The tavern had gone quiet for the night, its laughter and clatter drained away with the last patrons. Only the low crackle of dying embers remained, painting long shadows across the walls.
Lyssara sat at the narrow table near the hearth, turning a silver ring around her finger again and again. Her lips were curved into a smile, but it was thin measured. Thoughtful.
Lady Virelle watched her daughter from across the room as she counted the day's earnings, her fingers quick, her eyes sharp.
"You are unusually silent," Virelle said at last. "Speak. That look never comes without a reason."
Lyssara lifted her gaze slowly. "Mother," she said sweetly, "have you ever noticed how people look at her when she sings?"
Virelle's fingers stilled. Just for a moment.
"They look," Lyssara continued, rising from her seat, "as though they forget themselves. As though the world bends to her sound. Even the drunkards fall quiet."
"She is useful," Virelle said flatly. "That is all."
Lyssara laughed softly. "Useful?" She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "She is dangerous."
Virelle frowned. "Do not be foolish."
"I am not." Lyssara leaned in. "She draws attention. Pity. Wonder. People whisper about her about how she resembles her mother. About how unfairly she is treated."
Virelle's mouth tightened.
"And one day," Lyssara pressed on, "they will start asking questions. Why does the girl with the golden voice scrub floors while we count coin?"
Silence fell between them. The fire cracked.
Virelle exhaled slowly. "What are you suggesting?"
Lyssara's smile returned, sharper now. "We remove her."
Virelle's eyes snapped to her daughter. "Careful."
"Not kill her," Lyssara said lightly. "I am not cruel."
She paused, then added, "Only… sell her future."
Virelle's gaze darkened with interest.
"There is Elder Corvain," Lyssara said. "He has asked twice already if you would consider an arrangement. He is wealthy. Lonely. Old enough to be grateful for a quiet bride."
Virelle scoffed. "That man looks like he belongs in a crypt."
"Exactly," Lyssara said. "He wants no trouble. No songs. No eyes on him. And he pays well."
Virelle turned the idea over in her mind like a coin.
"She is eighteen," Lyssara added softly. "Of age. No one can object."
"And she would be gone," Virelle murmured.
"Gone," Lyssara confirmed. "No more singing. No more stares. No more reminders of what you lost or what she inherited."
The words struck deeper than Lyssara intended. Virelle's face hardened.
"She has always been ungrateful," Virelle said coldly. "Always retreating into that voice of hers like it makes her superior."
Lyssara placed a hand over her mother's. "This is mercy," she said. "You give her a husband. A roof. A purpose."
"And we gain peace," Virelle finished.
They shared a look. Agreement settled between them like a sealed pact.
---
Elaria stood behind the stairwell door, her breath locked painfully in her chest.
She had not meant to listen. She had only come to return a folded cloth she had forgotten below. But the words had rooted her in place, each one heavier than the last.
Sold.
Gone.
No more singing.
Her fingers trembled as she backed away silently, every step a battle against the sound of her own heartbeat.
In her small room, she sank onto the edge of the bed, hands pressed to her mouth. The walls felt closer than before. The air thinner.
She had endured cruelty. Hunger. Long days and longer nights.
But this
This was erasure.
A tear slipped free. Then another.
When the sob finally broke through, she swallowed it down, forcing herself upright. Her chest ached, and with it came the familiar pull the rise of something old and aching and alive within her.
She did not sing loudly.
She did not dare.
But the sound escaped her anyway, soft as breath, woven with despair and defiance all at once.
Somewhere far beyond the tavern walls, something ancient leaned closer.
And listened.
The room felt too small for her grief.
Elaria sat on the cold floor with her back against the bed, knees drawn tightly to her chest. Her tears came silently at first, slipping down her cheeks like secrets she had been trained to hide.
"Why…" she whispered into the dark.
Her fingers dug into the fabric of her skirt as memories rose unbidden.
"Why did you die, Mother?" Her voice cracked. "Why did you leave me with them?"
She squeezed her eyes shut, as if the darkness might answer.
Her mother's face came to her as it always did soft smile, gentle eyes, the warmth she barely remembered yet missed with an ache that never dulled. A woman the villagers had loved. A woman whose absence had made room for cruelty.
"And Father…" Elaria swallowed. "Why didn't you come back?"
No answer came. Only the distant creak of the tavern below and the muffled sound of Lyssara's laughter, sharp as broken glass.
"I tried," she whispered. "I really tried."
She remembered the endless errands. The scrubbing of floors until her hands burned. The nights she slept hungry so Lyssara would not complain. The songs she swallowed back so no one would accuse her of showing off.
"And now…" Her breath shuddered. "Now they want to sell me."
The word tasted wrong. Heavy. Degrading.
"Like I am nothing," she said bitterly. "Like I have no will. No heart."
Her chest tightened until breathing hurt. Something wild and desperate surged inside her, louder than fear, louder than obedience.
She stood abruptly.
"I won't," she said aloud, surprising herself with the firmness in her voice. "I won't let them."
She crossed the room in three strides, pushing the shuttered window open. Cool night air rushed in, carrying the scent of earth and leaves.
For a single heartbeat, she hesitated.
Then she climbed out.
Her feet hit the ground hard, but she did not slow. She ran through the narrow path behind the tavern, past the sleeping stalls, past the last lantern light of the village.
Tears blurred her vision as her legs burned, but still she ran.
And then she sang.
Not loudly.
Not carefully.
The song tore itself from her chest, raw and trembling, woven with sorrow and defiance.
> "If fate has written chains for me,
Let my voice be the blade,
If the night has forgotten my name,
Let the stars remember…"
Her breath hitched, but she kept running, the melody breaking and reforming with each step.
> "I am more than what they sell,
More than what they see,
If I must fall, let the world hear,
That I was free…"
The forest swallowed her.
Trees closed in around her, tall and ancient, their branches knitting together above like silent witnesses. At some point, her legs gave out. She stumbled to a stop, gasping, her song fading into the hush of the woods.
Silence pressed in.
Elaria looked around, panic blooming. She did not recognize this place. No path. No lights. Only endless trees and the soft glow of moonlight filtering through leaves.
"What have I done?" she whispered.
Then
A voice answered.
Not loud.
Not sudden.
Smooth. Measured. Like a melody spoken rather than sung.
"You have listened to yourself."
Elaria froze. Her heart thundered painfully as she turned in every direction.
"Who's there?" she demanded, fear sharpening her words.
"Do not be afraid," the voice said gently. "I have been listening far longer than you realize."
Her breath caught. "Listening to what?"
"To your sorrow," the voice replied. "And to your strength."
Elaria shook her head. "I don't understand. Show yourself."
A pause followed, thoughtful rather than hesitant.
"I cannot," the voice said. "Not yet."
"Then leave me alone," she snapped, though her voice trembled. "I have nothing left for strangers."
"You have everything," the voice said softly. "You simply do not know its name."
Her fists clenched. "If you know so much, then tell me why does everything I love disappear?"
The forest seemed to breathe.
"Because you were never meant to remain small," the voice answered.
Elaria's eyes burned. "I don't want greatness. I just wanted kindness."
"And you deserved it," the voice said, certainty woven into every word.
She swallowed. "They want to sell me," she said again, the humiliation spilling free. "To a man older than my memories. They said it like I was an object."
"I know," the voice replied.
Her head snapped up. "You know?"
"Yes."
"Then help me," she whispered, the plea slipping out before pride could stop it. "Please."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"I cannot choose for you," the voice said. "But I can ask you a question."
Elaria hugged her arms around herself. "Ask it."
"If you were given a path," the voice said, "one that would tear you from this life forever would you walk it?"
Her heart pounded.
"Would it save me?" she asked quietly.
"It would change you," the voice replied. "And change is never gentle."
Elaria closed her eyes. She thought of chains disguised as marriage. Of silence. Of being erased.
"I would rather change," she said, voice steady now, "than disappear."
The forest stirred. Leaves rustled without wind.
"Then listen," the voice said, warmth blooming through the word.
Somewhere far away, the kingdom of Aurelion leaned closer.
And for the first time, the Call began to form.