The silence that greeted Elian as he stepped into the center of the spotlight was not the warm, welcoming silence of an adoring crowd. It was a heavy, skeptical pressure—the sound of seventeen thousand people holding their breath and judging him before he even opened his mouth.
To the audience, the night had been a revelation. Aster and Astra, the fifteen-year-old "Silver Snowflakes," had just delivered a masterclass in musical warfare. They had melted the icy reserve of Orestes with rock, rap, and orchestral brilliance. Now, seeing a local boy—a commoner from the streets—step up to the microphone felt like a jarring shift. Whispers rippled through the back rows like the rustle of dry leaves in a storm.
"Why change the singer now?" a merchant muttered to his wife, his brow furrowed in confusion. "The twins were perfect. Why risk the climax of the night on a street urchin?"
"He looks like he's about to faint," a guard whispered, leaning on his spear. "Look at his hands. They're shaking like a leaf in a gale."
The weight of those expectations pressed down on Elian's shoulders like a mountain of lead. He felt small—painfully small. His hands were clammy, and the air in his lungs felt thin, as if he were standing on the very peak of the Sentry's Crown rather than a stage. He knew the truth: if he messed up now, all of Aster's brilliance, all of Astra's tireless training, and the week of secret, dangerous operations would be for nothing. He was the final piece of the puzzle, the keystone of the arch. If he cracked, the entire structure would shatter.
The Hand of the Architect
Aster saw the tremor in Elian's knees from his position at the side of the stage. He stepped out from the shadows of the wings, his silver hair shimmering under the magical lights like spun moonlight. At fifteen, Aster carried himself with the poise of a king, and as he approached Elian, the boy flinched, expecting perhaps a stern reminder of the stakes.
Aster didn't offer a lecture or a command. Instead, he reached out and gave Elian a firm, grounding pat on the back. The touch was steadying, a physical anchor in the rising tide of Elian's anxiety.
"Look at me," Aster said, his voice low enough only for Elian to hear, yet filled with a resonant certainty that cut through the boy's panic. "We practiced together this whole week. Every note, every breath, every heartbeat. You didn't just learn a song; you learned how to capture people's heart through songs. Don't worry about the audience, and don't worry about the King. Give it your all, whatever the result may be. We will accept it."
Elian looked into Aster's pale, calculating eyes and saw a calm that he couldn't comprehend. But in his heart, Elian disagreed with the Prince's kindness. Aster might accept a failure, Elian thought, but I cannot.
Aster had reached into the mud of the marketplace and pulled Elian out. He had given him a purpose, a future, and a voice that people actually wanted to hear. To Elian, this wasn't just a performance; it was a debt of blood and soul that had to be paid in full. With a sudden, fierce surge of determination, Elian gripped the microphone stand until his knuckles turned white. He nodded once—a sharp, final movement.
Aster stepped back and started producing melodic piano music with this imagination. And he created the melody to soothe everyone's hearts. a soundscape designed to act as the very lungs for Elian's voice.
The Song of the Earth
The first note that left Elian's throat wasn't a word; it was a low, resonant hum that seemed to emerge not from his chest, but from the very floorboards of the stage.
"Voice of the Peaks."
It was a song Aster had written specifically for Elian's unique, gravelly vocal cords. It wasn't meant to be pretty or delicate in the way the songs of Wynfall were. It was meant to represent how a mountain would sing if it were alive—a slow, ancient, and powerful rumble that had been trapped in the stone for eons, finally finding an exit.
As Elian began the first verse, the crowd leaned back. It was a slow song, a long and winding journey through the history of the stone. His voice was raw, carrying the grit of the Orestian streets, but it was polished by the twins' relentless training.
"Not bad," whispered a miner in the fourth row, his arms crossed over his soot-stained chest. "He's good. Clear voice. and beautiful delivery."
"But he's not the Prince," another replied, nodding toward Aster. "He's talented, sure, but he doesn't have that... magic. That spark. It's just a little boy singing after all."
The audience listened peacefully. It was a pleasant enough change of pace, a lullaby for a nation of iron. The tension that had been building during the rap and rock segments began to dissipate, replaced by a quiet, contemplative air.
The Orphanage's Hope
In a small, crowded section of the lower tiers, a group of children sat huddled together, their faces scrubbed clean for the first time in months. These were the children from Elian's orphanage, led by the weary but wide-eyed staff who had raised him.
They watched their "brother" on that massive stage, framed by lights that cost more than their entire building, and they felt a sense of amazement that bordered on the divine. To them, Elian wasn't just singing; he was proving that they existed. He was a beacon for every forgotten child in the soot-choked alleys of Orestes. Every note he hit was a strike against the invisibility of the poor. The matron of the orphanage clutched her shawl, her eyes brimming with tears as she realized that the boy who used to sing for crusts of bread was now holding seventeen thousand people in the palm of his hand. Even if he wasn't "magical" to the nobles, he was like a legend to them.
Elian reached the Middle part of the song. Just like that when everthing was going smoothly and the people were listening to Elian singing gracefully.
Suddenly, a low, guttural groan echoed through the arena. It wasn't coming from the speakers.
Rumble...
At first, the audience thought it was a special effect—another trick of light and sound from Aster's elaborate magic show. But then, the water in the decorative fountains near the stage began to ripple violently, leaping from the basins. The stone tiers of the arena began to vibrate, a deep, rhythmic shaking that matched the beat of Elian's song precisely.
High above the city, the Sentry's Crown—the highest, most sacred peak in Orestes—began to glow. A pillar of silver light erupted from the entrance of the Echoing Vault, shooting toward the moon.
The mountain was shaking.
Dust began to fall from the arena's rafters, coating the audience in a fine grey powder. The King stood up abruptly, his hands gripping the iron railing on his front, his face pale with a mixture of awe and genuine terror. He looked toward the horizon, where the great peak seemed to be dancing, its jagged silhouette blurred by the sheer intensity of the vibrations.
It wasn't just a song anymore. The earth was moving. The mountain was alive, and it was singing back.
"What is this?" King Boron whispered, his voice lost in the growing thunder of the land shaking. "What have you done, boy?"
On stage, Elian didn't stop. He couldn't stop. He was caught in the resonance loop, his voice fueled by the mountain itself. He pushed harder, his voice rising to meet the roar of the stone, and after he saw the people paniking , he stopped singing.
Nobody Understood, what was happening and why it was happening. As this was happening the king rushed towards the backstage and found aster and asked him what was really happening and what did you do to my nation.
Aster replied, I didn't do anything to warrant this happening here, Do you often have earthquakes here, The king replied, Are you stupid this was a nation on the hills, it's been centuries, since an earthquake happened here.
After hearing that aster started thinking to himself, why it was happening , did I do anything to warrant this.
While he was lost in thoughts.
***
The audience was no longer peaceful. They were on their feet, some praying, some cheering, but all of them united in a singular, terrifying moment of wonder. The children from the orphanage stood on their chairs, screaming Elian's name, their voices lost in the celestial roar of the Sentry's Crown.
Aster looked at the sky. The silver light from the mountain was now so bright it rivaled the moon. The "Moon-Feast" had reached its zenith.
***
At that time most people on the arena had the same question?
What is Happening and why is it happening now, is it a natural phenomenon or did someone do something to make it happen.
These were the people's thoughts as they were gathered on plain grounds distancing themselves from the walls and pillars.