Chadwick Rye

The mornin

g dew clings to my worn leather boots as I walk through the merchant quarter of Silverkeep, balancing a tray of steaming tea and fresh-baked sunberry tarts. Vapor rises from the cups in twisting tendrils, carrying the rich aroma of Mistwood leaves and crystal honey—Lysander’s preferred brew before a performance. The cobblestones beneath my feet still bear the silvery sheen of last night’s rain, reflecting fractured images of dawn-touched spires and awakening market stalls.

“You’re late, Elindra,” Lysander calls as I nudge open the door to our rented chambers with my hip. The words carry no real reproach—merely observation, like noting the color of the sky or the direction of the wind.

“The baker’s daughter was telling stories of the frost giants again,” I explain, setting down my burden on the ancient oak table that has served as dining surface, writing desk, and impromptu stage in our six months of wandering. “Her cousin claims to have spotted one near the Northwind Pass.”

Lysander looks up from where he sits cross-legged on the floor, long fingers dancing across the sixteen silver strings of his shadowwood lyre. At forty-three, his copper-red hair has begun its surrender to silver at the temples, but his amber eyes remain unchanged—sharp as a hawk’s, warm as mulled cider. The Songweaver, they call him in villages and courts across Lumenvale. The Voice That Walks Between Worlds.

I have called him Master for three years, since the day he found me singing for copper pieces in the back alleys of Port Lumina, my voice raw with hunger and something he later named as “unrefined potential.”

“Giants are migrating earlier this year,” he remarks, accepting the tea with a nod of thanks. “The signs have been there for those who know how to read them. The red auroras last week. The restlessness of the mountain herds.” He sips thoughtfully. “Perhaps we should compose something to honor their passage.”

This is how Lysander thinks—every occurrence, every whispered rumor or witnessed wonder becomes potential material for his art. In my years as his apprentice, chronicler, and general keeper of practical matters, I’ve filled seventeen leather-bound journals with such observations. The world speaks, and Lysander listens. Then he transforms what he hears into songs that somehow make the world more itself than it was before.

“Will you be performing the Ballad of Broken Crowns tonight?” I ask, already knowing the answer but observing the ritual of our morning discussions.

He shakes his head, fingers never ceasing their practice patterns across the lyre strings. “No. Something new is needed. The Duchess of Emberhold doesn’t want mere entertainment—she seeks transformation.”

The Duchess’s invitation had arrived a fortnight ago, sealed with wax the color of dried blood and bearing her distinctive thorned rose insignia. Her request was unusual: not for Lysander to perform at a feast or celebration, but to create something specifically for her and a select group of twelve guests. The letter spoke of “opening doors long sealed” and “music that remembers what history has forgotten.”

Lysander had been composing ever since, often working through the night while I slept, waking to find him in exactly the same position as when I’d left him, only the burned-down candles and filled parchment pages indicating the passage of time.

“Do you think it’s ready?” I venture, knowing how rarely he is satisfied with new compositions.

A small smile plays at the corners of his mouth. “Is a forest ever ‘ready’ for spring? Is the ocean ever ‘ready’ for the tide to turn? The song will be what it needs to be.”

Such responses once frustrated me—in my early days as his apprentice, I craved concrete answers, specific techniques. Now I understand that Lysander’s seemingly cryptic statements contain more practical wisdom than any structured lesson could provide.

—

Emberhold rises from the mist-shrouded valley like something born of both nightmare and dream—a sprawling structure of obsidian towers and ruby-tinted glass, its foundations sunk deep into the ancient volcanic stone that gives the duchy its name. The last crimson light of sunset catches in its thousand windows, making the entire castle appear aflame from within.

We arrive as true darkness falls, led through labyrinthine corridors by a silent attendant whose face remains partially concealed by an intricate half-mask of silver filigree—the traditional marking of those in direct service to the Duchess herself. Our footsteps echo against polished stone floors inlaid with veins of copper that glow with subtle warmth, providing both illumination and reminder of the living fire that sleeps beneath this ancient holding.

Lysander walks beside me, his formal performance attire transforming him from wandering bard to something more ceremonial—almost priestly. The midnight-blue cloak embroidered with constellations in silver thread seems to contain actual stars within its folds, shifting and twinkling as he moves. Beneath it, his tunic of storm-gray silk catches the copper light, transforming ordinary movement into liquid grace.

He carries three instruments: the shadowwood lyre wrapped in protective cloth, a bone flute so ancient the finger holes have been worn smooth by generations of musicians before him, and the Singing Flame—a crystal bell that produces sound without being struck, responding instead to the heat of the performer’s hands and the intent of their spirit.

I follow three paces behind, as tradition dictates for an apprentice, carrying his journals and extra strings, my own formal attire more subdued but marked with the silver spiral that identifies me as a chronicler-in-training. My heart drums an irregular rhythm against my ribs. In three years, I have seen Lysander perform in village squares and royal courts, in ancient stone circles and floating barges, but something about tonight feels different—consequential in ways I cannot articulate.

The chamber we are led to defies expectation. Rather than the grand hall I anticipated, we enter a perfect circular room of modest size, perhaps twenty paces across. Its walls curve upward to form a dome, the entirety covered in a mosaic of tiny mirrors that fragment and multiply every source of light. Thirteen chairs of dark wood form a complete circle at the room’s perimeter, with no obvious center or focal point for performance.

The Duchess herself rises to greet us—a tall woman with obsidian-dark skin and eyes the precise color of the amber that sometimes washes ashore after violent storms. Her silver hair is woven with threads of actual gold, and her gown seems to consist more of shadows than fabric, shifting and flowing with each movement as though partially immaterial.

“Songweaver,” she acknowledges with a slight inclination of her head. “Your reputation travels before you like the scent of rain before the storm.”

“Your Grace honors me with both invitation and metaphor,” Lysander responds with a formal bow. If he is intimidated by her presence, no trace shows in his voice or bearing.

The other guests filter in gradually—a collection of individuals as diverse as they are intriguing. An elderly man whose eyes contain constellations I’ve never seen in any night sky. Twin women with hair white as fresh snow despite their apparent youth. A figure of indeterminate gender whose skin bears intricate patterns that seem to move when viewed from the corner of one’s eye. Others equally distinctive, though in less immediately visible ways.

No introductions are made. The atmosphere suggests this gathering transcends ordinary social conventions.

“You understand what is required?” the Duchess asks Lysander once all are seated. I stand at the room’s edge, journal open on my lap, pen poised though uncertain what exactly I am meant to record.

“I understand what you seek,” he answers carefully. “Whether it can be accomplished depends on more than my skill alone.”

She smiles—a gesture somehow both warming and chilling simultaneously. “Then begin.”

Lysander moves to the exact center of the circle, removing his cloak with a practiced gesture that transforms necessity into performance. Beneath, his tunic reveals intricate embroidery that maps not constellations but something more complex—musical notations woven into patterns that seem to shift and rearrange themselves in the fractured light.

He begins not with music but with silence—a deliberate, weighted pause that stretches until it becomes almost uncomfortable. I recognize this technique; he is gathering not just his own focus but the collective attention of the room, creating a vacuum that demands to be filled.

When he finally speaks, his voice carries no artificial projection yet reaches every corner of the chamber with perfect clarity.

“There are songs written on parchment, songs carried on breath, songs woven into memory,” he begins. “And then there are songs written into the very structure of existence—melodies that existed before the first ear evolved to hear them, rhythms that pulse beneath the threshold of ordinary perception.”

His fingers move to the shadowwood lyre, not yet touching the strings but hovering above them like a diviner seeking water.

“Tonight, with your participation, I will attempt to give voice to one such song—a composition not of my making but of our collective remembering.”

With that cryptic introduction, he finally touches the lyre strings, producing a sequence of notes that seems simultaneously random and inevitable—like raindrops falling in a pattern that becomes apparent only after you’ve heard it complete. The sound fills the mirrored chamber, reflecting and refracting until it seems to come from everywhere and nowhere.

I have witnessed Lysander perform hundreds of times, have transcribed his music and even begun learning its creation under his tutelage. Yet what unfolds over the next hour defies my ability to adequately record or comprehend. The music moves beyond technical mastery into something that seems to alter the fundamental nature of the space around us.

He transitions seamlessly between instruments—the lyre’s crystalline precision giving way to the bone flute’s mournful, wind-like keening, then to the otherworldly resonance of the Singing Flame. Throughout, his voice weaves in and out, sometimes using words from languages I recognize, other times in tongues that seem to predate language itself.

The mirrored walls begin to respond, not merely reflecting light but somehow transforming it. Colors appear that I have no names for—hues that exist in the spaces between familiar shades, tints that seem to possess depth and dimension beyond ordinary vision. The room’s temperature fluctuates in patterns that correlate with the music’s intensity—warming during crescendos, cooling in moments of delicate restraint.

Most remarkable is what happens to the listeners themselves. The elderly man’s constellation-eyes begin to slowly rotate, stars wheeling in miniature galaxies. The twin women’s white hair rises as though underwater, moving in synchronized patterns against gravity’s insistence. The figure with the moving skin patterns begins to emit a subtle luminescence that traces the music’s flow across their body.

And the Duchess—her shadow separates from her physical form, dancing independently across the mirrored walls, sometimes multiplying into dozens of silhouettes that move in choreographed harmony with Lysander’s creation.

I abandon any pretense of chronicling, my pen forgotten in my lap, as the music builds toward something that feels like both revelation and unraveling. The boundaries between instruments blur until it seems impossible that a single performer could create such complexity—as though Lysander has somehow become an entire ensemble, each aspect of his musicianship separating into distinct voices that nevertheless maintain perfect harmony.

The culmination arrives not as the thunderous climax I anticipated but as a moment of perfect, crystalline clarity—a single note sustained beyond what should be physically possible, neither diminishing nor intensifying but simply *persisting*, creating a doorway of pure sound.

Through this auditory portal, I glimpse—or perhaps sense, as the experience transcends ordinary vision—something vast and ancient stirring beneath Emberhold’s foundations. Not fire in the mundane sense, but something fire-adjacent, a primordial force that remembers when all of Lumenvale was molten potential rather than fixed form.

The note finally releases, not ending but transforming into a silence so profound it feels like a presence rather than an absence. Lysander stands motionless at the circle’s center, eyes closed, hands extended with palms upward as though offering something invisible to the assembled guests.

No one speaks. No one applauds. Such responses would be as inappropriate as chattering during prayer or dancing at a funeral—not forbidden but fundamentally misaligned with the moment’s nature.

The Duchess rises first, her shadow reluctantly reattaching to her physical form like a pet called to heel. “It is done,” she states—not a question but a confirmation.

Lysander opens his eyes, and for a moment they contain the same constellations I observed in the elderly man’s gaze. “It is begun,” he corrects gently.

Understanding passes between them—a private communication I am not meant to interpret but can observe transpiring. The other guests rise in sequence, each approaching Lysander not with congratulations but with gestures more intimate and significant—the pressing of foreheads together, the exchange of breath, the intertwining of fingers in patterns that seem ceremonial rather than casual.

I remain at the room’s edge, witness to a ritual whose significance exceeds my training, until the chamber empties of all save Lysander, myself, and the lingering resonance of what has transpired.

“What happened?” I finally ask as we gather his instruments, my voice barely above a whisper.

Lysander considers me with eyes that have returned to their familiar amber but now contain depths I hadn’t noticed before. “We remembered something forgotten,” he says. “Or perhaps remembered that we had forgotten, which is the necessary first step toward true recollection.”

“The music—it wasn’t like anything I’ve heard you compose before.”

“Because I didn’t compose it, Elindra. I uncovered it.” He carefully wraps the Singing Flame in its protective cloth. “Some songs exist whether or not we give them voice. Tonight’s was one such melody—written into the volcanic heart of Emberhold itself, into the bloodline of its keepers, into the structure of memory itself.”

As we make our way back through the labyrinthine corridors, the castle feels fundamentally altered—or perhaps it is I who have changed. The copper veins in the floor pulse with more vibrant life, and somewhere deep beneath us, I sense movement like the slow turning of something vast in half-slumber.

“Will you teach me?” I ask as we emerge into the cool night air, stars blazing overhead with newfound significance. “To uncover songs rather than merely compose them?”

Lysander pauses, regarding me with an expression that mingles assessment with something like compassion. “I can teach you to listen beyond ordinary hearing, to recognize the differences between sounds you create and sounds you channel.” He gestures toward the star-filled sky. “But such teachings come with responsibilities you may not yet be prepared to bear.”

“Like what happened tonight?” I press, hungry for understanding. “What exactly did your performance accomplish?”

He remains silent for several long moments as we walk the path away from Emberhold, the castle’s illuminated windows diminishing behind us. When he finally answers, his voice carries the same resonant quality it held during the performance—not louder but somehow more *present*.

“Some things in Lumenvale sleep because they must, because the world as it exists now cannot contain their full awakening. The Duchess and her circle serve as keepers of such slumber—not preventing eventual awakening but ensuring it happens in proper measure, at proper time.”

A shiver traces my spine despite the mild night. “And your music?”

“Was a lullaby of sorts,” he says with a small smile. “Or perhaps more accurately, a dream shared between sleeper and watcher, a negotiation of consciousness.” He places a hand briefly on my shoulder. “You’ll understand more when you’re ready. For now, it’s enough that you witnessed.”

As we journey back toward Silverkeep under stars that seem both familiar and somehow transformed, I contemplate what it means to follow a bard like Lysander—to walk in the wake of someone who doesn’t merely create beauty but sometimes fundamentally alters the world’s waking dream. My journals contain careful records of techniques, lyrics, audience responses, but how does one chronicle the intangible transformations that ripple outward from nights like this?

Perhaps that is the true lesson of my apprenticeship: learning to recognize the difference between performance that entertains and performance that awakens. Between music that fills silence and music that reveals what silence has always contained.

I glance back once more at Emberhold, its obsidian towers now visible only as a darker absence against the night sky. Within its ancient walls, something stirs in dreams influenced by melody, while thirteen individuals return to their separate lives carrying fragments of a song older than their bloodlines.

And beside me walks Lysander, the Songweaver, already humming something new—a counterpoint perhaps to the ancient composition we have just briefly, imperfectly remembered.

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Don’t forget to have a blessed day.