Aren woke to the sound of water.
Not the distant clatter of rain on rooftops, nor the soft splash of buckets in the courtyard—but something steadier. Rhythmic. Flowing.
For a moment, he thought he was dreaming again.
His body felt lighter than it had in days, the ache in his limbs dulled to a faint echo. His chest rose and fell without effort. When he opened his eyes, sunlight greeted him—not harsh, but filtered, as though passing through leaves.
He was not in his bed.
He lay on smooth stone, warm beneath his palms. Above him, branches swayed gently, their leaves whispering secrets to one another. Beyond them, a river stretched wide and calm, its surface catching the light in rippling fragments.
"You're awake," a voice said.
Aren turned his head.
She sat a few steps away, cross-legged on a flat rock near the water's edge.
The old woman looked… ordinary.
That was the first thing Aren noticed—and the strangest.
Her hair was silver, tied loosely behind her head, strands slipping free in the breeze. Her face bore the lines of age, but not the weariness he expected. Her eyes were sharp, clear, and unsettlingly calm, like deep pools that reflected more than they revealed.
She wore simple robes, faded by time and sun. No insignia. No noble colours. No sign of rank. Yet beside her rested an instrument. Not a relic meant for battle. Not a child's training tool.
It was a Resonant Lyre, its frame carved from pale wood that shimmered faintly, strings spun from threads so fine they seemed unreal. Soft pulses of green-blue light moved through it like a slow heartbeat.
A healer's relic.
A true one.
"You collapsed," the woman continued, her tone gentle but unyielding. "Your body was pushed far past what it could endure."
Aren tried to sit up. A firm but light hand pressed against his shoulder.
"Slowly," she said. "Even sound needs rest after strain."
He obeyed, pushing himself upright with care. Only then did memory rush back—the exhaustion, the training, the faint vibration from the broken guitar, the collapse.
"My mother…" Aren began.
"She's safe," the woman said. "So is your father. They're grateful. Worried. And watching from a distance, as parents tend to do when they don't understand what's happening to their child."
Aren swallowed.
"Who are you?"
She smiled faintly.
"Some call me Maelin of the Stillwater," she said. "Others call me nothing at all."
She gestured toward the river.
"This place listens better without names."
Aren followed her gaze. The river's flow carried a faint hum—subtle, almost imperceptible, like a melody beneath the world.
"A healer?" Aren asked.
"Yes."
"And more?" he pressed.
Her eyes flicked to him.
"Careful," she said. "Questions carry weight here."
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the river.
At last, Maelin spoke again.
"You carry something that should not exist."
Aren's breath caught.
"The broken—" he began, then stopped.
She raised a hand.
"I know," she said softly. "I felt it when you collapsed. The strain wasn't from failed training. It was from restraint."
She leaned forward, eyes intent.
"You've been holding something back."
Aren looked away.
"I don't know how to use it," he admitted. "Nothing responds. No relic accepts me."
Maelin studied him for a long moment.
"Tell me about your dreams."
The words slipped out before Aren could stop them. The broken guitar. The silence. The single warped note. The string that moved. He expected disbelief. Instead, Maelin's fingers tightened around the neck of her lyre.
"When did they begin?" she asked.
"Before I could remember," Aren said. "Before I understood anything about this world."
Her expression darkened—not with fear, but recognition.
"So it's true," she murmured.
Aren frowned. "You've heard of it?"
She didn't answer immediately.
Instead, she lifted her lyre and plucked a single string.
The sound that followed was warm, resonant, and soothing—an echo that seemed to settle into Aren's bones. He felt his breathing steady, his pulse slow.
"Healers," Maelin said, "do not restore the body alone. We mend Resonance pathways. We realign fractured sound."
She gestured toward him.
"Your pathways are intact. Stronger than most children your age. But the source… the source resists."
Aren hesitated.
"Because it's broken?"
Maelin's gaze sharpened.
"No," she said. "Because it's incomplete."
She rose, moving toward the river.
"Most awakenings grant a relic shaped by harmony—strings that sing, winds that flow, percussion that commands rhythm. Each is tuned to the world's order."
She turned back to him.
"But broken relics?" she continued. "They belong to those who stand outside that order."
A chill ran through Aren.
"Is that bad?"
Maelin smiled faintly.
"Only if you fear standing alone."
She sat again, closer now.
"There is a story," she said. "An old one. Children hear it as a fairytale now."
Aren leaned forward without realizing it.
"Long before rankings, before noble lineages solidified power," Maelin said, "there was a musician whose relic shattered during Awakening."
She plucked her lyre again, softer this time.
"The world rejected him. His sound was warped. His instrument incomplete."
Aren's heart pounded.
"They called it the Dirgeframe," she said. "A broken chord relic. Unplayable by any known method."
Aren's breath caught.
"But the Dirgeframe did something no other relic could," Maelin continued. "It listened."
The river seemed to grow quieter.
"The musician learned not to force sound into the world—but to let the world press against the silence he carried. When it did… the broken strings answered."
Aren felt it then—a faint pressure in his chest.
"Legends say," Maelin said, "that when he vanished, his relic did not shatter further. It waited."
She met Aren's eyes.
"For someone who could hear silence without fear."
The world felt suddenly too large.
"You think…" Aren began.
"I think," Maelin interrupted gently, "that you are standing at the edge of something dangerous. And rare."
She leaned back.
"And soon," she added, "you'll be tested."
Aren stiffened. "The Awakening?"
Maelin nodded.
"But not only that."
She glanced toward the distant treeline.
"There are places where relics are studied. Where sound is measured, ranked, refined."
Aren's thoughts drifted to whispered conversations, to neighbors' hushed excitement, to the word that lingered unspoken in his home.
"An academy?" he asked.
Maelin did not deny it.
"When the time comes," she said, "you will be seen."
Her gaze softened.
"And judged."
The word landed heavily.
"You are not ready," she continued. "Not yet. But you will be."
She rose, stepping back toward the river.
"I will train you."
Aren's heart skipped.
"Why?" he asked. "Why help me?"
Maelin smiled—a small, knowing curve of her lips.
"Because broken things deserve teachers who understand fractures," she said. "And because I once walked away from a boy who needed guidance."
She hesitated.
"I won't make that mistake twice."
The wind stirred. The river hummed.
"When do we start?" Aren asked.
Maelin stepped into the water. The current parted around her feet.
"When you're ready to stop pretending you're ordinary," she said and then turned, walking downstream.
Aren blinked. She was gone. Only the river remained.
And beside Aren, resting against the stone—
The wrapped guitar.
One of its broken strings glowed faintly.