The grand symphony hall of Harmonia Palace was a marvel of enchantment and architecture, its vaulted ceilings soaring high enough to swallow echoes whole. A thousand crystal chandeliers hung suspended in the air, each one bewitched to flicker and dance in perfect synchrony with the music rising from below. Tonight, on the eve of the new moon, the hall brimmed with the kingdom's elite: nobles draped in silken robes embroidered with swirling musical notes that shifted colors as spells wove through them, foreign dignitaries from distant realms clutching crystal flutes filled with sparkling elderwine, and the royal orchestra arrayed on the tiered dais like soldiers in polished armor, their instruments gleaming under the enchanted lights.
At the heart of it all stood King Alaric, the reigning monarch of Eldoria. Tall and imposing in his mid-fifties, with silver-streaked hair bound by a crown of golden strings, he embodied the very essence of melodic rule. His crimson cloak pooled around his feet like spilled wine, and as he raised his arms, the hall fell into a reverent hush.
His voice rose first—alone, pure, commanding. A single, resonant note that carried the weight of centuries of tradition. It was the opening ward, the protective spell renewed every new moon to shield the kingdom from external threats and internal discord. The note curled visibly through the air, a golden thread of magic that every mage in the room could see and feel. It braided itself into the beginnings of a shimmering dome overhead, strengthening with each perfectly pitched phrase.
Then the orchestra joined him. Violins wept in harmony, flutes trilled like birds in eternal spring, harps plucked notes that hung suspended like stars. The ward grew brighter, more intricate, a tapestry of sound and light that enveloped the entire palace. Courtiers sighed in collective awe, some closing their eyes to better feel the magic hum through their veins.
From her elevated seat on the royal dais—one step behind and slightly to the side of her father's throne—Princess Elara watched it all unfold with the familiar, gnawing ache in her chest. At eighteen, she was slender and graceful, with long auburn hair braided in the royal style and eyes the color of storm clouds. Her gown of pale silver silk was meant to complement the melodic theme, embroidered with faint, glowing notes that should have responded to her presence. But they lay dull and lifeless on the fabric, as they always did.
"Daughter," King Alaric said without turning, his voice slicing through the swell of music like a conductor's baton. It carried effortlessly, amplified by the subtle spell he wove into every word. "Join the chorus. Let your voice weave the ward. The people await the harmony of our bloodline."
The hall quieted further, the orchestra softening to give her space. Every eye in the vast chamber turned toward her—hundreds of them, expectant, curious, judgmental.
Elara's fingers tightened on the carved arms of her smaller throne, knuckles whitening beneath her gloves. Her gown's thick silk rustled like dried leaves in an uncomfortable wind as she slowly stood up. No spell could calm the wild rhythm of her heartbeat, which was so intense she was sure the closest courtiers could hear it.
She opened her mouth. Tried to summon even a single note to match her father's flawless timbre.
Nothing came.
Not the pure tone expected of the royal heir. Not even a whisper of magic. Just a strained, off-key hum that died in her throat before it could escape.
"Father, I…" The words tangled, her voice cracking like a poorly tuned string. She swallowed hard, forcing composure into her posture even as heat flooded her cheeks. "I cannot. The notes… they escape me."
A ripple of murmuring like wind stirring wheat fields, went through the thong. Some were filled with sympathy : poor girl, cursed by the gods. Others carried amusement: the silent princess, they called her in whispers. And a few—sharp-eyed nobles from rival houses—held open scorn, their lips curling in satisfaction.
King Alaric's song faltered for the briefest instant—a hesitation so subtle that only those closest, like Elara herself, would notice. The golden thread of the ward wavered, thinning dangerously before he poured extra power into the crescendo, his voice rising to cover the gap her silence had carved. The orchestra followed his lead seamlessly, the ward sealing at last with a triumphant flash of light that bathed the hall in golden warmth.
Applause thundered then, crashing like waves against the shores of the dais. Courtiers rose in ovation, cheering the king's mastery, the unbreakable tradition of melodic rule.
But the applause was for him alone. No one looked to Elara with pride. A few glances her way were sympathetic at best, dismissive at worst.
She sank back into her seat, the ache in her chest sharpening into something raw and familiar: shame.
Lady Seraphine, the king's chief advisor and Elara's longtime tutor, leaned close from her position to the princess's left. Her robes of midnight blue shimmered with embedded silver strings that hummed faintly in response to the lingering magic. At forty-eight, Seraphine was elegant and poised, her dark hair pinned with jeweled combs shaped like treble clefs, her smile as sharp as a well-honed blade.
"Your Highness shows great… restraint tonight," Seraphine murmured, her voice silky and low, meant for Elara's ears only. "Though some might mistake such restraint for inability. Or perhaps… unworthiness."
Elara did not reply. She kept her gaze fixed forward, on her father as he turned at last to accept the court's adoration. His face was serene, kingly, untouchable—the perfect embodiment of Eldoria's melodic heritage. He bowed graciously, acknowledging the cheers, but his eyes did not seek hers. Not once.
The ceremony dragged on then: speeches from dignitaries praising the king's voice, demonstrations of minor spells by court mages—illusionary birds singing in flight, fountains of light dancing to harp strings. Elara endured it all with practiced poise, nodding where expected, smiling thinly when addressed.
But inside, the storm raged. How many times had this happened? How many ceremonies, rehearsals, private lessons where her failure was laid bare? Born to the bloodline that had produced the greatest singer-mages in history, yet she— the only child, the heir—could not produce a single note of power. Tone-deaf, the healers called it. A rare affliction, incurable. A curse, the superstitious whispered.
When the final notes faded and the nobles swarmed the dais with congratulations, Elara slipped away through a discreet side door reserved for the royal family. The corridors beyond the hall were cooler, quieter, illuminated by soft melodic orbs that floated along the walls, humming faint, soothing lullabies in minor keys.
Her footsteps echoed too loudly on the polished marble—always too loud, too arrhythmic in a palace built for harmony.
She did not head to her chambers. Instead, she descended deeper into the palace, past guarded halls and portrait galleries, until she reached the royal archives. A vast underground library that few visited anymore in this age of performative magic. Dust motes danced lazily in the narrow beams of light filtering from high, arched windows. Towering shelves rose three stories, crammed with scrolls of ancient compositions, leather-bound treatises on harmonic theory, and dusty records of every spell ever sung into existence.
Elara had sought refuge here since childhood, poring over forbidden texts in search of a cure that every healer assured her did not exist. Tonight, she came not for answers, but for escape—the one place where silence was not a sin.
She wandered deeper than usual, past the familiar sections on vocal enchantment and symphonic wards, until she reached a section sealed off by what appeared to be a seamless wall of dark stone. She had noticed it years ago as a child but never questioned its presence—palace secrets were commonplace.
Tonight, something drew her closer. Perhaps the lingering humiliation, or the desperate need for anything different.
Her palm pressed flat against the cool stone. It was unexpectedly warm, as if heated from within.
A low vibration answered her touch—not a sound, precisely, but a deep thrumming sensation that resonated in her bones. A pulse. Once. Twice. Like a distant heartbeat.
Elara's breath caught in her throat. She traced the edges of the panel with trembling fingers and discovered a hairline crack hidden in the shadows. When she pushed experimentally, the stone swung inward on silent, well-oiled hinges, revealing a narrow spiral staircase descending into inky darkness.
She hesitated on the threshold, glancing back toward the lighted archives. This was folly. Madness, even. She should summon a guard, report the anomaly to her father.
Instead, she stepped through, pulling the panel closed behind her.
The air below grew colder, thick with the scent of age and something sharper—metallic, ancient. As her foot touched the bottom step, a single torch guttered to life on its own, flames leaping up in a bracket on the wall. It illuminated a small, vaulted chamber, circular and unadorned save for dust and shadows.
In the center stood a pedestal of black marble, veined with faint crimson lines.
Upon it rested a drum.
Not the ornate, ceremonial timpani used in grand performances upstairs. This was raw and primal—stretched hide weathered to a pale ivory hue, the cylindrical frame bound with rings of what looked like pale bone, etched in strange, angular runes that seemed to writhe in the torchlight. It radiated an aura of antiquity, of things long buried and best forgotten.
Elara had glimpsed whispers of such artifacts in banned scrolls: percussion instruments from the old wars, wielded by heretics and rebels who drew power not from the refined beauty of melody, but from the raw chaos of rhythm and beat. Instruments said to have shaken mountains and summoned tempests.
They were forbidden. Destroyed. Erased from history.
She should flee. Report it immediately. Have it smashed to dust.
Instead, drawn by an inexplicable pull, she stepped closer. Her hand hovered over the drumhead, then brushed it lightly.
The pulse returned—stronger now, deeper, syncing with her own racing heart. The runes flickered to life with a faint crimson glow, and a wave of energy surged through her fingertips, warm and electric. Not the gentle flow of melodic magic she had envied all her life, but something fierce, untamed.
For the first time ever, magic answered her touch.
And far above, in the rejoicing symphony hall, the newly woven ward flickered—just once—as though something vast and ancient had turned its head to listen.
Elara stood alone in the forbidden vault, hand still resting on the drumhead, torn between exhilaration and terror. She felt the first stirrings of a strength she had never dared imagine she possessed.
But also the chilling certainty that whatever had listened was still listening—and it was hungry.