The afternoon sun of Alveria spilled through the tall, arched window of the library, carrying with it the distant music of the city. It was a symphony of life, a chaotic but vibrant composition of merchants hawking wares, the clang of a blacksmith's hammer, and the faint, ethereal notes of a Maestro practicing their Opus on a nearby balcony. Lorenzo heard none of it. To him, the city was a silent film.
He sat surrounded by towers of books, the scent of aging paper and dry ink a more constant companion than any melody. At twenty-two, he was the second son of the House of Valerius, a name that resonated with power and prestige in Alveria. The Valerius Opus was one of pure Brass, a lineage of Maestros whose soul-songs were fanfares of command and authority. Lorenzo's soul, however, was silent. A void. An embarrassing, unchangeable fact that had defined his entire existence.
He did not resent it, not anymore. Resentment was a sharp, passionate note, and his soul had no instrument to play it on. There was only a quiet, hollow ache, a familiar emptiness he felt most keenly in moments like this. A young noblewoman passed by the library courtyard below, and even from this distance, the students sitting near the window sighed in appreciation. Lorenzo knew they were hearing the faint, beautiful music of her soul, a gentle string arrangement that was said to captivate all who heard it. He felt nothing. He saw only a girl walking, the sunlight catching the silver pin in her hair.
His world was one of observation, of study. Since he could not participate in the world's great Orchestra, he had resolved to become its most dedicated audience. He read history, philosophy, and musical theory. He could deconstruct the great Opus of any famous Maestro from scripture, understand its structure and emotional intent, better than many who could actually play. He was a critic in a world of artists, a scholar in a world of performers. It was a respectable, if lonely, existence, confined to the dusty, forgotten west wing of the Valerius Palazzo.
He was so lost in a treatise on pre-Conservatory magical theory that he didn't notice his younger sister, Bianca, until she stood directly beside his table. He looked up, a gentle smile ready on his lips, but it faltered. She was the pride of the family, a budding Woodwind Maestro whose Opus was a light, cheerful melody, a song of birds and summer breezes. But today, her face was pale, her eyes wide with a fear that chilled him more than his own silence ever could.
She said nothing, only extending a trembling hand. It was not her fear that he noticed first, but something far worse. For the first time in his life, looking at the usually vibrant girl before him, Lorenzo felt he could almost hear her music. And it was a single, horrifying, discordant note.