By the time Aren turned eight, rumors had become a part of daily life.
They drifted through Harmelune like dust—settling quietly in corners, clinging to conversations, growing heavier the longer they were ignored. Merchants whispered while weighing goods. Tavern patrons leaned closer across tables. Even children repeated fragments of things they didn't fully understand, reshaping them into something half-imagined.
And at the center of many of those murmurs stood one figure.
The old man.
Aren heard his name mentioned for the first time while helping his father organize ledgers late one evening. Two visiting traders sat nearby, cups of watered wine in hand, voices low but animated.
"I'm telling you," one said, glancing toward the door, "he's not normal. No Resonance signature I can sense—yet the air bends around him." The other scoffed. "You sense too much. Old beggar, that's all. Probably failed his Awakening decades ago."
"Then explain why my Relic went quiet when he passed."
That made Aren look up.
His father noticed and gently cleared his throat, signalling him to keep listening quietly.
Stories followed.
Some said the old man had once been a Maestro, fallen from grace after a forbidden duel. Others claimed he had made a pact with a spirit that abandoned him halfway through his life, leaving him hollowed out.
There were darker rumors too.
That he fed on Resonance.
That broken Relics followed him.
That misfortune lingered wherever he stayed too long.
Aren listened without interrupting.
He didn't know which stories were true—but he knew one thing. When the old man had looked at him that day, there had been no malice in his eyes, only recognition.
As the months passed, Aren found himself paying closer attention to the structure of the world around him. By now, he understood the basic social layers.
The Lowbound, who lived hand-to-mouth lives, their Relics simple and practical.
The Midbound, like his family—merchants, craftsmen, minor officials.
And the Highbound, nobles whose bloodlines shaped power itself.
But there were other distinctions too.
Titles.
Names granted not by birth, but by Resonance.
Aren learned that once awakened, individuals were often referred to by specialized classifications depending on their Relic and ability.
Those who bonded with spirits were called Spirit-Bound.
Those who specialized in raw amplification were known as Soundbearers.
Healers, whose Resonance repaired rather than destroyed, were referred to as Harmonic Weavers.
And then there were the rare ones—individuals whose Relics could influence multiple forms of Resonance.
They were given epithets.
Echo Lords. Chord Breakers. Resonant Sovereigns.
Aren copied these names carefully into a small notebook, his handwriting neat but deliberate. He didn't know why he felt compelled to remember them—but something inside him insisted they mattered.
At nine years old, the Awakening no longer felt distant.
Two months.
That was all that remained. The thought sat heavy in Aren's chest, even when he didn't speak it aloud. At night, when the house was quiet, anxiety crept in like a slow tide.
What if his Relic didn't manifest?
What if it did—and it was broken?
The dream returned more often now.
The shattered guitar lay before him, silent and accusing. Sometimes, he swore he could hear a faint vibration—not sound, but the promise of it. Aren would wake drenched in sweat, heart racing.
Lyra noticed.
"You've been restless," she said one morning, brushing his hair back gently. "Are you worried about the Awakening?"
Aren hesitated.
"I don't know what I'm worried about," he admitted. "Only that… I feel like I already know the answer."
Lyra didn't laugh. She didn't dismiss his fears.
Instead, she hugged him close.
"Whatever happens," she said softly, "you are not alone."
Aren wished he believed that fully.
One day the infamous old man appeared again on a afternoon. Rain had soaked the streets earlier, leaving the stone slick and reflective. Aren was returning home from the river market when he saw a small gathering ahead. People stood in a loose circle. In the center, kneeling on the damp stone, was the old man. He held out a simple bowl. Empty. Some passed without looking. Others dropped small coins, their faces tight with unease. A few spat insults under their breath.
"Failed Resonance," one man muttered.
"Bad luck," another said quickly, as if warding something off.
Aren stopped at the edge of the crowd.
The old man looked thinner than before. His shoulders were slumped, but his eyes—when they lifted briefly—were sharp as ever.
Sound around him felt… wrong.
Muted. Not absent, but restrained, as if every noise was holding itself back.
Aren's heart pounded.
He remembered the stories. The warnings. The fear in people's voices. He remembered his dreams. Slowly, without fully understanding why, Aren stepped forward. The crowd noticed, whispers followed him.
The old man's gaze snapped to him. For a long moment, they stared at each other.
Aren swallowed.
Then he took another step.
He didn't reach the old man. A merchant's hand caught his shoulder.
"Don't," the man hissed. "Stay away from him."
Aren looked up, startled.
The merchant's face was pale, eyes darting nervously. "That one brings misfortune. Haven't you heard?"
Aren gently pulled free.
"I just want to talk to him," he said.
The merchant shook his head sharply. "Curiosity gets people killed." The words echoed in Aren's mind.
Curiosity.
He glanced back at the old man.
For the briefest moment, the old man smiled.
Not kindly.
Not cruelly.
But knowingly.
Then he turned away.
The crowd dispersed slowly, unease lingering in the air like static after a storm.
Aren stood frozen, heart racing.
He didn't know what he'd almost done. But he knew this—The old man wasn't just a rumor. He was a turning point. And somehow, Aren's path was already bending toward him.
That night, as Aren lay awake staring at the ceiling, the world felt larger than ever.
Rankings. Titles. Spirits. Nobles. Relics.
And somewhere within all of it, a broken song waited to be played, two months remained. Two months before fate would decide what sound he was allowed to make. Aren clenched his fists beneath the blankets. Whatever awaited him at the Awakening—
He would face it.