The river was lower that evening.
Not by much—only enough for the stones along its edge to show their pale backs, slick with moss and time. The sky leaned toward dusk, painted in muted blues and amber, the kind of light that softened edges and made everything feel older than it truly was.
Aren sat across from Maelin, knees drawn to his chest, the wrapped guitar resting beside him like a silent companion. The day's training had been light—mostly listening, mostly watching—but his mind refused to settle.
The questions had been building since morning.
He finally spoke when the river's hum grew steady enough to fill the silence.
"You said," Aren began carefully, "that you once walked away from someone who needed guidance."
Maelin did not look at him right away.
Her gaze remained on the water, fingers trailing just above its surface, never quite touching. When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter than usual—rounded by memory.
"So you noticed that," she said.
Aren nodded. "You don't speak like someone who's only watched stories happen."
A faint smile touched her lips.
"No," she agreed. "I suppose I don't."
She shifted, settling onto a flat stone closer to him. The Resonant Lyre rested across her lap, its strings dim in the fading light.
"Do you know why people tell stories?" she asked.
Aren frowned slightly. "To remember?"
"To forget," Maelin corrected gently. "Or rather—to choose what to forget."
She plucked a string.
The sound was soft, almost fragile.
"This is not a history," she said. "What I'll tell you is… a version."
Aren leaned forward.
"Long ago," Maelin began, "before the world learned how to measure sound so neatly, there lived a girl near a river not unlike this one."
Aren blinked. "A girl?"
Maelin's smile widened, just a fraction.
"She was born to a family that listened more than it spoke," Maelin continued. "No titles. No great lineage. But they understood rhythm—the quiet kind. The sort that lived in breath and footsteps and patience."
The river murmured in agreement.
"She awakened young," Maelin said. "Too young, some thought. Her relic was a lyre—not a weapon, not a tool of command. A healer's relic."
Aren glanced at the instrument in her lap.
"She learned quickly," Maelin went on. "Too quickly. People came to her with broken bodies, broken Resonance, broken hopes. And she listened."
Her fingers brushed the strings, but she did not play.
"She thought that was enough."
Aren sensed the shift in her tone—the weight settling beneath the words.
"But the world doesn't reward listening," Maelin said. "It rewards control."
The girl grew older. The world around her changed.
"They built halls," Maelin said. "Institutions. Places where sound was ranked and refined. Where relics were tested, judged, and declared worthy."
Aren felt something twist in his chest.
"She was invited," Maelin continued. "They told her she belonged there. That healers were needed to stabilize the damage left by power."
Maelin paused.
"She believed them."
The river's hum deepened, low and steady.
"In those halls," Maelin said, "she met musicians whose relics bent the air. Warriors whose chords could shatter stone. Nobles whose sound was sharpened into law."
Her voice softened.
"And she met one who carried silence."
Aren's breath caught.
"He was not silent because he lacked sound," Maelin said. "But because sound feared him."
She finally looked at Aren.
"He carried a relic that did not sing when commanded. A broken chord-frame. A thing the world did not know how to name."
The image rose unbidden in Aren's mind.
Broken strings. A warped note.
"They called it a curse," Maelin said. "A mistake of Awakening."
Her hand tightened on the lyre.
"But he called it honest."
Aren swallowed.
"They studied him," Maelin continued. "Measured him. Pushed him. They wanted his silence to behave."
She shook her head.
"It never did."
The girl—the healer—watched. She listened. And she made a choice.
"She helped him," Maelin said. "In small ways. Quiet ways. She mended the damage others caused. She told him he was not wrong for existing as he was."
Aren felt warmth spread through his chest.
"But kindness," Maelin said softly, "is dangerous when it challenges structure."
The halls turned cold.
"They told her she was interfering. That she was coddling instability. That broken relics could not be allowed to shape the future."
Maelin's gaze drifted back to the river.
"They gave her a choice," she said. "Step away—or be removed."
Aren's voice was barely audible. "What did she do?"
Maelin did not answer immediately.
Instead, she plucked her lyre again.
This time, the sound wavered.
"She chose silence," Maelin said at last.
Not his.
Hers.
"She left the halls," Maelin said. "Left the rankings, the titles, the power. She told herself she had done enough."
The river shimmered as dusk deepened.
"And the boy?" Aren asked.
Maelin's fingers stilled.
"He stood alone."
Aren's chest tightened painfully.
"The world tested him," Maelin said. "Harshly. Unfairly. They said broken things should remain broken."
She exhaled.
"And one day… he disappeared."
Aren's hands curled into fists.
"No one knows what became of him," Maelin added quickly. "Some say he was destroyed. Others say he vanished beyond the world's hearing."
She smiled faintly.
"Stories tend to soften endings."
Aren stared at the water.
"What about the girl?" he asked. "The healer?"
Maelin turned to him fully now.
"She learned something too late," she said. "That listening without acting can be its own kind of cruelty."
She reached out, placing her hand briefly over Aren's clenched fists.
"When the world began to whisper again," Maelin continued, "she answered."
Aren looked up.
"She went where halls could not follow," Maelin said. "To rivers. To villages. To broken people with no audience."
Her smile returned—warmer this time.
"She told stories."
Aren let out a slow breath.
"It sounds like a fairytale," he said quietly.
Maelin chuckled.
"That's because it is."
She leaned back, eyes lifting toward the darkening sky.
"Fairytales are truths that learned how to survive."
Aren hesitated.
"Is it… true?" he asked. "All of it?"
Maelin met his gaze.
"Some of it," she said.
"And the rest?"
She smiled—gentle, unreadable.
"Some truths don't belong to children," she said. "And some don't belong to the world yet."
The river's hum grew stronger for a moment.
Aren felt something shift inside him—not clarity, not certainty, but recognition.
"You won't walk away this time," he said.
It wasn't a question.
Maelin's expression softened.
"No," she said. "I won't."
She rose, lifting her lyre.
"But remember this," she added. "Stories are mirrors. You see yourself in them—not the past."
She stepped toward the trees.
"When your relic answers you," Maelin said over her shoulder, "ask yourself what you're willing to lose to hear it clearly."
The light faded.
The river kept flowing.
Aren sat alone, the fairytale settling into his bones.
And though he did not yet understand it—
Somewhere deep within him, the broken strings listened.