The council chamber in North Gaia felt unusually frigid, the firelight flickering behind ancient runes struggling to push back the chill. The seven lords and magisters sat further apart than customary, their gazes darting restlessly between the empty chair that George had once occupied and the sealed windows. Outside, the sky hung low, bearing the weight of a colorless moon.
Lady Beatrix Charlotte observed her companions with a calm born of practice. Her fingers glided across the parchment with deliberate purpose, quietly cross-referencing the minutes from their last three meetings. In each instance, details had shifted: the sequence of votes, the wording of vital warnings, even who had attended. She had learned the art of distrust in her youth, yet tonight it felt as though she teetered on the edge of prophecy.
"I put forth a proposal," Lord Gustav declared, his ringed fingers tapping a steady rhythm upon the table. "We must summon a dream-mage to scrutinize our council's memories. Such uncertainty cannot be allowed to linger in these troubling times."
Bismarck let out a derisive snort. "Paranoia yields nothing but greater disorder. I advocate for reliance on our records, not the shadows of our fears."
Interrupting, Beatrix's voice sliced through the smoky air, sharp and cool. "And what if the records themselves have been altered? Who among us claims to recall every detail as it genuinely unfolded?" Her question lingered heavily, sparking murmurs amongst her fellow lords.
Maximilian, usually a steadfast presence, appeared pale and shaken. "George's accounts are riddled with gaps and inconsistencies. He professes to have fought at Fitran's side during the last war, yet our archives bear no mention of such an alliance. Are we so ensnared by the influence of Stones-magic that the very fabric of the past shifts beneath our feet?"
A chill draft curled under the doors, causing every shadow to stretch deeper into the corners of the room. Beatrix observed them intently—she noted the fingers that clutched their chairs with white-knuckled urgency, the downcast eyes that avoided her steady gaze. Who else among them might have felt the touch of the unknown?
They discussed summoning Rinoa, Fitran, anyone who might offer a tether to reality. Yet, with each suggestion arose an oppressive weight of dread, as if whatever was unleashed in the north of Gaia was already within the chamber, murmuring just beyond the edge of their sight.
High within a tower room, above the mist-shrouded city, Mira's workbench lay strewn with star-charts, astrolabes, and a singular map that throbbed with an enchanting, shifting glow. She gazed at it, entranced, as rivers and borders shifted like ink in a storm— the very essence of the land seemed to quiver with unease.
The Stones. She recalled the summer expedition when she first encountered their power—her hands quaking as she carefully sketched out ley lines near the ancient ruins. The "song" of the Stones resonated with her, not in words, but as a deep, pulsating vibration within her bones, whispering promises of insight and dire warnings all at once.
It was on that fateful day that she had met Fitran, years younger, yet already burdened by shadows. He had sheltered her from a surge of magical backlash, a gesture that earned her unwavering loyalty—and a wound that would never fully mend.
From that moment onward, every map she crafted in proximity to Stones magic would contort itself, revealing concealed glyphs known only to her. More than once, the council or the Guild had attempted to "acquire" her secrets. In a moment of desperation, she had nearly turned her back on Fitran, tempted by the notion of freedom. For that night, she had never found it in her heart to forgive herself.
A gentle knock echoed in the quiet room, and there stood Fitran, shrouded in shadows, seeking her aid once more.
"What compels you to trust me, after all that transpired?" she inquired, her voice scarcely rising above the soft murmur of the wind outside.
His smile was a blend of sorrow and resolve. "Because you grasp the weight of what is at stake. And, like me, you comprehend the loneliness of bearing such burdens in silence."
Mira's gaze fixated on the map as it twisted anew—now revealing the Stones throbbing like hearts in the north, each pulse a warning in their constellation. "I shall aid you," she replied softly, "but only on one condition: no more deceit, not even to safeguard Gaia."
Fitran held her gaze, and for a fleeting moment, the shadows seemed to retreat. "No more deceit," he affirmed, though the unspoken cost of such a vow loomed heavily in his mind.
George's abode was cloaked in darkness, the air thick with the fading whispers of ancient tomes and the aroma of dried sage lingering like a memory. He sat at his desk, poring over his own spidery handwriting—notes that danced between reality and the realm of dreams.
He recalled the grand library of Alexandria—Fitran, the mystical Stones, the binding pact. Yet, doubt gnawed at him: was it all but a dream? Had he truly taken part in the war? The names penned within his own journal felt unfamiliar, traced by hands he did not recognize yet mourned as if they belonged to lost friends.
He blinked, and for a brief heartbeat, it seemed as if Fitran's shadow flitted by the window, murmuring to him—You were always my ally, George. Trust what your heart knows.
Yet as he attempted to write, his pen danced over the parchment, inscribing thoughts that defied memory. "Trust not the Stones. Trust not your recollections."
He released his grip on the pen, his hands quivering as vivid images surged through his mind—Stones pulsating with ethereal light, harmonies intertwining in tongues he had never uttered, faces of strangers who felt like lost kin, mourned deeply as if they were part of him.
With a stagger, he approached the mirror, his gaze fixed on the reflection that blinked back at him, uncertain and blurred at the edges. Who am I? George the scholar? George the companion? Or merely a vessel, a hollowed specter, waiting for the Stones to imbue him with their cryptic truths?
In the silence of the house, the melody of the Stones resonated more clearly than ever.
Far to the north, beneath snowbound cliffs enshrined in the heart of Gaia, the Stones lay in waiting. Their runes shimmered with an ancient energy, whispering secrets. The wind howled, and somewhere deep within the earth's embrace, a pulse began—a summoning that could not be ignored.
In Gaia's hallowed council chamber, shadows of paranoia wrap tightly around the hearts of those within. In her lofty tower, Mira embraces a perilous loyalty. In the solitude of his home, George wrestles with questions about his very being. And all the while, the Stones stir—promising untold power, demanding sacrifices, reaching out for the minds of any who dare to remember.
At the core of the Stones' chamber, where darkness and light gracefully intertwined, a lone figure emerged, stepping into the sacred circle of timeworn runes. She donned a gown that mirrored the blush of dawn, and her golden locks glimmered beneath a diadem adorned with seven radiant stars.
In her presence, the silence held its breath, as if acknowledging her significance. The glow of the runes danced in her violet eyes—eyes that shimmered with longing, sorrow, and flickering hope.
She placed her palm upon the pulsing heart of the largest Stone, feeling its vibrations resonate with memories both lost and found. Deep within its core, a melody emerged—part lullaby, part lament—rising through the ether, laden with the burden of time's wounds.
The girl gently closed her eyes, allowing the echoes to wash over her. When at last she spoke, her voice was tender yet unwavering, reaching every shadowy corner of the hidden chamber, every soul touched by the enchantment of the Stones.
"Fitran," she breathed, and her words seemed to transform into a key, unlocking the chains of destiny.
"Can you hear my call? After all this time… I still remember. I remember you."
As her voice lingered in the air, a tremor rippled through the Stones—an ancient response, heavy with sorrow, as if the echoes of the past were stirring awake. Far afield, in the dimly lit corridors of Gaia and the restless dreams of those marked by the Stones, a name began to flutter back into existence:
Fitran.
Outside, the wind shifted, carrying new whispers. Somewhere, hope once more took root in the scars of the earth. The song of the Stones swelled, crafting a promise for the future from the shattered remnants of the past.
In this single name—Fitran—the intricately woven threads of memory, fate, and love found their genesis anew, setting the stage for all that was yet to unfold in the Song of Wounded Time.