The Halls That Never Stopped Humming
The Harmonic Lyceum sat like a pulse chamber built into the bones of the kingdom—long halls etched with learning-glyphs, archways that resonated with passive memory, and floating platforms that carried students between levels without noise.
Zephryn walked behind the others.
Not out of hesitation.
But because his steps were quieter now.
Like he didn't want to wake the building too soon.
Students turned as they passed.
Some recognized Kaelen—Veilmark-ranked.
Others nodded at Yolti—tactician track.
Selka got no nods. But no one tried to stop her, either. She had the kind of presence that didn't ask permission.
But Zephryn?
They didn't know what to do with him.
He had no robe.
No Lyceum seal.
No registered mark.
But he carried something heavier than all of that:
History.
They passed the glyph hall—the one lined with student banners, glowing with personal harmonics.
Zephryn's was gone.
Of course it was.
But Kaelen still looked at the space it used to hang.
He muttered, "They never replaced yours."
Zephryn didn't respond.
Because the answer was obvious:
You can't replace something the system denies ever existed.
A younger student—first cycle—glanced up and whispered to his partner, "That's the one who fell."
"Fell where?"
"They say into the Veil."
"That's not real."
"Neither was he. Until he came back."
Selka stopped at the edge of the atrium.
She didn't turn around. Just said:
"What did the king say to you?"
Zephryn was still.
For a long moment, it seemed like he might not answer.
Then—softly, like lighting a match beneath water:
"He said my mother was a fine soldier."
Selka blinked.
Yolti turned sharply. "He said that?"
Kaelen's voice lowered. "They banned her name from archives."
"I know," Zephryn said.
And that was the end of it.
No one asked what else the king said.
Because the room felt colder now.
And the Lyceum halls hummed louder.
Like they were listening.