Author's POV
The tavern's laughter died mid-breath.
One moment, Clive stood with Selvara beside him, the scent of sweet wine and spiced candles heavy in the air. The next, the world cracked—like a song hit the wrong note so hard it broke the room.
Light bled sideways.
The Hollow Harp dissolved.
And in its place stood a chapel not touched by time—but preserved by grief.
Its stone pillars gleamed, unbroken. Its stained glass burned with moonlight. But the warmth here wasn't real. It was the echo of devotion, caught in the teeth of a melody no longer meant for living ears.
Selvara's hand gripped her blade tighter. "This is... someone's memory."
"No," Grimpel said darkly, his voice flatter now. "This is yours. Or his. Or hers. This whole place is fed by the shard's resonance."
Clive stepped forward.
He knew this chapel.
Or rather, the man he used to be did.
The music began to change.
The harpist's figure shimmered. Her veil fluttered like smoke. With every note, figures began to emerge—ghosts without weight, yet heavy with meaning.
A woman with tangled blonde hair and tired green eyes—not Maedra, not Selvara. She wore a simple dress, apron smeared with flour, hands trembling as she reached out.
"Clive?" she whispered.
He froze.
His lips moved, but no sound followed. Selvara's brows tightened. Grimpel didn't say a word.
The woman looked no older than thirty. But her eyes carried centuries. She smiled like someone who had once known joy—and buried it.
Then came the child.
Lena.
She was smiling, playing with a wooden fox. No blood. No screaming. Just a memory of peace.
Barefoot. Braids swinging. Grinning with two missing teeth. She dashed past the pews, carrying a wooden sword too big for her arms.
"Papa, look! I got it right this time!"
Selvara stepped beside him. "Is that...?"
"She's gone," Clive whispered. "Years ago. I let her go."
Lena looked up. "Papa?"
He took a step forward—then the vision twisted. Lena's face melted into shadow. Her voice turned sharp. Her eyes became Maedra's.
The walls began to shift. Every surface reflected a piece of their pasts.
Selvara saw her old squad—burned alive by a wrong call she'd made. The guilt punched her in the chest.
Clive saw his father's execution. His mother's silence. His own betrayal.
And through it all, Lena's voice called again and again.
"Why did you let me die?"
Clive staggered back.
His hand went to his chest as if to stop his ribs from splintering outward.
Selvara reached for him instinctively—but stopped. This wasn't a moment she could touch.
Flash.
The chapel flickered again.
This time, the image was different.
Lena stood at a window, clutching a carved moonstone necklace. Behind her, the walls cracked. Shadows poured in like blood.
Maedra's laughter rolled in—younger, sharper, cruel.
Clive knelt beside Lena, his hand outstretched. "Run. Don't look back."
But Lena didn't run.
She sang.
Soft. Innocent. A lullaby he taught her.
Maedra's magic swallowed her whole.
Selvara grabbed him. "Clive! It's not real!"
He looked at her—eyes glassy, voice cracked. "But it was real."
She slapped him.
Hard.
It broke the spell.
The illusion shattered like glass dropped in a storm.
Clive dropped to his knees, fingers curled into the chapel's cold floor.
"She—she wasn't supposed to be here," he rasped.
Grimpel hovered in silence, for once offering no smart remark.
Selvara crouched beside Clive slowly, eyes wide. Her voice came quiet, unsure. "Your daughter..."
Clive didn't answer. Couldn't.
He simply stood—and turned to the harp.
The shard glowed at its center, pulsing with the same rhythm as the lullaby.
He ripped it free.
The harp's strings snapped like tendons. The ghostly figures screamed without voices. The illusion collapsed, devouring itself in spirals of smoke and dying song.
And suddenly—they were back in the tavern.
No one noticed they had disappeared.
The harp was gone.
Only the shard remained, still warm in Clive's palm.
"You shouldn't have seen that," Clive muttered.
Selvara placed a hand on his back. "Neither should you."
Grimpel watched them from the shadow near the door.
The fourth shard was recovered.
But Clive wasn't stitched back together.
He was being rewritten.
And the most dangerous part?
He was starting to remember the price of being whole.