As Aren grew older, the world slowly began to reveal its sharper edges.
At first, Harmelune had felt like a safe circle—small, familiar, predictable. But by the time Aren reached seven, he started to notice how often travellers passed through town, and how the atmosphere subtly changed whenever they did. Caravans bearing noble crests moved differently through the streets. People stepped aside more quickly, voices lowered. Even the air seemed to grow tense, as if sound itself waited to see what was bound to happen next.
Aren paid attention.
From merchants resting at his father's shop to travellers sharing drinks at the tavern nearby, stories flowed as freely as coin. Aren learned to sit quietly in corners, book in hand, eyes downcast—listening without appearing to listen.
That was how he learned about rankings.
Resonance, he discovered, was not just power—it was measured.
Those who awakened Relics of Sound were classified into tiers based on how deeply they could resonate with their relic. At the bottom were those whose Awakening barely manifested—people whose Relics produced sound, but little else.
Above them were the Harmonic Initiates, capable of deliberately channelling Resonance. Most lived ordinary lives as guards, craftsmen, or escorts. Then came the Resonant Adepts, whose control allowed them to amplify sound into force, illusion, or reinforcement. These were the ones who filled city arenas and guarded noble estates. Above that tier stood names spoken with reverence—or fear.
Maestros. Virtuosos. Arbiters of Sound.
And beyond even them, legends.
Aren learned these names not from books, but from tone. From the way voices dropped when speaking of them. From the way taverns went quiet when someone claimed to have seen a ranking battle firsthand. Ranking battles were public events—formalized duels sanctioned by the nobility. They were spectacles of sound and violence, where Resonance clashed visibly, distorting air and ground alike.
Aren never saw one in person.
But he heard enough to imagine them vividly.
It was also during this time that Aren learned about spirits.
Spirits were not gods, nor were they ghosts. They were described as fragments of sound given will—residual Resonance that had learned to listen back. Some Relics resonated strongly enough to attract spirits.
Wind spirits drawn to flutes.
Rhythm spirits bound to drums.
Echo spirits lingering around abandoned battlefields.
Most people never encountered them.
Those who did were either blessed… or cursed.
Spirits could amplify power—but they could also demand things in return. Aren listened carefully whenever spirits were mentioned. He noticed how storytellers never agreed on whether they were allies or dangers. That uncertainty stayed with him.
The influence of the nobility became clearer as well.
Nobles were not simply wealthy—they were inherited Resonance. Bloodlines refined over generations, producing Relics of exceptional quality. Their children rarely awakened weakly. Their failures were hidden, erased, or quietly reassigned. Aren noticed how even mid-tier merchants like his father bowed slightly when noble representatives entered the shop. Edrin never explained why. He didn't have to.
One afternoon, while Aren helped organize crates in front of the shop, a heated conversation broke out nearby. Two travellers argued about a recent ranking battle in a distant city. One claimed the winner had summoned a sound so sharp it sliced stone, the other insisted it was exaggerated.
Aren listened closely.
"What matters isn't how loud it was," the second man said. "It's how deep the Resonance went. That's the difference between power and spectacle."
The words stayed with Aren.
Depth over volume.
That night, the broken guitar appeared in his dreams again.
But this time, something had changed.
The darkness around it pulsed faintly, as if responding to an unseen rhythm. The strings still hung loose and snapped—but the silence felt… expectant.
Aren woke with his heart racing.
It was near the end of that year when he first saw the old man.
Aren had been sweeping the front of the shop, pushing dust and debris toward the street, when a shadow fell across the doorway. At first, he thought it was just another traveller.
Then he felt it.
A shift in the air.
The old man walked slowly, leaning on a long case slung across his back. His clothes were worn, threadbare in places, but clean. His hair was silver and unkempt, his beard long, framing a face lined with age and experience.
But it was his presence that unsettled Aren.
Sound bent around him.
Footsteps that should have echoed barely whispered. The usual murmur of the street seemed to dull as he passed, as if the world instinctively lowered its voice.
Aren froze.
The old man stopped in front of the shop.
For a moment, his gaze lifted—sharp, clear eyes locking onto Aren's.
Aren felt exposed.
As if something unseen had brushed against his soul.
Then the old man moved on.
No words.
No pause.
Just the faint creak of his steps fading down the street.
Aren stood there long after he was gone, broom forgotten in his hands.
His heart pounded.
He didn't know why—but he was certain of one thing. That meeting was not coincidence. And somewhere deep inside, the broken guitar stirred.