Every master on the island had something that made their presence unforgettable — Arken with his deep intelligence, Kaien with his calm power, Inara with her healing warmth, Darius with his unshakeable logic, and Lucien with his art that breathed.
But none of them could have prepared me for the sixth master—the one who taught me not with lessons, but with sound.
Elder Aarion sent me eastward at dawn, toward the mountain that touched the clouds. "Follow the sound of the wind," he said. "You will find her before you see her."
So I walked. The path was steep, wrapped in mist. The air grew cooler with each step, carrying faint echoes — soft notes that rose and fell like whispers of heaven. It wasn't ordinary music; it was alive.
After what felt like hours, I reached a clearing. There was no house, no hut — only a wide stone platform carved into the mountainside. Rivers of mist flowed around it, and in the middle of that swirling whiteness sat a woman cross-legged, her back straight, her eyes closed.
She was playing a harp — no, not a harp, something older. Its strings shimmered like threads of moonlight, and every time her fingers moved, the air rippled in circles of light.
When she opened her eyes, I froze. They were the colour of dawn after rain — soft pink and gold. Her long hair looked silvery-white, falling freely to her waist. She wore simple robes of faded crimson, and yet an aura surrounded her — not of power or pride, but peace.
"Welcome, Mukul Sharma," she said without looking surprised. Her voice sounded almost sung.
"You know my name?" I asked quietly.
She smiled knowingly. "The winds told me. They have been whispering about the boy of seven stars for days."
Elder Aarion's voice echoed behind me. "Mukul, meet your sixth master—Master Seraphina Dae, the Voice of the Eternal Strings."
She bowed slightly. "You may call me Seraphina."
Even the sound of her name hummed like a melody.
Aarion continued, "Seraphina Dae was born among celestial musicians in the ancient realm of sound. She played for kings who ruled across worlds and composed music that could heal, control, and transform. People once called her The Goddess of Harmony".
She laughed softly. "Titles are too loud for what music should be — quiet, honest, and full of life."
She turned to me. "You've learnt knowledge, battle, healing, creation, and reason. Now, you will learn how the heart speaks — not through words, but through vibration. Come, sit."
I sat before her. For a long moment, we said nothing. Only her harp spoke — slow, touching notes that made my chest feel heavy and light at once. I didn't notice, but tears filled my eyes.
"That", she said, watching me, "is the power of sound. You don't need to understand it; you just have to feel it."
From that day, my lessons under Master Seraphina began.
She lived not in a house, but in the mountain itself — among caves that echoed endlessly. Her instruments were strange — flutes made from pearl, drums that responded to heartbeat, and chimes that played when touched by wind alone.
Every morning, we sat together and listened to the sounds of the island — the rustle of leaves, the crash of waves, the hum of insects — and she made me repeat every rhythm with my hands or voice. "Before you create music," she said, "you must learn nature's song."
Her methods were gentle, yet impossibly deep.
She taught me ancient sound techniques—the ragas of power that could move the elements, chants that restored energy, and hidden notes used by saints to heal the mind. "Your voice", she said, "is your oldest instrument. Learn to master it before you reach for a string or key."
Then came the modern lessons. She brought out instruments made of light and energy — digital harps, holographic flutes, and sound machines from a world far beyond Earth. "Music evolves, like life," she explained. "A song written with soul can be played even on a machine—it will still touch hearts."
She made me compose pieces blending mantras with electronic beats, teaching me harmony between tradition and progress. "Ancient sound heals the soul," she said. "Modern sound speaks to the world. Together, they awaken it."
Sometimes, she would ask me to close my eyes and listen to her play. The vibrations made ripples in the ground, and I could feel them crawling up my spine. When I opened my eyes, I'd see faint colors floating in the air — sound made visible.
"That is synaesthesia," she explained once. "When sound and colour merge, you have touched the layer of truth. Every vibration carries life. That is what musicians forget—they chase fame, not resonance."
One day, I asked quietly, "Master Seraphina, why are you here on Aarvak Island when your voice could rule worlds?"
Her face turned thoughtful. "Because once, I believed music could fix everything," she said softly. "But when my songs were used in wars—to control hearts, not heal them—I stopped playing. I came here to remember why I began."
There was pain in her eyes, the kind you couldn't put into words.
That evening, she made me stand under a waterfall and sing till my voice stopped shaking. "Music", she said, "isn't about being heard. It's about revealing yourself completely, even if no one listens."
Day by day, she shaped my heartbeat through rhythm. I learnt to hear truth in lies, peace in silence, and harmony in chaos.
Before our last evening together, she handed me a small crystal flute shaped like a feather. "This holds no magic," she said, "but if you play from your heart, it will awaken the air itself. Use it only when you must heal what words cannot."
As she turned back to her harp, the wind carried her faint voice. "Remember, Mukul — music does not belong to you. You belong to it."
That night, as I walked down from the mountain, I carried her crystal flute in my hand — light, fragile, and alive with soft warmth.
And that was how I met Seraphina Dae—The Voice of the Eternal Strings, the master who taught me that not all battles are fought with blades, and not all healing comes from touch—sometimes, the greatest power in the world is a song.