When Elyra finally withdrew to her guest room, Serenya remained beside the gong Eryndor had given her. Its engravings seemed to glow faintly under the moonlight, as if mocking her. In her heart, seeds planted by two voices now intertwined: Elyra's, which urged her toward Taelthorn's path of power, and Eryndor's, which called her to restless creation.
The contrast between both paths beat in her chest like a muffled drum. On one side, the frozen security of the Citadel, with its solid walls, drawn routes, and plans calculated down to the final breath. On the other, the uncertain promise of something still nameless, that restless magic Eryndor carried with him like a personal storm, capable of undoing millennia-old structures with a single idea. Serenya wondered at what exact point she stood, whether she could still call herself mistress of her steps or if she now walked only along paths others had laid out.
She traced the gong's edge with her fingers. The crystal fragment hung loose beneath it. She lifted it between her fingers and pressed it gently once more; in that instant, the gong vibrated with a murmur. A fine tremor ran through the room, barely perceptible, yet enough to make the shadows in the corners flicker. Then she understood that even on those cold terraces of the northern peaks, magic could still act, responding to a call that neither Taelthorn nor his counsellors fully commanded, nor were prepared to contain.
That night, long after Elyra had gone to bed, the corridors lay still beneath the falling snow. Serenya could not sleep. Eryndor's gong rested in a corner, its bronze surface drinking in the moonlight. That faint hum still stirred in her thoughts: neither sound nor silence, but something far older.
Images flickered at the edge of her mind. A boy standing among ruins, a fragment shining like a wound in his hand. Serenya stifled a gasp, bringing a hand to her chest, but the vision persisted, as if the crystal were whispering to her. It was Eryndor who appeared in those images of youth.
She understood then that Eryndor's riddles did not spring from mischief alone. They bore the weight of a past too dense. His puzzles and laughter were a mask to hide his true pain.
Serenya slowly crossed the room, her hand brushing the gong now and then. She stopped beside it, her fingers resting on the cold bronze, but she did not dare strike it; it was no longer just a gong. It had spoken to her, shared its memory and sorrow, as if it had a life of its own.
She closed her eyes, and without meaning to, thoughts emerged that did not belong to those halls of ice and silence, but to the golden peaks of her homeland.
She remembered the afternoons when the mountains shone as if they held fire within. When the villagers gathered on the crags, where the last light spilled in molten rivers. They left their tools and climbed together to the heights where wind and sky met. There, without torches or bells, they raised their voices in the valley's ancient hymn: the vespers of the peak.
Serenya's throat tightened at the memory. Slowly, she began to hum.
The melody rose hesitantly, worn thin by distance and time, but soon steadied, soft as a river running through moss.
It was not the sort of music the Citadel knew, but something earthier and deeper.
Each note bore the patience of stone, the drive of rivers carving through earth, the cry of hawks over the cliffs.
The words spilled from her like a prayer. She saw it all again: Elyra at her side, hair tangled by alpine wind; the deep voices of the elders resounding; the children's laughter filling everything. Even the mountains had seemed to answer, throwing back the echo of the vespers as if they, too, wished to sing. But there, in the Citadel, the walls drank in her voice greedily, returning nothing.
Serenya kept singing, and for an instant warmth broke through the frozen silence.
It was as if the gong had awakened something.
Her voice filled with longing and suspense, floating through the corridors until it reached the lower levels.
A soft sound stirred behind her—the whisper of a mantle, hushed footsteps. Serenya turned.
Elyra stood in the doorway, the emerald mantle falling around her like the valley's spring. Her bright eyes shone with something deeper than mischief.
"I knew it," Elyra said. "I heard you singing. The vespers. I hoped you had not forgotten them."
"Forget them?" Serenya whispered, her voice trembling. "Never. They were at the heart of our afternoons. Without them, the peaks would have felt empty."
Elyra smiled sweetly, though a shadow of sorrow passed through her gaze.
"And now look at you, surrounded by silence. Do you think this place stole your song?"
Serenya pressed her hands to her cloak.
"It almost did… until this reminded me of it," she answered, pointing at the gong. "These walls do not hold silence like the peaks do; they smother you with it."
Elyra stepped closer and took her hand. Her voice became a fierce whisper, urgent.
"Then sing louder. The mountains are still inside you, Serenya. If you stop singing, you do not only lose the song… you lose yourself."
They sat together by the fire, whose glow painted the stone walls with warmth. Serenya leaned her head back, closing her eyes.
"Do you remember the year the storms almost flooded the terraces? We sang the vespers every night, even when the wind nearly tore the words from us. I thought the peaks would disappear."
Elyra chuckled softly.
"And still we sang. That is what the vespers are, is it not? A promise. Let the storm roar, but the peaks endure… and so do we."
Serenya gave a faint smile.
"I used to believe the mountains truly listened. That if I sang loudly enough, they would catch me when I fell."
"And they did. They brought you here, did they not? To your own crown, even if it feels cold. But do not forget, Serenya: the mountains are still listening. They are only waiting for you to remember who you are."
The door opened. Serenya tensed when Taelthorn entered, filling the room with his mere presence. His cloak trailed along the floor, ice melting at its hem. He stopped, eyes narrowing as he heard the last notes still trembling in the air.
"What is this?" His voice was low, not stern. "A hymn?"
Serenya rose, her chin lifted.
"The vespers of my homeland. A Song of Memory."
Taelthorn glanced from her to Elyra, and for an instant something softened in his expression: a spark of recognition, perhaps longing. But it vanished as quickly as it came.
"A prayer," he murmured, testing the word. "To mountains and rivers? To memory?"
"To what dwells within," Serenya corrected quietly.
The silence tightened again. Serenya feared he would order the song silenced, but he inclined his head in a slight gesture of appreciation.
"Then let the walls hear it," he said. "Perhaps they, too, need to remember. Perhaps they, too, need a change."
And with that, he left.
Elyra let out the breath she had been holding, shaking her head.
"Did you hear that? He did not order you to stop. He gave you permission."
Serenya's eyes remained fixed on the door through which he had gone.
"No, Elyra. He gave the walls permission. Not me." She turned toward the gong, whose bronze engravings caught the firelight. "He still does not understand the difference; he does not know how to speak."
Elyra touched her arm. She knew Serenya. She knew the depth of the love she felt for Taelthorn.
"Then make him understand. Sing until not even these walls can deny you."
Serenya slid her fingers over the gong. It vibrated softly beneath her touch, eager, as if it were waiting. She thought of striking it, of letting her voice join the vespers, awakening what slumbered within it. But she held back. Not that night.
Instead, she raised her voice again, louder this time, and Elyra joined her. Together they intertwined their voices, weaving memory into the northern peaks.
The sound rose, caught by the frozen walls, climbing until it seemed the entire fortress sang with them.
That night, their voices, hungry for freedom, tore through the silence from which the mountains themselves had risen.
From afar, to those who heard their melody, it was not they who were singing.
It was something else, deep and ancient, that groaned for the absence of care and of wholeness.