POV: Grimpel
> "A soul is like wine. Age it wrong, store it poorly, or spill too much of it... and you just end up drunk, bitter, and broken."
So here we are.
Veindawn.
, Veindawn was a city built on old bones and newer lies. Red lanterns swung from crooked iron hooks, bathing the streets in blood-colored light. Laughter spilled from taverns like wine over a broken cup. Women in feathered veils danced on railings. Men in velvet cloaks hid daggers behind charming teeth. Magic lingered in the air—not the wild kind Clive had grown used to, but something fanged and fragrant, like perfume that might bite you if you inhaled too deeply.and every cobblestone remembers at least one murder.
I floated beside Clive like a loyal parasite, lashed to his back and bobbing like a dead lantern. Selvara walked ahead of us, hips swaying like a metronome built to torture a man's patience. Clive was pretending not to look.
He was also pretending not to think.
He was failing on both counts.
We passed taverns soaked in moonlight and perfume. Magicians juggled sparks in the square. A girl danced on a rooftop made of mirrors, and someone below shouted for her to "make the moon blush."
> "This place smells like regret dipped in honey," I muttered aloud.
Selvara glanced at me over her shoulder. "You say that like you weren't born here."
I wasn't. Not technically. But the shard? Oh, the shard here knew this place far too well.
And it was calling.
We took a room in a tavern called The Hollow Harp, which was far too fancy for what Clive could afford. But Selvara had offered to "handle it" with a wink, and the innkeeper hadn't asked any more questions after that.
I could tell Clive didn't like it. He hated being in debt to anyone.
Even more than he hated sharing a bed with someone who made his breath hitch every time she stretched.
> Poor idiot. He's not ready for her. He never was.
The shard pulsed that night.
I could feel it humming beneath the floorboards. Not far—close enough to whisper.
It wasn't buried. It was hidden in plain sound.
> "The shard's in a harp."
I didn't mean to say it out loud, but there it was.
Clive looked up from where he sat, shirt half-open, sweat gleaming down his chest from the bath earlier. Selvara had wrapped herself in a sheet that clung a little too lovingly to her curves.
They both stared at me.
"The what?" Selvara asked.
> "The shard. It's inside an instrument. A harp, specifically. Probably enchanted. Probably cursed. Definitely singing in the wrong key."
Clive narrowed his eyes. "You've never told me how you sense these things."
"And I never will," I snapped back. "You've already got most of your brain cells burned out from trauma. I'm not letting you ruin mine."
Selvara was still watching me too closely. Her eyes weren't just suspicious anymore. They were... knowing.
> "You've known more than you should since I met you," she said, quiet now. "Why is that, skull?"
I didn't answer.
Because the moment I opened my metaphorical mouth, I'd say something true.
We made our way down to the tavern's main stage, where a veiled woman played an instrument strung with Moonsteel Threads — strings said to carry sound that slips between planes of memory and emotion.
The harp pulsed.
I felt it scream.
Clive froze. Selvara stepped behind him — protective now, or possessive, I couldn't tell. Her hand ghosted over his lower back, and I swear I saw him flinch.
> "This is it," I said. "That harp is holding the fourth shard."
Selvara whispered, "So how do we get it?"
Clive said nothing.
Because the harpist had just begun a song — and the shard inside the strings wasn't just resonating.
It was responding.
And that's when the magic revealed itself.
The music twisted the air.
The tavern blurred.
We weren't sitting at tables anymore.
We were back in Veindawn's old chapel—a place burned down decades ago. Except now it was whole, filled with candlelight and whispers. Illusory Harmonics. A forbidden type of magic that rewrites memory and space using music as a vessel.
The harpist wasn't a woman anymore.
She was a memory construct—a ghost encoded by sound, playing a song someone had once died to.
Selvara drew her blade.
> "This isn't a spell," I murmured. "It's a performance piece. The kind you don't walk out of."
Clive stepped forward, eyes glowing ember-red.
The chapel-shard sat at the center of the harp like a black pearl wrapped in song.
He was going to reach for it.
> "Clive," I warned. "This is the kind of shard that doesn't give something back. It replaces something."
He didn't stop.
Of course he didn't.
He never does.