The road to the southern edge of Elessyr was narrow and unpaved, bordered by stone fences and overgrown ivy. The morning fog still clung low to the ground, curling around Ravine's ankles like something alive.
She walked beside Arana, who hadn't spoken much since dawn. The only sound between them was the soft crunch of gravel underfoot and the occasional chirp of birds hidden in trees.
They passed an old signpost; its lettering faded with time: "Hall of the First Harmonies."
It pointed down a path half-eaten by moss and time.
They followed it.
The building, when they reached it, was modest—more like a chapel than a hall. Wood warped with age. Stained-glass windows coated in dust and spiderwebs. Yet it stood, defiant, as if waiting for someone to return.
The door creaked open with a reluctant groan.
Inside, the air was thick with stillness.
Rows of old benches lined the space, all facing a small stage elevated by stone steps. An ancient harp stood at the centre, strings broken, bow leaning against it like a weary soldier. The walls were carved with musical notation—etched directly into the stone, as if music had once bled from the very bones of the room.
Arana stepped in first. Ravine followed, her breath caught somewhere between reverence and grief.
"This is where Tovin trained," Arana said softly. "Before the expedition. Before he became thunder."
Ravine ran her fingers over the harp's frame. The wood was cold. "No one comes here anymore?"
"Only on the day of mourning," Arana replied. "Even then, they don't speak his name."
"Because of how he died?"
"Because of how he lived," Arana said, staring at the wall carvings. "They remember him in silence. As if his music caused shame instead of beauty."
Ravine sat on the stage's edge; hands folded in her lap.
"He wanted to be remembered."
Arana nodded. "And he is. Just not the way he asked."
They sat there for a long time.
Eventually, Ravine stood and walked to the centre of the stage. She looked out at the empty benches, at the dust and the light filtering through fractured glass.
And then she began to hum.
Not a melody she remembered. Just a sound—low, unsure, but steady.
The hall responded like an old friend. Wood creaked. Air shifted. The silence fractured.
Arana joined in, adding her own voice. It wasn't music. It was memory.
Together, they sang nothing—and everything.
When the song faded, Ravine whispered, "He's still here, isn't he?"
"Yes," Arana said. "In every string left un-played. In every voice that chooses to rise."
They lit a single candle at the altar before leaving. Not to mourn. But to mark that someone had returned.
Outside, the fog had lifted a little.
As they walked back, Ravine felt something shift inside her.
Tovin's story would not be left buried beneath silence.
Not anymore.