Aren woke to the sound of breathing.
Not his own.
Soft, uneven, caught between relief and exhaustion.
For a moment, he didn't move. His body felt heavy, pinned beneath layers of sensation—warmth, soreness, and a lingering ache that ran deeper than muscle. His eyelids fluttered, struggling against the weight of sleep. Then a hand closed around his.
Small. Calloused. Familiar.
"Aren?"
His mother's voice trembled as she spoke his name, as if afraid that saying it too loudly might make him vanish again.
He opened his eyes.
Light spilled into his vision, pale and unfocused. The room swam, shapes blurring together before slowly settling into place. The wooden ceiling beams. The window draped in thin cloth. The edge of his bed.
And his mother—too close, too pale, her eyes red-rimmed and shining.
"You're awake," she whispered, as if the words themselves might break him.
Before Aren could answer, she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him. The hug was sudden, desperate. Her shoulders shook.
"I thought…" Her voice cracked. "I thought I'd lost you."
Aren froze.
His body didn't know how to respond at first. Then, slowly, awkwardly, he raised his arms and hugged her back. She was warm. Solid. Real.
"I'm here," he said hoarsely.
The words felt fragile. But they were true.
She pulled back just enough to look at his face, her hands gripping his shoulders as if to anchor him to the world. She searched his eyes, her gaze sharp with fear and relief and something deeper—something that hurt to see.
"You collapsed," she said. "You wouldn't wake up. You were burning one moment, cold the next."
Her breath hitched. "You scared us."
"I didn't mean to," Aren said quietly.
"I know," she replied, brushing her thumb beneath his eye. "That's what frightens me."
His father stood near the doorway.
Edrin Vale rarely stood still for long, but now he leaned against the frame as if the weight of the moment had pressed him there. His arms were crossed, his jaw set tight, his expression unreadable. But his eyes gave him away. They never left Aren.
"You pushed yourself too far," Edrin said finally.
There was no anger in his voice. Only restraint.
Aren swallowed. "I thought I could handle it."
"So did I," his father replied quietly. "Once."
The words lingered between them, heavy with meaning neither of them voiced.
The healer arrived before sunset.
Her name was Lysenne, a woman with silver-threaded hair tied back in a loose braid and eyes that missed nothing. She carried a long, slender chime-staff, its hollow metal segments etched with flowing sigils. When she moved, the chimes whispered softly against one another, producing a sound that settled the air rather than disturbed it.
Healing instruments, Aren learned that day, they were totally different.
They did not command Resonance.
They guided it.
Lysenne knelt beside Aren's bed, resting the base of her chime-staff against the floor. She closed her eyes, tapped the instrument once with her fingers, and the sound that followed was barely audible—more felt than heard.
Warmth spread through Aren's chest.
Not relief. Not comfort.
Alignment.
She examined him carefully, her fingers light as they pressed against his wrist, his temple, the center of his chest.
"Hm," she murmured.
His mother stiffened. "What is it?"
"Exhaustion," Lysenne said. "Severe. His body was pushed beyond what it could sustain."
"That's all?" Edrin asked.
The healer hesitated.
"That's the surface," she replied.
She turned to Aren, her gaze sharp now. "Child, have you experienced dreams recently? Vivid ones."
Aren's throat tightened.
"Yes," he said.
"Do they involve sound?"
"Yes."
"Silence?"
"…Yes."
Lysenne exhaled slowly and straightened. "Then you should rest. Properly. No training. No exertion. At least for several days."
"And after that?" his mother asked.
The healer's eyes flicked, briefly, toward the corner of the room.
Toward the wrapped guitar.
"That," she said carefully, "will depend on what listens back."
The nights that followed were restless.
Aren slept, but not deeply. Each time he drifted, fragments of the dream returned—the void, the faint blue glow, the sense of being observed by something patient and old.
He woke often with tears on his face, his chest tight for reasons he couldn't explain.
On the third night, his mother sat beside him again, brushing his hair back as she had when he was younger.
"You don't have to understand it yet," she whispered. "Some things take time."
"Why does it hurt?" Aren asked.
She hesitated.
"Because some echoes don't fade easily," she said.
On the fourth day, strength began to return.
Slowly.
Aren could sit without dizziness. He could stand without swaying. But the moment he reached for the guitar, a dull ache bloomed behind his eyes. He stopped trying. Instead, he listened. The house creaked at night. The village breathed around him. Somewhere beyond the hills, the river flowed. And once—just once—he thought he heard laughter carried on the wind.
Old. Soft.
Kind.
He dismissed it as imagination.
But the broken guitar, resting quietly against the wall, hummed faintly in response.