance like tiny stars.
He held that feeling—the warmth, the safety, the golden glow—and then, gently, he offered it to the stone. He did not push. He did not demand. He simply let the memory of that gentle, protective light flow from his heart, down his arm, and into the pebble he held.
This is what I want you to hold, he thought, not as a command, but as a request. This small piece of light. To keep it safe.
He felt the stone's nature—its enduring, foundational patience—brush against his own memory. For a breathtaking second, they were not separate. The stone understood. Its purpose was to be a foundation, and what is a foundation but a protector? A keeper of what is built upon it?
Its deep, cool dark did not fight the light. It welcomed it. It cradled the memory Kaelen offered, making it its own.
A soft, golden radiance began to pulse from within the river stone. It was not the harsh glare of fire, but the warm, steady glow of a distant lantern, of a captured sunset. It illuminated the lines on Kaelen's palm, casting away the shadows.
Tears welled in Kaelen's eyes, blurring the gentle light. It was not a victory of power, but of understanding. He had not conquered the stone; he had conversed with it. He had shared his most vulnerable self—a memory of home—and the stone had answered with a miracle.
He looked up at the Warden, the glowing stone resting in his open hand, a tiny beacon in the vastness of the mountain.
The Warden gave a slow, deliberate nod. The obsidian of his eyes seemed to drink in the light. "You have passed the third trial. You have learned that true strength is not in the will to dominate, but in the courage to be vulnerable. To share your song is to make it unbreakable."
Kaelen curled his fingers gently around the pebble, its warm glow seeping into his skin, mending the burn not just on his hand, but the deeper one in his soul. He had not just learned a new note. He had learned the difference between power, and love.