And just like that, the Snowflakes took the stage.
After the curtains rose.
After the grand announcement echoed.
Only two figures standing at the center of a vast, circular colosseum—surrounded on all sides by people, by history, by expectation.
Aster stood still, eyes closed.
Astra stood beside him, hands lightly clasped, breathing slow and steady.
The rune-engraved sound transmission stones embedded around the stadium walls glowed brighter, their resonance syncing perfectly. Mana flowed through the network in smooth, overlapping waves, invisible yet precise. The air itself felt prepared—as if the stadium had become a single instrument waiting to be played.
Then—
A soft, low melody drifted out.
Not loud.
Not forceful.
Gentle.
Like the first ripple on a still ocean.
The crowd leaned forward instinctively.
The song began with no words—only sound. A deep, steady rhythm born from Aster's sound magic, layered carefully with harmonics that echoed like distant tides. The melody wasn't flashy. It didn't demand attention.
It invited it.
Astra opened her mouth first.
Her voice flowed smoothly into the melody, clear and warm, carrying emotion without strain.
> Blue…
> Not the blue of sorrow,
> Not the blue that pulls you under,
> But the quiet blue that waits,
> At the edge of the sky and sea…
A murmur ran through the stands.
People froze mid-motion.
Parents stopped whispering.
Students forgot to fidget.
Nobles straightened unconsciously.
The sound didn't echo—it reached.
Aster stepped in next, his voice weaving beneath Astra's like a steady current beneath the waves.
> When the world feels heavy,
> And words sink before they're heard,
> There is a blue that listens,
> A blue that stays…
The rune stones shimmered, perfectly distributing the sound so evenly that no seat felt distant. Every note arrived whole, unbroken, as if sung directly into each listener's ear.
Some mages in the audience stiffened.
"This… this isn't normal amplification," one whispered.
"It feels like the sound is inside the space itself," another replied.
The song swelled—not louder, but deeper.
The rhythm picked up, layered with subtle pulses that mimicked a heartbeat. Aster guided the sound with precise mana control, shaping the bass and harmony in real time, while Astra's voice soared gently above it.
> Blue like the ocean,
> Wide enough to hold our fears,
> Blue like the morning,
> Soft enough to dry our tears…
Somewhere in the upper stands, someone started humming along.
Then another.
Then more.
By the time the chorus returned, the audience was no longer silent.
They were singing.
Thousands of voices—untrained, imperfect, human—joined the melody, their sound lifted and stabilized by the transmission stones. The stadium didn't dissolve into chaos. It became unified.
One song.
One rhythm.
One breath.
Aster opened his eyes.
The sight stole his breath.
People were smiling.
Some were crying.
Children clutched their parents' hands.
Students sang with closed eyes.
Even hardened nobles had softened expressions.
This was The Blues.
Not sadness.
Not despair.
But the blue that existed between pain and hope.
The song ended slowly, the final note fading like a tide pulling back from shore.
For half a heartbeat—
There was silence.
Then the stadium exploded.
Cheers thundered from every direction, so loud they shook the stone beneath Aster's feet. People stood. Clapped. Shouted. Whistled. Some simply laughed, overwhelmed by the release of emotion.
"They did it!"
"That was incredible!"
"I've never heard anything like that!"
Astra took a small, steadying breath.
Aster nodded to her.
They continued.
The second song was faster, brighter—blue like clear skies after rain.
The third was gentle again, reflective, like twilight over calm water.
Each song from The Blues album carried a different shade of the same color—melancholy without despair, nostalgia without regret, calm without emptiness.
The audience followed them willingly.
By the fourth song, the crowd anticipated the chorus.
By the fifth, they sang without prompting.
The stadium had transformed from an arena into a living sea of sound.
Aster felt it—mana responding not just to his control, but to emotion. The sound magic resonated more strongly the more people connected to it, forming feedback loops of harmony that made the performance stronger with every voice added.
A dangerous phenomenon.
But a beautiful one.
By the final song, Astra stepped forward alone.
The melody softened, stripped back to its bare essence.
Her voice carried the last lyrics—clear, steady, sincere.
> If tomorrow feels uncertain,
> If the road fades into blue,
> Remember there is a song,
> Still waiting… for you.
The final note faded.
And for the second time that day—
Silence fell.
Not empty.
Reverent.
Then the cheers returned, louder than before, echoing far beyond the academy walls, spilling into the city itself. Somewhere in the capital, people stopped what they were doing and looked toward the stadium, hearing only the distant roar of approval.
Aster lowered his hand slowly.
The rune stones dimmed.
The resonance network disengaged smoothly, the hum fading into nothing.
Astra turned to him, eyes shining.
They had done it.
They had reached everyone.
But as the applause continued, Aster felt it.
A subtle shift.
A ripple beneath the surface.
Mana in the air stirred strangely, reacting not to harmony—but to something else.
High above the stadium, unnoticed by the cheering crowd, a faint distortion flickered—brief, unstable, and gone in an instant.
No one saw it.
No one understood it.
But that moment—
That day—
Would later be remembered as the point where everything began to change.
The Snowflakes had sung.
And the world had listened.
But something else had listened too.
*****************************
Then—
Something changed.
At first, no one noticed it.
The cheers were still echoing through the colosseum, rolling like thunder from tier to tier. Hands were still clapping, voices still shouting, the last traces of The Blues lingering in the air like an afterimage.
But the mana above the stadium… shifted.
Aster felt it before he saw it.
A faint pressure pressed down on his senses—not heavy, not hostile, but vast. Ancient. As if the sky itself had suddenly become aware of him.
Astra felt it too.
She reached for Aster's sleeve instinctively, her fingers tightening as a chill ran through her arms.
"…Aster," she whispered. "Do you feel that?"
Before he could answer, a ripple passed through the upper air.
High above the stadium—far beyond the reach of the rune stones—space itself seemed to bend.
The cheering faltered.
Whispers rose.
Someone pointed upward.
"What… is that?"
At the very top of the colosseum, where the open sky met the stone rim, Something enormous began to take shape.
At first, it was only light.
A faint outline—golden-white, translucent, as if drawn by moonlight rather than flesh. Slowly, impossibly, the shape sharpened.
Wings unfurled.
Massive. Elegant. Endless.
A long, serpentine body coiled through the air, scales shimmering like polished crystal. Horns curved backward from a regal head, eyes glowing with an intelligence so deep it made grown men forget how to breathe.
A dragon.
Not summoned.
Not attacking.
Simply there.
The stadium fell into chaos.
"D–Dragon?!"
"It's real?!"
"By the gods—!"
Children shouted openly, pointing with wide eyes, some laughing in disbelief, others clutching their parents' clothes in fear and awe.
Adults didn't shout.
They froze.
Because this was not supposed to exist.
The Guardian Dragon of Wynfall was a story told in history books and half-forgotten legends. A myth used to glorify the founding of the kingdom.
No living king had ever seen it.
No scholar had ever proven it.
And yet—
There it was.
Majestic.
Silent.
Watching.
The dragon hovered above the stadium, wings barely moving, as if gravity itself bowed to its presence. Its gaze swept slowly across the arena—not judging, not hostile, but curious.
Then—
Its eyes settled on the center.
On Aster.
On Astra.
Until that moment, the dragon had been invisible to most of the crowd, its presence masked by layers of ancient magic. But now, as the music ended and the resonance faded, it revealed itself fully.
As if the song had been the key.
A hush fell over the colosseum.
A deep, sacred silence—one that even the wind seemed to respect.
The dragon lowered its head slightly.
Light gathered in its chest.
Not flame.
Not destruction.
A soft, radiant glow—pure and warm.
Then the light poured down.
A column of brilliance descended from the sky, enveloping Aster and Astra in gentle radiance. The air hummed, mana vibrating with a resonance unlike anything the rune stones could produce.
Aster gasped.
It didn't hurt.
But it felt like standing in the presence of something far older than nations.
Far older than gods.
Astra squeezed his hand as the light washed over them, warmth spreading through her veins, sinking deep into her core.
On the back of Aster's right hand—
A symbol burned into existence.
Not pain.
Recognition.
A complex sigil, shaped like intertwined waves and wings, glowing faintly before settling into his skin.
A matching mark appeared on Astra's hand.
Twin marks.
Twin heirs.
The light faded.
The dragon lifted its head once more, eyes lingering on them for a final, unreadable moment.
Then—
It vanished.
Not flying away.
Not dissolving.
Simply gone—as if it had never been there at all.
For several heartbeats, no one moved.
No one spoke.
The stadium was frozen in collective disbelief.
"…Did we all just see that?" someone whispered.
"That wasn't magic," another murmured. "That was… something else."
A child's voice rang out clearly.
"IT WAS A DRAGON!"
The spell broke.
The crowd erupted—not into cheers this time, but into frantic, overlapping voices. Questions. Theories. Fear. Wonder.
Aster stared at his hand.
The mark remained.
Astra did the same, her breath shallow.
"…Aster," she whispered. "Something's happening to me."
He felt it too.
Mana flowed differently now—deeper, wider, as if their bodies had been quietly rewritten. Their hearts beat faster, stronger, resonating faintly with the lingering echo of the dragon's presence.
High in the special stands, Archmage Thalorien stood rigid.
His face had gone pale.
Slowly, deliberately, he turned to those beside him—the king, the queen, and the attending princes.
"…Your Majesties," he said quietly. "I believe… we have just witnessed a blessing."
The king's fingers tightened around the armrest.
"A blessing?" the queen repeated, voice strained.
Thalorien nodded, eyes never leaving the twins below.
"In the oldest records," he continued, lowering his voice, "it is written that the founding emperor of Wynfall was blessed by the Guardian Dragon on the day he unified the land."
He swallowed.
"He bore a symbol on his hand. The same symbol."
The king's expression darkened instantly.
"This knowledge does not leave this stand," he said sharply. "Not a word."
Thalorien inclined his head. "As you command."
Below them, the crowd was still in chaos.
Scholars argued.
Parents clutched their children.
Nobles whispered urgently.
But Aster and Astra heard none of it.
They were too focused on what was happening inside them.
Something ancient had awakened.
Something tied not just to sound—
But to the very foundation of the kingdom.
The Snowflakes stood at the center of the arena, hands marked by dragonlight, bodies humming with unfamiliar power.
And though the crowd did not yet understand it—
Everything had just changed.
The festival would be remembered.
The concert would be remembered.
But this moment—
This was the beginning of something far greater.