Harmony of the Spire

The embers of the attack had cooled, but Aerilon had not yet caught its breath. Smoke no longer curled into the sky, but ash still clung to the cracks of the Vyrellis Estate. Life resumed, but slower, softer—like the hush after a storm that left its mark.

Siro found himself lingering near windows more often, listening for things no one else could hear. The melodies—the hums—returned only in flickers. Sometimes they came with the rustling of old oak, other times while he was alone with a piece of parchment clutched in his hand. The one they found after the attack.

Renan had grown quieter, too. Not colder—just more... vigilant. He still joined Siro under the tree each afternoon, their shared silence filled with questions neither dared voice aloud.

---

One evening, tucked inside the marble-spined heart of the Vyrellis library, Siro sat before a dwindling fire with Renan. He held the worn parchment again, its ink still faded, the phrase "When the wind forgets, the storm returns" barely visible. He traced it with his fingers, then leaned back and—without a thought—began to hum.

It was his mother's lullaby. He hadn't even realized it until halfway through. A soft, bittersweet tune. Gentle as the breeze before dawn.

The ink shimmered.

"Renan," he hissed.

Renan, who had been nodding off with a book across his lap, straightened. "What—what is it?"

Siro hummed again. As the notes drifted through the silent room, the ink pulsed as if it was alive. Then, letters unseen before began to bloom across the parchment, as if it was sung into existence. Elegant, curving script. Not quite Elven. Not quite anything known.

"It's reacting to the song," Renan whispered.

The message was short:

"The winds remember the name lost to time. When it is spoken again, the Spire shall open."

Renan leaned in, brow furrowed. "What name? Aeon Spire? The Keeper of the Winds?"

But Siro's attention was elsewhere. There it was again—that feeling. That pressure in the air, as if the world had doubled its weight. The fire dimmed without flickering. A whisper drifted behind the bookcases.

A knock sounded.

Not at the door.

From within the room.

Both boys sprung off of their seats. Renan reached instinctively for the dagger at his belt. Siro backed toward the window.

Then, from the darkness between two towering shelves, figures stepped into view. Hooded. Cloaked in deep violet and black. Silver spiral pins glinted where a crest should be.

They said nothing at first.

Their presence filled the room like a rising tide. Siro couldn't explain it, but he felt... seen.

One of them spoke. The voice was calm, ageless.

"Siro of Aerilon. Renan Vyrellis. You've seen the secret. It has seen you in return."

Renan stepped forward, keeping Siro behind him. "Who are you?"

"A question answered in time. For now, we are messengers."

One of them stepped forward and produced a scroll—not wax-sealed, but bound by something peculiar yet simple, as if it was held by a thread made of light. It shimmered only when caught by the firelight.

"If you choose to follow this path," the figure said, "come to the cliff beyond the Hollow Path at the hour when moonlight splits the lake. No one must follow. No word must be spoken. This invitation is unseen and unheard by all others."

Then they vanished.

No burst of light. No puff of smoke. Just—gone.

Renan rushed to the shelves, pulling aside books. Nothing. Siro stared at the scroll, already unraveling in his hands. Once read, it faded into ash and vanished, leaving only the soft echo:

"Not all doors are made of wood and iron. Some are sung open by fate."

---

The next day passed in a blur.

Siro couldn't shake the feeling that they were being watched. But not in a dangerous way. More like the air itself was curious. The harmonies returned in short bursts—in reflections, in rustling leaves, in silence that hummed.

That night, as the moon rose high and silver on the water, the boys followed the Hollow Path. Past the edge of the orchard, beyond the ruins where the air always felt a little too cold. They reached the cliff overlooking the still lake—its waters catching the moonlight just as the scroll described.

Then—movement.

The stone beneath them rumbled softly, like a giant breathing below. A narrow slit appeared in the rock wall behind them—an entrance, revealed only by the moon's perfect angle.

From within: faint lights. Hushed chants. A gust of magic that carried the scent of old paper, candle wax, and lightning.

They stepped inside.

And the cliff swallowed them whole.

---

Far above, on the rooftops of Aerilon, a figure watched. Cloaked in midnight blue, face hidden beneath a hood. A pendant glowed faintly at her neck.

The air stirred around her, carrying the lullaby only Siro knew.