As the night nestled over Cadensia, the distant volcano's warm glow began to fade behind the thick silhouettes of towering trees.
Below, the village slowly settled into a hush, a familiar rhythm of life dimming with the slowing heartbeat of this day.
A gentle breeze meandered through the narrow streets, carrying the faint laughter of children and the last lingering notes of music drifting from the distant festival at the village's western edge.
Inside her cluttered workshop, Lira's arms trembled as she finally set down her hammer.
The rough haft felt sticky with sweat, her muscles aching far deeper than mere fatigue.
The dying embers of the forge left behind a stubborn chill that crept into every corner of the room. She stared down at the scattered remains of metal ore on her workbench —broken pieces, botched efforts, and glowing fragments that refused to sing to her touch.
She wiped the sweat from her brow and cast one last weary look around the dimly lit space. "Another failure, huh?" she whispered, voice thick with exhaustion and tightly coiled frustration.
Lira pulled the soot-stained rag tighter around her slender wrist, her fingers bruised and callused from relentless hammering.
With a tired sigh, she stepped outside, closing the cabin door behind her with a gentle creak that seemed louder against the serene quiet environment.
The world she stepped into was hushed, no longer a void but a tapestry of sounds woven softly through the cooling air.
Distant laughter floated faintly on the wind, mingling with the trailing notes of music that escaped from the festival far across the village.
The warm glow of lanterns flickered along cobblestone streets, drawing the village's heartbeat as it dimmed into night.
Yet Lira's home stood far from the village's lively core, perched on the border where the wild shadows of the Forest of Stryle began to press close.
The forest's towering trees whispered forgotten stories with every breeze, their branches darkened by moonlight, secrets folded in their leaves.
Rumors had long circled the village since magical beasts were said to roam near the forest's edge, especially after dusk.
Villagers rarely ventured beyond the lantern-lit streets once night fell. Some swore glowing eyes watched silently from the shadows, while others whispered of haunting melodies borne on the wind, calling lost souls deeper into the woods.
Though the rumors stirred little fear in Lira, they reminded her painfully of how far she and her last remaining family member had been cast out, how little the bustling village really cared for its neighbors.
The distance felt greater tonight, the path to home stretching endlessly as her thoughts tumbled.
Her fingers clenched the rag tighter as she approached the weathered cabin, the wooden door groaning softly as she pushed it open.
Inside, the comforting scent of burning pine and dried herbs greeted her. The cozy glow from a single oil lamp flickered weakly, casting long shadows that danced across the walls.
Near the window, Joren lay pale and fragile on his cot, chest rising and falling unevenly beneath thin blankets. His usually bright eyes flickered faintly but recognized her as she stepped closer.
"Lira," he whispered hoarsely, the strength barely clinging to his voice.
Hurrying to his side, she brushed damp tendrils of black hair from his forehead.
Moments later, a harsh fit of coughing tore through the stillness, and a thin spray of blood stained the cloth beside him.
"It's fine," she murmured, voice gentle but strained.
"You just rest." Yet beneath the words, worry wove tightly through her thoughts as she glanced at the rag, crimson now more vivid.
He attempted a faint smile, but it faltered. "I can't... this night keeps me awake." His eyes held a haunting fatigue.
Lira's heart clenched painfully. She had always been the strong one, protector and guardian of her brother since their parents' sudden passing months ago.
She had defended him from neighborhood bullies and shared their scarce meals, but now the weight of two parents pressed heavily upon her shoulders.
Sitting beside him, she reached out to grasp his hand. In the quiet that followed, their stillness was thick with unspoken fears until, with a tentative breath, she spoke softly.
"Should I sing for you?"
Silence stretched a moment longer, punctuated only by the soft ticking of a worn clock. Joren's rasping reply broke it.
"Su...re... It's been a while... hasn't it? Isn't that your dream? To be... a singer?"
Without replying, Lira took a slow breath, warming her vocal cords with an uncertain hum. Tentatively, she stressed the letter 'a' to a steady 4/4 tone. Drawing air deeply from her diaphragm, she began to sing.
"Hush now, my little child..."
Her voice was raw, untrained, fragile—so much so that even from the first words, one wished she would stop before continuing.
"Hush now, drift along this winding night,
Where the stones remember every dream once lost,
We walk, half-blind, by borrowed flickering light,
Chasing echoes in the haze of paths we've crossed."
Joren's eyes softened, his ragged breaths eased, and his coughing abated. Slowly, the pale boy slipped into a quiet sleep.
Lira smiled faintly, warmth blooming in her chest amid the cold breath seeping through the ragged walls.
She wondered silently if her voice was really so terrible after all, her singing had soothed her brother. But to her, in that moment... that was what mattered most.
Gathering her courage again, she quietly rose and reached for the oil lamp, its flickering flame casting golden light across the floorboards as it crackled softly.
Stepping outside onto the porch, the crisp night air brushed cool against her soot-streaked face.
Above, the sky stretched vast and clear, stars scattered like shards of silver glass.
From her vantage point, the village's lights twinkled serenely in the distance, peaceful and far away.
Beyond, the dark silhouette of the Forest of Stryle loomed, its towering trees murmuring secrets in the stillness.
Clutching the lamp close, Lira closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the quiet solitude. Then, softly, she began to hum.
"I once dreamed—," she sang, voice trembling but steady.
"To rise above... this quiet stone,
To find a stage beyond this home.
To lift my... voice and make it soar,
A song to stir... the hearts once more."
Her words spilled forth imperfect and raw, but infused with a passion that echoed louder than any note.
She pictured herself amidst dazzling lights, all eyes drawn to her. No longer an outcast silenced by her curse, but a singer whose melodies commanded the symphony of the world.
"With every note, I'd chase the sky,
Let my spirit leap and fly.
Though tone-deaf, my soul would sing,
And in that song, hope blossomed, spring."
Then, as if something inside shifted, her breath deepened, and an unexpected clarity wove through her melody.
The rough tune softened; notes blended seamlessly into rhythm. Though far from professional, her voice became pleasant enough — something to be heard.
The awkwardness faded, replaced by a gentle warmth that wrapped around the night air like the embrace of a caring mother.
Opening her eyes, surprised by the ease that now carried her song, she let it drift across the dark woods beyond.
Her furrowed brows softened, not in disdain, but quiet wonder.
Between the dark trunks, a pale, shimmering glow pulsed softly -- a neon-blue flicker alive but faint. Yet Lira, lost in her singing, noticed nothing.
She inhaled deeply, lifting the oil lamp higher, holding tightly to its fragile warmth.
"For a moment...," she whispered, "maybe this song is enough."
As if in response, the glowing orb letters shimmering brighter, seemed to bear silent witness to a voice desperate to be heard.