The great hall of Harmonia Palace had never felt so divided—or so alive with tension. Three days after the trial's catastrophic end, King Alaric summoned the full court under heavy guard: nobles from every house, provincial lords with armed escorts, advisors, even select commoner representatives granted entry for "transparency." Melodic wards hummed defensively overhead, but everyone felt the undercurrent—the old order cracking.
Elara stood at the hall's center without fear now, no longer hiding behind veils of silence. The dragon-bone drum rested openly on a velvet-draped pedestal before her, runes glinting ominously in chandelier light. Thorne stood at her right—no longer mere guard but openly ally, dressed in dark leathers marking his elevated status. Mira and a handful of revealed rhythmists flanked her left, faces calm but ready.
King Alaric sat on the raised throne, face etched with conflicting emotions: anger at the disruption, fear of what came next, and reluctant pride in his daughter's resolve. Lady Seraphine stood beside him, midnight robes impeccable. Lord Vesper occupied his usual seat, smug satisfaction barely concealed behind polite concern.
"The manifestation at the trial was no accident of nature," Alaric began, voice carrying with melodic amplification. "My daughter has... explanations. The court will hear them."
All eyes turned to Elara. Whispers rippled—heresy, prophecy, end times.
She placed her hands on the drum, meeting gazes steadily. "It was truth, Father. The magic you've suppressed for centuries. Rhythm—the old way, tied to the earth and the dragons themselves. Not chaos. Balance."
Gasps echoed louder. Vesper leaned forward sharply. "Heresy! She admits consorting with forbidden arts that nearly destroyed us once!"
Murmurs swelled—fear from traditional melodic houses, cautious curiosity from provincial lords who'd long chafed under capital dominance.
Elara's voice cut through. "Words prove nothing. See for yourselves."
She began—a steady, building rhythm. Thump-thump... thump-THUMP. Power surged visibly now, crimson waves rippling outward like heat over desert sands. Illusions woven by court mages for dramatic effect flickered and shattered like glass, harmless shards dissolving into sparkles.
Vesper signaled urgently. His champion—Garrick, a towering singer-mage with voice like thunder—stepped forward, beginning a challenging ward: golden threads weaving toward Elara, intending to bind and silence her magic.
She countered without pause. Faster beats—sharp, precise—slamming against his melody like hammers on anvil. His golden threads frayed, snapping one by one. Garrick staggered as backlash hit, blood trickling from his nose.
The hall fell deathly silent.
Elara intensified: a thunderous pattern raising a shimmering crimson barrier around her allies—solid, vibrating with raw power, deflecting a test spell from another noble effortlessly.
Then offensive bursts—controlled waves pinning Garrick's feet to the marble without harm, forcing him to his knees in surrender.
"I yield!" he gasped, voice hoarse.
The crowd erupted. Some nobles fled seats in terror; others pressed closer in awe. Commoners in the galleries cheered openly; suppressed provincials revealed hidden tattoos of rhythmic runes on wrists and necks.
Vesper's face twisted into rage barely contained.
Alaric rose slowly from the throne. "This... changes everything we know."
In the chaotic aftermath—guards maintaining uneasy order, debates erupting—Elara seized the moment. "The old war wasn't rhythm's fault alone. It was imbalance. Suppression bred resentment. My mother knew this—she carried the blood too, but hid it to protect me."
Gasps turned to stunned silence.
Thorne stepped forward beside her. "The dragons awaken because the veil thins. We can fight them... or ally. But not by silencing half the magic."
Underground rhythmists emerged boldly then—dozens slipping into the hall through side entrances Thorne had coordinated secretly. Clan elders, survivors of purges, even disillusioned melodic mages seeking truth.
They pledged loyalty publicly: "The silent heir speaks for us all."
Late into the night, in hidden palace chambers, Elara mentored the growing group—teaching basic patterns, sharing the drum's power in controlled sessions. Thorne coordinated defenses and strategy, his mind sharp as his sword.
Their bond deepened amid the whirlwind. Between sessions, he'd pull her aside into shadowed corners—hands framing her face, kisses urgent yet tender.
"You're changing everything," he murmured once, backing her against a wall, lips brushing her ear. "And it's terrifying how much I love watching you do it."
She smiled into his kiss, hands sliding under his tunic. "With you beside me, I'm not afraid anymore."
But the Dragon Echo invaded her dreams that night: visions of temptation—power unchecked, dominion over beasts and men alike.
Vesper, meanwhile, sent urgent ravens to foreign courts: promises of shared dragon control if they aided his "restoration of true harmony."
Defiance spread like wildfire through provinces. Rhythm no longer whispered in shadows—it roared openly in the heart of power.
The old order trembled.