Ren didn't dress for formal meetings—he barely dressed for breakfast. So when Cadencia handed him a black-stitched coat made from woven mana threads and lined with humming crystal runes, he nearly choked on his tea.
"This isn't a date," he protested.
"No," she replied, deadpan. "It's worse. It's an interview… with a Composer."
They stood at the gates of the Harmonic Cradle, a floating palace made entirely from singing glass and symphonic light. Columns of color shifted as melodies passed through them, bending the architecture in time with every note played within.
The guards outside didn't carry weapons.
They carried instruments.
One held a harp longer than Ren was tall. Another had a whip of vibrating strings that hummed quietly with tension. A third merely tapped a single triangle—and opened a twelve-ton gate in response.
Cadencia leaned in as they stepped through. "One rule here," she whispered. "Don't sing your name."
Ren blinked. "What does that even mean?"
"Names have power here. If you vocalize your true name without harmony in your heart, it can be rewritten. Or worse… fragmented."
"…Got it. No karaoke."
◇
They were led through the Corridors of Crescendo, past choirs of birds that sang each visitor's emotional state (Ren's section: "Anxious but trying his best, poor guy~"). At last, they arrived in a circular chamber where silence pulsed like a heartbeat.
At its center stood a figure in a flowing cloak of star-motes and harpstrings—Maestro Imber, the Composer of the Second Verse.
Her face was young and ancient, all at once. Her eyes were closed. And yet Ren felt watched in a dozen keys.
"You are the Traveler who flutes the wind into giggles," she said. "Speak."
Ren stepped forward, cleared his throat.
And said, "Hi, I'm Ren Vireo—"
The air trembled.
A ripple of discord snapped through the chamber. The runes on the walls dimmed. A violin on the wall wept.
Cadencia buried her face in her hands. "You sang your name, you idiot!"
"I just said it!"
"Your voice carries Essentia now, moron!"
Maestro Imber raised a hand. Music stilled.
Then she laughed.
"Good," she said. "Let's test if it's worth keeping."
She gestured toward a circle inlaid with staves and glowing notes.
"Stand there. Play your name. If it sings true, it will echo. If not… we will compose a new one."
◇
Ren stepped onto the circle, nerves jangling like a bad guitar solo. A soft wind rustled his coat.
Play my name? What did that even mean?
Then, somehow, he knew.
He closed his eyes. Thought of everything his name meant:
A boy who wanted to travel.
A guy who got flung across universes.
A weirdo who made friends with clouds and argued with books.
Someone who didn't want to conquer the world.
Just wander through it.
He raised his flute.
And played.
The melody was simple at first—uncertain, meandering. Then braver. It wound like a trail through unfamiliar woods, tripping on roots but laughing anyway. The final note was a question mark.
The chamber held its breath.
And then—
Echo.
The music rippled outward in layered harmonies. Runes re-lit. The violin chuckled. Somewhere, a mirror blinked.
Maestro Imber smiled.
"You may keep your name, Ren Vireo."
Ren exhaled.
"Cool. I like that one."
◇
But as he turned to leave, Imber spoke once more.
"You are not just a Traveler," she said. "You are a Catalyst. The worlds bend not because you walk through them, but because they want to walk with you."
Ren froze.
"You will be tested, Ren. Not by enemies. By choices. What you unlock… what you leave behind… what you become."
Then she lifted her fingers.
A single glowing note floated into his chest—fusing with him.
"You've earned your First Verse."
Suddenly, Ren could hear the world in stereo—layers of existence threading through everything: the heartbeat of glass, the echo of trees, even the silence of starlight.
The song had only just begun.
And it was his.