The mist curls around my ankles like curious spirits as I tap my spear against the moss-covered rock, counting rhythm in my head. One, two, three. One, two, three. Across the glade, Lyra's lips purse in concentration, a stream of icy air flowing from them like winter's whisper. Her blue hair catches the soft glow of the luminescent flowers surrounding us, making her look ethereal—otherworldly. I force myself to focus on the task at hand, not on the way my heart skips when her golden eyes meet mine.

  "Again," I say, my voice steady despite the fluttering in my chest. "We need to time it perfectly."

  Lyra nods, a slight smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "You're quite demanding, Aelia Windwhisper."

  The way she says my full name sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with her ice magic. I've known her for only three months, since she arrived in Harmonious with mystery clinging to her like a second skin, yet she's already become something I can't quite name in my life. Something vital.

  "One more time," I insist, adjusting my grip on my spear. "If we're to master this combination, we need practice."

  The glade embraces us in its secret hold, a hidden pocket of wonder we discovered two weeks ago during one of our wanderings beyond the village borders. Flowers with petals that pulse with gentle blue-green light dot the clearing, their rhythm almost matching the beats I tap out. The fog hangs perpetually here, not thick enough to blind but present enough to blur the edges of reality, making this place feel suspended between worlds.

  I clear my throat and begin a low hum, feeling the vibrations in my chest before they escape into the air. The melody is simple at first—a foundation upon which to build. As a Rhythm Knight (or at least, as someone discovering those powers within me), I've learned that the complexity comes later, after the basic pattern is established.

  "One," I call out, continuing the hum beneath my words. "Two. Three."

  On "three," I strike the rock with my spear while simultaneously raising my voice to a higher pitch. The sound rings clear across the glade, and I feel the familiar warmth spreading through my limbs—my magic responding to the musical cue. It's still strange to me, this power that awakened inside me only months ago. For years I served as a simple village guard, dreaming of adventures beyond our borders while never finding the courage to seek them. Then the music called to me one night as I stood watch, and nothing has been the same since.

  Lyra responds to my signal, her fingers dancing in practiced motions. The air around her hands crystallizes, forming delicate shards of ice that hover, suspended as if time itself has paused to admire her craft. Her golden eyes narrow slightly in concentration, her breath visible even in the mild air of the glade.

  I know little of her past—she guards it fiercely—but I recognize the hallmarks of an Ice Witch lineage in her magic. The way frost forms patterns that look almost like ancient runes. The slight glow of her eyes when she works her craft. The fact that she never truly seems to feel cold, even when her magic turns the air around us bitter with winter's kiss.

  "Now," she whispers, and I immediately shift my rhythm, tapping faster against the stone.

  The vibrations travel through the earth, up through the soles of my feet, synchronizing with the melody I continue to hum. This is where the magic of the Rhythm Knights truly shines—in the harmony between sound and movement, between voice and action. I feel my spear growing warmer in my hand, resonating with the song.

  But something's wrong. Lyra's ice shards begin to vibrate erratically, and instead of forming the protective barrier we're attempting to create, they scatter in all directions. One whizzes past my ear, close enough that I feel its cold caress against my skin.

  "Stop," I call out, ceasing my song.

  Lyra drops her hands, frustration evident in the crease between her eyebrows. "It's still not working."

  I lean my spear against the rock and cross the clearing to her, my boots pressing into the soft earth. "The timing is off. My second beat needs to align perfectly with your frost formation, before you try to expand it."

  She sighs, pushing a strand of blue hair behind her ear. "In theory, that sounds simple enough."

  "But in practice..." I offer a small smile.

  "In practice, we're trying to merge two different magical disciplines that haven't been combined in generations," she finishes. "Not since the Fall."

  The mention of the Fall—that mysterious decline that robbed our world of its greatest magics a thousand years ago—brings a solemnity to the glade. We're attempting something that might be impossible, trying to recover what was lost when Song Magic faded from the world and left only fragments behind. Fragments that I'm only beginning to understand through my nascent abilities as a Rhythm Knight.

  "Perhaps we're overthinking it," I suggest, stepping closer to her. "The ancient texts Sariel found suggest that Rhythm Knights and Ice Witches once worked together instinctively, without all this... methodical planning."

  Lyra's lips curve upward. "Are you suggesting we simply feel our way through it, Windwhisper?"

  I shrug, trying to ignore how my name sounds like a caress when she says it. "Maybe. What do we have to lose?"

  "Besides dignity? Possibly limbs, if those ice shards go flying again." But there's a playful light in her eyes now.

  I laugh, the sound echoing through the glade. "I trust you not to accidentally impale me."

  "Such faith," she teases, before her expression grows more serious. "But you may be right. The old ways weren't about precision drilling. They were about... connection."

  Our eyes meet, and it happens again—that strange spark between us that feels like magic of a different sort. Her fingers brushed mine as she reached for my hand, and I felt a jolt – static from the dry air near her ice magic, but it startled me nonetheless.

  "Connection," I repeat, my voice a bit hoarse. "Yes."

  We move to the center of the glade, standing closer than before. The luminescent flowers seem to brighten around us, as if sensing the gathering of magical energies. Droplets of condensation form on Lyra's hair, tiny crystals that catch the light like a crown of stars.

  "Don't count out loud this time," she suggests. "Just... let me follow your rhythm. Let me hear it and feel it."

  I nod, holding her gaze for a moment longer before closing my eyes. This time, I don't think about the technique or the goal. I simply let the melody rise from somewhere deep inside me, a song that feels as old as the land itself. My voice starts soft, then grows stronger with each passing note. I don't tap my spear against the rock; instead, I feel the vibrations through my own body, letting them guide my movements.

  Lyra's breathing synchronizes with my song—I can hear it changing, adapting to the pattern I'm weaving. When I open my eyes, I see her hands moving in fluid gestures, ice forming not in sharp shards but in sweeping, graceful arcs. She's dancing with her magic, following the music of mine.

  Without breaking my song, I reach out with my free hand, palm up. An invitation. A question.

  Lyra answers by placing her hand in mine. The moment our skin touches, something shifts in the magic surrounding us. My voice grows richer, more complex, harmonies I didn't know I could produce layering into the melody. The ice responding to her commands seems to shimmer with new purpose, forming intricate patterns that pulse in time with my song.

  Together, we move through the glade, her steps matching mine, our magic intertwining. Ice crystals form perfect barriers that catch the light from the bioluminescent flora, reflecting it back in rainbows of color. My voice reaches notes that make the very air vibrate with potential, and Lyra's ice responds to each tonal shift like a partner in a dance known since time began.

  When the song finally ends, we stand breathless in the center of the clearing, surrounded by a dome of ice that glitters with captured light. Inside this frozen sanctuary, the mist has cleared, and the air feels charged with possibilities.

  "That was..." Lyra whispers, her eyes wide with wonder.

  "Yes," I agree, equally awed. "It was."

  Neither of us mentions how our hands remain clasped together, or how the magic still hums between us like a living thing. Some truths don't need words to be acknowledged.

  The ice dome slowly dissolves into glittering particles that drift down around us like the gentlest snow, each flake carrying a note of the song we created together. In this moment, I understand why the ancient Rhythm Knights and their Songstress partners were said to be bound by destiny.

  Some harmonies, once discovered, can never be unheard.

  The sound of crashing undergrowth shatters our moment of triumph. My body tenses before my mind fully registers the danger, muscle memory from years as a village guard taking over. I grip my spear tighter, the residual magic still humming through the metal as I pivot toward the disturbance. Lyra's hand slips from mine, leaving a ghost of warmth that quickly fades as she raises her palms, frost already gathering at her fingertips. Something is coming—fast—and the peaceful rhythm of our practice gives way to the erratic drumbeat of approaching chaos.

  A flash of gold bursts through the treeline—not a goblin, but Sariel, her blonde hair streaming behind her like a banner. Her normally pristine robes are torn at the hem, leaves and twigs caught in the fabric. Her warm brown eyes, usually sparkling with mischief, are wide with panic.

  "Run!" she gasps, though she doesn't slow her own headlong sprint toward us. "They're—"

  She doesn't need to finish. Behind her, the undergrowth erupts as if the forest itself is disgorging something foul. Small, twisted forms scramble over fallen logs and dart between trees—goblins, at least a dozen of them. Their ragged armor clangs discordantly, a jarring counterpoint to the natural sounds of the forest. Their faces are pinched into feral snarls, yellowed teeth gleaming in the glade's soft light.

  "Over here, quick!" I shout to Sariel, shifting my stance to prepare for the oncoming threat. The ground beneath my feet still vibrates with the residual energy of our practice, and I channel that feeling through my legs, into my core.

  Sariel doesn't need to be told twice. She changes course slightly, angling directly toward us rather than simply through the clearing. I don't know why she's being pursued—our friend has an uncanny ability to find trouble despite her position as a traveling saintess—but questions can wait. Survival comes first.

  Next to me, Lyra's breathing changes, becoming measured and controlled. The temperature around us plummets as she draws on her ice magic. With a graceful sweep of her arms, she sends an arc of frost racing across the ground. Ice crystals form with a sound like breaking glass, spreading outward in a crescent pattern that catches the first wave of goblins mid-stride.

  Two of the creatures howl as their feet are encased in ice, their momentum carrying their upper bodies forward while their legs remain frozen in place. They tumble face-first onto the hard ground with satisfying thuds. But the others are more cautious now, skittering sideways to avoid the freezing trap.

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  "They're more coordinated than usual," I mutter, beginning a low hum that vibrates through my chest. The melody is different from our practice—sharper, more aggressive. With each note, I feel strength flowing into my arms, my spear growing lighter yet somehow more solid in my grip.

  Sariel reaches us, cheeks flushed and breathing hard. "Sorry to—" she gasps between breaths, "—interrupt your date."

  Even in danger, she finds time for teasing. I roll my eyes but don't waste breath responding. Instead, I step forward, placing myself between my friends and the advancing goblins. The creatures have paused their charge, spreading out in a semicircle at the edge of the clearing. Their beady eyes glint with malice and a cunning that sends ice down my spine despite the heat of adrenaline coursing through me.

  "Why are they after you?" Lyra asks, her voice steady despite the tension in her shoulders.

  Sariel straightens her robes with one hand while the other reaches into a hidden pocket. "I may have... borrowed something they were guarding."

  She pulls out a small object that catches the bioluminescent light—a crystal figurine of what appears to be a miniature lute, no larger than her palm.

  "You stole from goblins?" I hiss, never taking my eyes off the threat. The creatures are chittering among themselves now, clearly planning their next move. Their leader—distinguished by a crude helmet adorned with what looks disturbingly like human teeth—gestures sharply to the sides.

  "Not stole," Sariel corrects, tucking the figurine away again. "Reclaimed. It's a sacred artifact that belongs to the church. They had no right to it."

  "Tell that to them," Lyra murmurs, as several goblins begin to edge around the sides of the clearing, attempting to flank us.

  I adjust my stance, feeling the earth beneath my feet. The song builds in my throat, no longer just a hum but a melody with purpose. In my years guarding Harmonious, I've faced goblins before, but never with the power of a Rhythm Knight stirring in my blood. Never with magic singing through my veins, demanding release.

  "Stay close," I instruct, and then I let the song free.

  My voice rises in a battle cry that carries magic in each note. The sound ripples outward, visible as waves in the mist that still clings to the ground. Three goblins approaching from the left stumble as the wave hits them, their eardrums likely ringing with the force of it. But it's more than just noise—the magic in my song momentarily disrupts their coordination, their limbs moving out of sync as if they've forgotten how their bodies work.

  Taking advantage of their confusion, I lunge forward with my spear, the weapon extending my reach. I don't aim to kill—despite their aggression, I've never been one to take life unnecessarily—but to disable. The blunt end of my spear catches one goblin in the stomach, sending it sprawling backward into its companions. They collapse in a tangle of limbs and curses.

  But the others are already adapting, pressing fingers into their pointed ears or stuffing them with bits of leaves and moss. Their leader shrieks a command, and suddenly they're rushing us from all sides.

  "Sariel, behind us!" Lyra calls out, positioning the saintess in the center of our defensive formation. Though Sariel possesses light magic, her powers are primarily for healing and protection, not combat.

  Lyra moves like water, her blue hair flowing around her as she spins to face the attackers coming from our right. Her hands carve elegant arcs through the air, trailing frost that solidifies into jagged barricades. A goblin leaps over the first barrier only to crash into a second that forms mid-jump, directly in its path.

  I continue my song, the melody evolving as I shift to face new threats. My spear feels like an extension of the music, each thrust and parry timed to the rhythm of my voice. Two goblins rush me simultaneously. I sidestep the first, hooking my spear behind its ankle to send it sprawling, then bring the shaft up to block the crude sword of the second. The impact jars my arms, but my song doesn't falter.

  "They're not retreating," Sariel observes, her hands glowing with a soft, golden light as she prepares her own magic. "Goblins usually flee when outmatched."

  She's right. Despite our successful defense, the creatures press their attack with unusual determination. The leader gestures again, and three goblins dart forward together, each approaching from a different angle. They're learning, adapting to our individual fighting styles.

  My throat is beginning to ache from maintaining the magic-infused song, and I notice Lyra's movements growing less fluid as she continuously expends her ice magic. We can't maintain this defensive posture indefinitely.

  Then I remember our practice session—the harmony we found when we stopped trying to coordinate through conscious effort and simply allowed our magics to flow together naturally.

  "Lyra," I call out between verses of my song, catching her eye. "Like before. Connection."

  Understanding flashes across her face. Without hesitation, she steps closer to me, her back nearly touching mine. I feel the chill of her magic against my skin, but it's not uncomfortable—it's invigorating, like the first breath of winter air that clears the mind and sharpens the senses.

  I change my song, shifting from the aggressive battle melody to something more complex, more inviting. It's a risk—this type of magic is better suited for controlled practice than chaotic combat—but I trust the connection we forged earlier.

  Lyra responds instantly, her ice magic shifting to match the new pattern of my song. Rather than forming static barriers, her frost now moves like water, flowing around us in concentric circles that pulse with each measure of my melody. The goblins hesitate, confused by the change in tactics.

  I reach back with my free hand, and Lyra's fingers intertwine with mine. The contact sends a surge of power through both of us. My voice grows stronger, richer, the notes carrying farther and with greater impact. The ice responding to Lyra's commands becomes more intricate, more alive—not just barriers but active defenders that reach out to entangle goblin limbs or form temporary blinds that disorient and confuse.

  Sariel, sensing the change, adds her own magic to our combined defense. Her light spells manifest as golden motes that drift through the air, attaching themselves to goblin weapons and armor. Wherever the light touches, frost forms more quickly, ice crystals growing along metal and leather with unnatural speed.

  The goblin leader shrieks again, but this time there's a note of uncertainty in the sound. Three of its companions are fully encased in ice up to their necks, unable to move but unharmed. Others are retreating, stumbling as my song makes the ground vibrate beneath their feet, disrupting their balance.

  With a final, defiant howl, the leader signals a full retreat. The remaining goblins scramble back into the forest, their discordant clanging fading as they flee. The three trapped in ice stare at us with a mixture of hatred and fear.

  Slowly, I let my song fade, though I maintain enough power to keep the trapped goblins subdued. My hand is still clasped with Lyra's, and I'm acutely aware of her presence behind me—the steady rhythm of her breathing, the subtle tremor in her fingers that speaks of expended energy.

  "That," Sariel says, her voice breaking the silence that follows the goblins' retreat, "was impressive." She approaches one of the ice-bound goblins, inspecting it with curious eyes. "I've never seen magic like that before—not from either of you individually, and certainly not combined."

  I release Lyra's hand, though reluctantly, and turn to face both of my companions. The adrenaline is beginning to ebb, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness that comes from channeling so much magic in such a short time.

  "Neither have I," I admit, looking at Lyra with new appreciation. Her golden eyes meet mine, and I see in them a reflection of my own wonder and exhaustion.

  "The old texts speak of such combinations," she says softly, tucking a strand of blue hair behind her ear. Frost still clings to her fingertips, glittering in the glade's light. "Rhythm Knights and those with elemental affinities working in tandem. But I thought it was just legend."

  "Well, it certainly isn't legend anymore," Sariel declares, clapping her hands together with far too much enthusiasm for someone who was running for her life moments ago. "You two are magnificent together!"

  I feel heat rising to my cheeks at her phrasing, but before I can protest, she continues more seriously.

  "But we should move. These three won't stay frozen forever, and their friends might return with reinforcements."

  Lyra nods, already gathering her strength. "What about them?" She gestures toward the trapped goblins.

  I consider for a moment, then tap the butt of my spear against the ground three times. With each tap, I release a note of magic that will gradually weaken the ice over the next hour.

  "They'll be free once we're well away from here," I explain. "No need for unnecessary cruelty."

  As we prepare to leave the glade, I take one last look at the ice formations still glittering in the bioluminescent light. They're beautiful in their way—a testament to what Lyra and I created together. I wonder what other wonders might be possible if we continue to explore this connection between us.

  But such thoughts will have to wait. For now, we have a stolen—or reclaimed—artifact to deal with, and the matter of why goblins were guarding it in the first place.

  My muscles ache with the aftershocks of magic, tiny tremors running through my fingers as I lower my spear. The goblins have vanished into the forest, leaving nothing but broken underbrush and the lingering scent of their musty hide armor. Lyra, Sariel, and I form a tight circle almost instinctively, backs to one another as we scan the treeline for any remaining threats. Lyra's breathing is still rapid beside me, small puffs of frost escaping her lips with each exhale. The quiet that follows battle is never truly silent; it hums with unspoken dangers and the beating of hearts that haven't yet accepted that the immediate threat has passed.

  "Is everyone unharmed?" I ask, my voice hoarse from the magic-laden songs I've been channeling. The spear feels heavier in my hands now, the familiar weight a comfort despite my fatigue.

  "A few scratches," Sariel answers, straightening her robes with practiced dignity. She runs her fingers through her blonde hair, dislodging twigs and leaves that had caught there during her flight. "Nothing serious."

  Lyra nods, her golden eyes still scanning the forest edge. "I'm fine." She flexes her fingers, small ice crystals falling from them like diamond dust. "Though I've used more magic in the last quarter hour than I typically would in a week."

  I allow myself a small sigh of relief. The adrenaline is receding, leaving behind a clarity that's almost painful in its sharpness. The luminescent flowers around us seem brighter now, their gentle blue glow a stark contrast to the violence that just transpired.

  "You owe us an explanation," I say to Sariel, though I keep my tone gentle. Despite her sometimes reckless nature, she's one of my oldest friends. Before Lyra arrived in Harmonious, it was Sariel who encouraged my restless spirit, who shared tales of distant lands that fed my secret yearning for adventure.

  Sariel's warm brown eyes meet mine, and the sparkle of mischief I'm accustomed to seeing there has dimmed, replaced by something more serious. "Yes, I suppose I do." She reaches into her pocket and once more withdraws the crystal figurine—the lute that apparently was worth risking her life to retrieve.

  "What exactly is that?" Lyra asks, her curiosity evident as she leans closer to examine the object. "And why were goblins guarding it?"

  Sariel holds the figurine up so it catches the light from the bioluminescent flora. The crystal is clear but seems to contain swirling motes of gold within its depths, like captured starlight.

  "It's called the Echo of Harmony," she explains. "According to church records, it dates back to before the Fall. It was crafted by a master Songstress and a Rhythm Knight working in tandem—much like what I just witnessed from you two."

  I feel a flush creeping up my neck at the comparison. What Lyra and I managed was impressive, certainly, but nothing compared to the legendary feats of those who lived before the Fall, when Song Magic was at its height.

  "The church believes it contains... a fragment of a song," Sariel continues, her voice taking on the reverent tone she uses when speaking of sacred matters. "Not just any song, but one of the Original Melodies used by the Melodic Deities themselves."

  Lyra's intake of breath is sharp. Even I feel a tightening in my chest at the implication. The Original Melodies are the stuff of legend—the songs said to have shaped reality itself when our world was young.

  "How did goblins come to possess such an artifact?" I ask, instinctively tightening my grip on my spear. The weight of the situation settles on my shoulders like a physical burden.

  Sariel's expression darkens. "I've been tracking rumors of ancient artifacts being stolen from church repositories across Aurora's Crest. When I heard whispers of goblin activity unusually close to Harmonious, I decided to investigate." She tucks the crystal lute back into her pocket. "I didn't expect to find this particular treasure among their hoard."

  "You went into a goblin den alone?" Lyra's tone is a mixture of incredulity and reluctant admiration.

  "I had a plan," Sariel insists, the defensive note in her voice making me smile despite myself. Her plans typically involve equal parts faith, optimism, and what she calls 'divine inspiration'—which often looks suspiciously like reckless improvisation to the rest of us.

  "Let me guess," I say, "the plan did not include being chased through the forest by an entire goblin patrol?"

  Sariel's lips quirk upward. "That part was... an unexpected development." She straightens her shoulders. "But it worked out in the end, didn't it? I have the artifact, and we're all safe."

  "Thanks to whatever it was you two did," she adds, gesturing between Lyra and me. "I've never seen anything like that before. The way your magics synchronized..."

  Lyra and I exchange glances. There's a weight to the look we share, an acknowledgment of something neither of us fully understands yet.

  "It wasn't intentional, at least not at first," Lyra says softly. Her blue hair hangs in damp tendrils around her face, a result of the rapid temperature changes her magic creates. "We were practicing earlier, trying to coordinate our abilities, but it wasn't until Aelia suggested we stop forcing it and simply... connect..."

  "That's what my teachers used to speak of," Sariel nods enthusiastically. "Before the Fall, practitioners of different magical disciplines could amplify each other's powers through harmony. It's been mostly theoretical for centuries—church scholars debate whether such synergies were literal or merely metaphorical."

  I rub my thumb along the shaft of my spear, feeling the worn grain of the wood beneath my fingertips. "It didn't feel metaphorical," I murmur. "It felt like... like being part of something greater than myself. Like finding a piece I didn't know was missing."

  My words hang in the air between us, perhaps revealing more than I intended. Lyra doesn't respond immediately, but I notice a slight softening around her eyes, the gold in them seeming to glow warmer for a moment.

  "The ice responded differently," she finally says, her voice thoughtful. "My family's legacy—the Ice Witch bloodline—it's always been about precision and control. Cold, calculated power." She glances at her hands. "But when our magics merged, the ice felt... alive. Responsive. Almost joyful."

  "That's consistent with what we know of the old partnerships," Sariel comments, her scholarly interest clearly piqued. "The Ice Witches were often paired with Rhythm Knights. Your ancestors may have worked together regularly before knowledge of such practices was lost."

  The implication settles over us like the mist that surrounds the clearing. If what we experienced is truly a revival of ancient magical synergies, it has implications beyond our personal abilities. It represents a connection to a time before the Fall, a possible pathway to recovering what was lost.

  "We should establish a perimeter," I say, shifting the conversation to more immediate concerns. The weight of history and possibility is too much to process fully in this moment, especially with the threat of returning goblins. "I don't think they'll come back with reinforcements right away, but we should be prepared."

  Lyra nods in agreement. "I can set ice wards at the main entry points to the clearing. They won't stop a determined attacker, but they'll alert us to any approach."

  "And I'll augment them with light signals," Sariel adds. "A simple enchantment—if anything disturbs the ice, a soft glow will appear, visible only to the three of us."

  We move to the edges of the glade, working in tandem to secure our temporary sanctuary. I hum a low, steady rhythm as I walk the perimeter, the sound helping to center me after the chaos of battle. The vibrations travel through the ground, setting up harmonious patterns that will disrupt any sneaking footsteps.

  As I complete my circuit near a gnarled oak at the northern edge of the clearing, a discordant note rings through my song. It's subtle—so faint I almost miss it—but there's something off about the resonance here. I pause, letting my humming fade as I study the ancient tree. Its bark is twisted and knotted, creating shadows within shadows.

  "Aelia? Is something wrong?" Lyra calls from across the glade where she's placing the last of her ice wards.

  I hesitate, then shake my head. "Just being thorough," I reply, though I can't shake the feeling that something is amiss.

  As I turn away from the oak, I catch Sariel staring intently at the same spot, her head tilted slightly as if listening to something only she can hear. Our eyes meet, and a silent communication passes between us—she feels it too.

  "We should move soon," she says, her voice carrying across the clearing. "This place has served its purpose, but we shouldn't linger."

  I nod in agreement, rejoining my companions at the center of the glade. The mystical atmosphere that made this place perfect for practice now feels oppressive, the mist no longer secretive but concealing.

  "Where will we go?" Lyra asks, her golden eyes meeting mine. "Back to Harmonious?"

  Before I can answer, a faint sound catches my attention—the rustle of feathers, followed by the soft croak of a raven. I glance up to see a sleek black bird perched on a high branch, its intelligent eyes fixed upon our group with unusual intensity. Ravens are common enough in these woods, but something about this one raises the hairs on the back of my neck.

  "No," I decide, an inexplicable sense of urgency building within me. "Not Harmonious. Not yet." I lower my voice, though I'm not sure why. "We need to understand what Sariel has found—and why it was important enough for goblins to guard it. There's more happening here than a simple raid."

  Lyra studies my face, then nods once, decisively. "I agree. My instincts tell me the same."

  "There's a sanctuary about half a day's journey from here," Sariel suggests. "A small outpost maintained by the church. We can examine the artifact safely there, and perhaps find records that might explain its significance."

  As we gather our few belongings and prepare to leave the glade, I cast one final glance toward the gnarled oak. For just a moment—so briefly I might have imagined it—I think I see a lean figure step back into the deeper shadows, the outline of a pointed chin and narrowed eyes vanishing like smoke. The raven takes flight with a harsh cry, circling once overhead before winging away in the same direction.

  I say nothing to the others about what I've seen, or think I've seen. But as we depart, I position myself at the rear of our small group, my spear ready and a melody of protection humming quietly in my throat. Whatever watched us from the shadows, I won't allow it to follow unseen.

  The path ahead is uncertain, but one thing is clear—the magic Lyra and I discovered together, this connection that echoes the legendary partnerships of old, has changed everything. For better or worse, we've awakened something that has slumbered since the Fall.

  And I suspect we are not the only ones who have noticed.