The central plaza of the High-Rock Citadel was a place designed for commerce, not for art. The ground was paved with heavy obsidian blocks, and the surrounding buildings were monoliths of grey granite that seemed to lean inward, as if the mountains themselves were eavesdropping on the city's business. But as Aster Wynfall stepped toward the mana fountain, the atmosphere of the plaza shifted.
The ten-year-old boy standing near the fountain's edge looked up, his eyes wide and trembling. He was a creature of the dirt and the dark—a miner's apprentice who had clearly spent his short life hauling buckets of slag rather than studying the mysteries of mana. To him, Aster looked like a creature from another realm. Aster's silver hair shimmered under the high-altitude sun, and his clothes, though travel-worn, were of a quality the boy had likely never touched.
"You have a voice," Aster said, his words cutting through the industrial noise of the market like a silver bell. "But you are fighting a war, without having the basic knowledge of how to hold a sword."
The boy swallowed hard, clutching his ragged cap. "I... I just sing what my father sang, little lord. It helps the long shifts go by."
"Listen to me," Aster commanded, his voice gentle but carrying the weight of an adult who had spent a lifetime on stage. "Don't try to be louder than the mountain. Try to be the mountain's heartbeat. Copy me. Not just the notes, but the way I breathe."
A circle of people began to form. Merchants paused their haggling; blacksmiths wiped their brow and leaned against their shop doors; even the stern mountain women, known for their lack of patience for "nonsense," stopped to watch. The sight of a noble-born child speaking so intently to a soot-stained orphan was unheard of in Orestes. It was a violation of the unspoken social order, yet there was something in Aster's posture that demanded silence.
Aster took a deep breath, reaching deep into his core. He didn't just tap into his own mana; he reached out with his Sound Magic to the massive mana fountain behind them. He felt the vibrations of the liquid mana—a low, rhythmic pulse.
Time for a classic, Aster thought, the memories of his first album as Raze flashing through his mind. 'The Sun Over the First Peak.' It was the song that launched my career back then.(But I failed to have a proper career) Let's see if it works as a revolution now.
Aster began to sing.
It started as a low hum, a vibration that seemed to come from the very ground beneath their feet. Then, his voice rose—clear, soaring, and impossibly pure. He sang of a sunrise, not as seen from a valley, but as seen from the highest peak of the world. He sang of the moment the light first touches the cold stone, turning grey granite into liquid gold.
With a flick of his wrist, Aster activated his Sound Magic. He didn't just sing; he created a symphony. The air around them began to shimmer as he manipulated the sound waves to create a perfect melodic accompaniment. It sounded as if a dozen invisible harps and flutes were playing in perfect harmony with his voice. The stone of the fountain began to vibrate, and the liquid mana within it started to pulse in time with the rhythm, casting dancing blue lights across the faces of the stunned onlookers.
The little boy stared, his mouth hanging open. He tried to copy the first few notes, but the sound that came out was thin and cracked. He looked devastated, realizing the gulf between his raw effort and Aster's divine execution.
"Don't stop," Aster whispered between verses, his eyes never leaving the boy's. "The people are listening now. Join me."
Astra, who had been watching from the side with their mother, couldn't help herself. She saw the boy's struggle and felt the familiar pull of her brother's resonance. She stepped forward, her hood falling back to reveal her own silver hair. She took the boy's hand, her presence providing the "soul" to Aster's "structure."
As Astra joined in, the performance reached a crescendo. She didn't sing lyrics; she sang the harmony—a wordless, ethereal sound that acted as a bridge for the boy's voice. Supported by the twins, the ten-year-old orphan found his courage. He closed his eyes and let out a note that was no longer a scream, but a resonance. For the first time in his life, someone actually taught him how to sing.
The crowd was frozen.
In Orestes, music was considered a distraction, a waste of breath. But what they were witnessing wasn't a distraction. It was power. They could feel the mana in the air becoming organized, focused, and beautiful. The heavy, oppressive atmosphere of the high-altitude city seemed to lift, replaced by a feeling of warmth and hope that many of them hadn't felt in years.
A merchant who had been about to shout at the boy found himself with tears in his eyes, his hand resting on a sack of iron ore he had forgotten to sell. A group of hardened miners stood with their picks lowered, their heads bowed as if in prayer. This wasn't just entertainment; it was a revelation.
Suddenly, the rhythmic clanking of heavy armor broke the spell.
A squad of elite palace guards, clad in the signature dark-iron plate of the King's personal guard, marched into the plaza. The crowd parted like a sea of grey cloth. The lead guard, a man with a scarred face and a chest plate embossed with the royal seal of Orestes, stepped forward.
He didn't draw his weapon. Instead, he stopped ten paces away and went down on one knee, his armor clattering loudly against the obsidian street.
"Prince Aster. Princess Astra," the guard said, his voice deep and filled with a respect that bordered on fear. "His Majesty, King Boron, has been informed of your arrival. He is awaiting your presence at the Palace. We have been sent to escort you immediately."
A ripple of shock went through the crowd. The whispers started instantly, spreading through the plaza like a wildfire.
"The twins... the ones from the Wynfall Kingdom?"
"The Snowflakes? The ones who are rumored to have received the dragon's blessing?"
"I thought the stories were just valley-talk... but that music... I felt it in my heart."
The ten-year-old boy looked at Aster, his eyes wide with a new kind of shock. He had been singing with a prince. He scrambled to his feet, looking as though he wanted to bow but didn't know how.
Aster looked at the boy and smiled—a genuine, warm smile that had nothing to do with strategy. He reached out and placed a hand on the boy's shoulder.
"You have a gift," Aster said. "Don't let them tell you it's useless. I'm going to see the King now, but I haven't forgotten you. I will return for you. By the time I leave this city, your voice will be heard in every mine in the mountains."
The boy could only nod, speechless, clutching the memory of that promise like it was a piece of gold.
Arliene stepped forward, her expression a mix of motherly pride and diplomatic caution. She looked at the palace guards, her regal bearing returning in full force. She knew that Aster's performance hadn't just been for the boy; it had been a calculated display of power for the spies she knew were watching from the shadows of the surrounding balconies.
"We are ready, Captain," Arliene said, her voice steady. "Lead the way."
Aster and Astra took their mother's hands. As they began to walk toward the waiting royal carriage, the crowd didn't just move out of the way; they bowed. These were the people of the mountains, people who didn't bow for anything less than strength. Aster's music had given them a different kind of strength, one they couldn't ignore.
Inside the carriage, as the iron-shod wheels began to turn toward the Palace, Astra leaned over to Aster. "You did that on purpose, didn't you? The song about the sunrise?"
Aster leaned back against the plush velvet seat, looking out the window as the climb toward the palace began. "Orestes is a kingdom that lives in the dark, Astra. They spend their lives in tunnels and shadows. If I want them to follow me, I have to show them what the light sounds like. People may think King Boron as an immovable object.but I'm going to show him that there can be nobody who can hate music from the bottom of their heart."
"What about the boy?" she asked softly.
"He's the spark," Aster replied, his mind already three steps ahead. "The King believes his power comes from the iron his people dig. I'm going to show him that the real power can come even from the places, everybody ignored."
The carriage passed through a second set of gates, even more massive than the first. The air grew even thinner, and the sheer scale of the Palace of Ironshold became apparent. It was a fortress carved into the very peak of the tallest mountain, its spires lost in the swirling white clouds. It looked cold, impenetrable, and ancient.
But as Aster looked at the high stone walls, he didn't see a prison. He saw an instrument.
Raze had to fight for every stage he ever stood on, he thought, his hand subconsciously tracing the dragon mark on his neck. Aster Wynfall doesn't have to fight for the stage. He makes the world his stage.
As the carriage came to a halt in the grand courtyard of the palace, the doors were opened by two silent attendants. The King's council was lined up inside the palace—stern-faced men and women who looked like they were made of the same iron they mined. At the very top stood a man who could only be King Boron. He was a giant of a man, with a beard like a frozen waterfall and eyes as hard as flint.
Aster stepped out first, followed by Astra and Arliene. He didn't look like a tired traveler. He looked like a conqueror who had just arrived to collect his tribute.
The negotiation for the magic stones was no longer about gold or trade routes. It was about to become a battle for the soul of the mountain. Aster felt the hum of the mana in the palace walls, and for a fleeting second, he let a small, barely audible note escape his lips—a frequency designed to test the stone.
The giant iron doors of the throne room groaned, as if acknowledging his presence.
The show was about to begin.