My voice carries across the crowded tavern, weaving through pipe smoke and conversation. The familiar tune springs from my lips, a playful melody about a merchant who traded his cart for a dancing bear. My fingers dance across the strings of my lute, each note precise and purposeful.

  "And oh, what a sight it was to see, the bear doing jigs for honey and tea!"

  The magic flows naturally now, subtle strands of enchantment threading through the music. A patron raises his empty mug, catching the barmaid’s eye. Another tears into a fresh loaf of bread. Eyes brighten, mouths open in smiles and song. Men and women flush with merriment. They don't even realize they're doing it – that's the art of it. Just a gentle nudge, a whispered suggestion that settles in their minds like the warmth of a fire on a winter's day.

  "Round and round the market square, merchant and his dancing bear!"

  The short, plump taverner beams from behind his counter, coins clinking as he makes change. I've performed this spell hundreds of times in countless taverns across the land. It puts food in my belly and coin in my purse to sleep and travel, yet something inside me aches. The magic thrumming through my veins could do so much more than loosen purse strings and empty mugs.

  My fingers find the next chord, muscle memory taking over while my mind wanders. I think of the stories I've heard – bards of old who could call storms, heal wounds, even speak to the wind itself. My magic races around the common room like a wild horse trapped in a paddock, pacing the fence line, yearning to run free.

  "So raise your cups and drink with me, to the bear who danced for all to see!"

  The patrons join in the chorus, their voices rough but enthusiastic. I layer in one last thread of enchantment, watching as it ripples through the crowd like a stone dropped in still water. Simple magic. Safe magic. Profitable magic.

  But in my heart, I know there are songs yet unsung, powers yet untapped. I just haven't found the right melody to set them free. Haven't found which threads to touch in that special way to make them vibrate. And there's no one left to show me how.

  I bow deeply, my loose brown and gold braid falling forward over my shoulder as the applause washes over me. The worn floorboards of the makeshift stage creak beneath my booted feet as I step down, my lute cradled against my chest.

  The taverner catches my eye and waves me over, his ruddy face gleaming with satisfaction. I wind through the crowd, dodging elbows and tankards while flashing smiles and nodding at praises.

  "Another round?" He leans across the bar, jingling a coin purse and smelling of spilled ale and his wife's lavender soaps. "They're spending like nobles tonight."

  "I'm done for the evening," I sigh, passing him my lute before wrapping my thin fingers around the small fabric bag. "My voice needs rest."

  His smile dims as he takes my instrument, releasing the pouch. "Come now, just one more set. You've got them eating from your palm."

  That's exactly what bothers me. "Not tonight," I say with a false smile as the words come out sharper than intended.

  He sighs, sliding me a tankard of ale. "Your pay, plus a little extra. You earned it tonight."

  The coins sink in my pocket as I take my drink. Too heavy. These people work hard for their silver – farmers, craftsmen, laborers. Did I really earn it, or did I steal it with sweetened notes and magical whispers? Tricks and lies? I did earn money, true, but worth the coin weighing me down? Slipping my fingers in the pouch, I pull several pieces from the bag and place them on the counter. "Give them all a free round."

  The tavern walls press in, thick with smoke and guilt. Before the taverner can protest, I snatch my tankard and slip out the side door into the night with my drink. Cool air fills my lungs, washing away the stale tavern scent and stealing the warmth from my flush skin.

  Above me, stars pierce the darkness like delicate beads sewn through black velvet. A chorus of crickets fills the silence, their song pure and true. The wind rustles through dying leaves, carrying whispers of winter's approach. An owl calls, a staccato tune answered by another. And somewhere in Redbrook, the lowing of a cow. This is real music – no enchantments, no hidden purposes, just the world singing its nightly symphony. Natural. Beautiful. Powerful.

  I lean against the tavern wall, sipping my ale and letting it warm me from within, letting nature's ambiance wash over me. No one pays these performers, yet they sing anyway. Night after night, joining the others who simply exist around them. Perhaps there's a lesson in that.

  The nightly notes stir something in me. Memories of another town, another song. My tiny hand holding another teaching me the notes. Teaching me things I can share, how with my voice can enrich the lives of others. The notes of love twist into screams that haunt my dreams, acrid clouds billowing, burning my throat…

  I shake my head, forcing the thoughts away, focusing on the crickets' steady rhythm.

  I take a long pull from my tankard, letting the bitter ale wash down the rising tide of memories. The natural music beckons, pure and untainted. A part of me yearns as always to be a part of it, of something greater. Perhaps if I join them, add my voice to theirs without artifice or manipulation...

  But what can I add? What is my inherent tune? What magic can I bring to a world that abhors it? A soft hum builds in my throat, trying to match the crickets' tempo. I let my magic thread the notes, offering it. But something's wrong. Their song falters, stumbles. I shift to a lower key, aiming to complement the owl's distant call instead. The bird goes silent mid-note.

  "No, that's not it." I try again, weaving my voice between the rustling leaves. The wind dies, leaving an unnatural stillness in its wake. Every attempt to join nature's chorus only serves to silence it, ink tainting and spreading through clear water.

  My fingers tighten around the tankard. Every time. Even when I try to be genuine, to create something real, my presence corrupts it. The magic in my blood can't help but change things, bend them to my will whether I intend to or not. Unable to learn anything new, all I can do is manipulate. Myself. Others. Taking. Nothing useful. Nothing like mother promised it would.

  "Damn it." I hurl the tankard to the ground. The liquid splashes across my boots, leaching into the worn, packed earth. The crickets have stopped completely now, leaving only the hollow echo of my shaky breathing in the night air.

  The silence presses against my ears like a physical weight. I did this. Killed their magic. Without the night's music to anchor me, my mind drifts back to that cursed night. The ale grows bitter in my belly.

  I slide down the tavern wall, rough wood catching at my thin linen shirt, threatening to tear. The cold ground reaches beneath me, but I barely notice. Smoke fills my lungs even as my breathing quickens. Not the homey scent of hearth fires, the pungent bite of a pipe, but the choking, acrid cloud of burning homes. Of burning flesh. Oily, cloying, suffocating.

  "No," I groan, pressing my palms against my eyes, but the memories flood in.

  Mother's fingers guiding mine across lute strings, teaching me songs of joy and healing. Showing me herbs to soothe and calm, how to harvest with her bone handled knife. The same fingers that wrapped my hand around her knife before pushing me into shadows as Malrik's raiders poured through our town. I can still see their torches, the thunder of hooves and clacking metal masking cries of fear. Steel glinting in firelight. Blood running between cobblestones. How my hand stuck to the bloodied knife.

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  My throat tightens. Eight years old and small for my age, crouched and hyperventilating behind father's crates as neighbors fell. Old Willem, who taught me to whittle, face slashed. Little Sara, who always begged for stories, sobbing as she held her belly. Their screams echo in my head, mixing with the crack of burning timber and clash of weapons.

  And then father... mother...

  "I should have helped." My words scratch against the night. Fifteen years now of horror, and this is all I've become. "Something. Anything." I should have sung. I knew which threads to twist, the way the sounds bent the air.

  But I stayed hidden, tears streaming down my face as Mother tried to rise. Tried to sing, even with a bloodied, broken mouth. Alone. She tried to use her magic to save something. Instead, Malrik's sword silenced her. If I had tried...

  Now I use her gift – our gift – to charm coins from drunken farmers. To buy bread and beds. The magic that could once heal, that could once protect, reduced to tavern tricks. Because I didn't know how to do the things she and grandmother could. Malrik took that time from me. Took that future. And if I did attempt to use my gift for more than what I did now… I couldn't risk the chance that his men would learn of my skills. I didn't want to be killed or worse, used as a weapon. His weapon. I remember grandmother's stories.

  I dig my nails into my palms until pain breaks through the memories. "Damn you, Malrik." The words coat my tongue in ash and bile. "Damn you and your whole cursed army to the depths."

  The night offers no response. Even the stars seem dimmer, as if they too remember that night of fire and death.

  Reaching up, I twist my braid between my fingers, the familiar texture anchoring me to the present. My raw throat still burns from my shift, but I force a gentle hum, starting with the lullaby Mother used to sing when storms frightened me. The sound wavers at first, thin and uncertain. Then magic soothes.

  The night remains silent, waiting. I continue, letting the melody drift into something formless, a wordless comfort that matches my heartbeat. My fingers work through the end of my braid, undoing and reweaving the strands.

  Slowly, like shy children peeking around a door, the crickets return. The owl calls once, twice. The breeze returns, rustling leaves overhead. My shoulders relax as nature's orchestra builds again around me. But not with me.

  Yet there's something else. Something that doesn't... belong.

  I freeze mid-braid, my pulse quickening. My eyes dart all around me, searching the shadows deepened by the moon and starlight. Though nothing appears unusual, the tapestry of night sounds winds with another thread. Distant. Ethereal. A voice. But not human.

  My first thought is it’s from tavern patrons. This isn't a drinking song or folks stumbling home through dark streets. This melody flows like water over worn stones, rich and pure, without words. It speaks of starlight and shadow, of secrets whispered to the moon and roars at the sun.

  Fear grips my chest. Has someone discovered what I am? But no, this song isn't meant for my ears. At least, I don't think it is. It's meant for the night itself, sung by someone who thinks they're alone. Searching for something lost.

  The crickets chirp louder now, and leaves dance in the strengthening wind. They embrace it like an old friend. Yet underneath it all, that voice continues, so faint I might have missed it if I hadn't been listening with a musician's ear. It calls to something deep within me, a recognition I can't explain.

  I push myself up from the cold grass, my legs stiff from sitting too long in the night air. Several feet away, warmth from the tavern's back door beckons. Gaity, camaraderie, and a real bed waiting upstairs, sheets that smell of lavender because I traded a few songs for proper washing.

  And then it finds me. The haunting melody wraps around me like gossamer threads. My throat tightens. My feet won't move. Only my hand shifts, worrying the handle of the bone-handled knife at my side.

  This song... it pierces deeper than any blade. Brushing my magic like the embers of a fire. Each note carries the weight of centuries, of losses stacked upon losses until the burden becomes too heavy to bear. My own grief for Mother is insignificant beside it, a single teardrop in an ocean of sorrow.

  "Stop it," I whisper, pressing my palms against my ears. But the music seeps through my fingers, floods my chest with an ache that isn't mine. I try to hum my protection spell, the one that usually keeps unwanted nature magic at bay.

  The strange song smothers it as if my shield is nothing more than a candle flame. It pulls at me like the moon pulls the tide, resonating with something ancient in my bones. My own magic stirs in response, a warmth spreading from my core to my fingertips. Come, come, it seems to whisper, as if it were an ember fading.

  "Who are you?" Lips move, even though I can't hear the strangled question from my own throat.

  The tavern door creaks beside me. Laughter spills out, along with the bite of spilled ale, sweat, and woodsmoke. Startled, I wait for the trio to move away back into town. I should go inside. I should lock myself in my room and stuff cotton in my ears until dawn. Maybe I'm sick. Maybe...

  Instead, I stand frozen, pressed against the rough wall, caught between safety and that otherworldly call. The melody speaks of empty halls that once rang with song, of gardens where flowers once bloomed eternal now choke on thorns. Of wings that no longer catch the wind.

  My throat constricts. Tears slip down my cheeks - not my tears, surely not mine. Yet they're salty when they reach my lips, real as the grass beneath my feet, the rough wood at my back.

  Did none of those three drunks hear it? Turning my head, I search the direction they wandered. No one is listening. No one knows.

  But me.

  The song tugs again, insistent as a child pulling at my sleeve. Come, it seems to say. Come and remember.

  I burst through the tavern door, palms pressed against my ears. The blast of warmth and noise hits me like a wall - tankards clinking, boots stomping, voices raised in a drunken rendition of "The Miller's Daughter." My fingers dig deeper into my hair, but that ethereal song still seeps through.

  "Watch yourself, lass!" The taverner's cloth pauses mid-swipe on the bar top.

  I duck past his concerned look, weaving between tables where patrons swap tales and spill ale. Their raucous chorus drowns out the melody from outside, but its echo lingers in my bones.

  The wooden stairs creak under my boots as I race to the attic room. My hands shake as I fumble with the iron key. Inside, the ceiling slopes so low I have to duck my head. Moonlight filters through a single window, casting silver squares on the rough floorboards.

  My bag slumps in the corner, contents spilling out. Odds and ends from years of meandering. All that I own, and all of it meaningless. The familiar trinkets, four walls and clean sheets should comfort me. But that song thrums on beneath my skin like a fever, making muscles I never knew I had ache for relief.

  Come, please.

  I collapse onto the squat, narrow cot. Springs protest as I bury my face in the pillow, breathing in lavender and soap. The fabric muffles my ragged breaths, but not the haunting notes that wind through my mind. There likely isn't enough cotton in Redbrook to muffle this...whatever it is.

  Below, someone launches into another verse, feet pounding the floorboards in time. The vibrations travel up through my cot, mixing with the rapid pulse in my temples. Voices rise and fall, glasses shatter, laughter erupts. Normal tavern sounds. Human sounds.

  But underneath it all, that other song continues to call.

  Not human.

  How is no one else hearing it?

  I press my face deeper into the pillow, focusing on the tavern's familiar chaos. Boots stomp rhythmically below, and someone's mug hits a table with a hollow thunk. The scents of smoke and stale beer drift through the floorboards.

  My lips move once more in the protection song, the one that should keep unwanted magic from seeping into my thoughts. The melody weaves through my mind like a silver thread, wrapping around...

  But the other song crashes through my defenses as if it is little more than a spider's web. It fills every corner of my skull, though it hasn't grown any louder. The grief intensifies, notes pulling at my chest like hooks beneath my ribs. Memories that aren't mine flood my thoughts. Marble halls crumbling to dust, gardens withering, scarred wings folding for the last time with a glint of silver.

  "Get out," I whisper, but the song has already taken root inside me. It pulses with each heartbeat, demanding I follow, begging me to make its agony stop.

  I bolt upright, tears streaming down my face. "Damn you!" My fingers scrub at my cheeks, but new tears replace the old ones. These aren't my sorrows, but they burn just the same.

  It's magic. It somehow found me, stronger than anything I know. Where and who it is... the loneliness I've felt for years is echoed in its threads. If nothing else, I need to know what it is why it beckoning me.

  Mother's knife presses into my side. My hand closes around the familiar bone handle, its worn grooves fitting my palm perfectly. The weight of it grounds me, even as that otherworldly melody pulls me up and toward the door. The beat pulses through my fingers as if to also hold the blade.

  The song guides my feet down the creaking stairs, past the warmth of the room. I catch the taverner's wife eyeing me as I brush past the bar. Cold air strips heat from my skin as I step outside. The melody is clearer now, though no louder than before. It doesn't need to be - it's already carved itself into my soul.

  I turn my head, letting the sound draw me like a compass needle as I tremble with shallow breath. Each note paints pictures in my mind: walls like black glass, fallen leaves on fire, tears frozen in time. Shattering. Shattering. Something, many, shattering. The grief is overwhelming, but beneath it lies something else. A presence that calls to the magic in my blood, recognizing its own.

  But it wasn't mine. I had no one. Whoever is summoning me... it could be a threat, a danger. But before I run again, I need to see who it is. Where they learned such magic. And why. Why do they know misery so much greater than my own? And beg them to stop.