The first night in the Kingdom of Orestes was unlike anything the Wynfall family had experienced in the warm, fire-lit valleys of Vornis. The air in the border town of Oakhaven—a town built almost entirely into the side of a granite cliff—was thin and carried a biting chill that seemed to seep through even the thickest enchanted cloaks.
They stayed at "The Iron Rose," a high-class inn that catered to wealthy ore-merchants and visiting dignitaries. Unlike the gilded, airy inns of the Vornis capital, this place was a fortress of luxury. The walls were three-foot-thick blocks of polished basalt, and the hearths didn't crackle with wood; they glowed with deep-red thermal crystals that emitted a steady, dry heat.
Aster sat by the window of their suite, watching the moonlight play over the jagged horizon. Astra was already tucked into a bed of heavy wool furs, her breathing steady, while their mother, Arliene, sat at a small desk nearby, reviewing the diplomatic protocols for their meeting with King Boron.
"You look troubled, Aster," Arliene said softly, not looking up from her parchment. "Is it the altitude?"
"No, Mother. It's the silence," Aster replied. "In Vornis, even at night, you can hear the wind in the trees or the distant sound of the city's bells. Here, the mountains just... eat the sound. It's like the whole kingdom is holding its breath."
"They are a pragmatic people," Arliene sighed, finally setting down her pen. "They believe that noise is a waste of energy. To them, the only sounds worth making are those that signal work or warning."
Aster turned back to the window. He didn't just want their magic stones; he wanted their hearts. And to get their hearts, he had to break the silence.
***
The next morning, the group prepared for the final leg of their journey toward the Royal Capital, a city known as the High-Rock Citadel. But before they departed, Aster wandered down to the inn's common room to observe the locals.
In the corner of the room, near a service entrance, sat an elderly man polishing a strange instrument. It looked like a series of hollow stone tubes of varying lengths, tied together with leather thongs. The man took a small mallet and tapped one of the tubes. A clear, haunting note—like the chime of a bell buried deep underground—rang out.
Aster's ears perked up instantly. He approached a worker who was busy buffing the obsidian countertops.
"Excuse me," Aster said, pitching his voice to sound like a curious child. "What is that man doing? That sound... it was beautiful."
The worker looked over at the old man and gave a dismissive shrug. "Oh, that's just Old Harlen and his Lithophone. He's a harmonic player. He used to play for the miners to keep their rhythm, back when the old guilds still believed in that sort of thing."
"A harmonium?"(an older model music instrument) Aster pressed. "Do many people play instruments like that here?"
The worker paused, leaning on his cloth. "Some do. There's a few folks in the back-alleys and the old quarters who like a song or two. But it's not the majority, little lord. Not by a long shot. Most folks here think music is a distraction. If you're singing, you aren't digging. If you're listening, you aren't sharpening your tools. King Boron says a kingdom built on entertainment is a kingdom built on sand. We're built on iron."
Aster thanked the man and walked back to join Astra and Arliene, his mind racing. The worker's words echoed in his head: A kingdom built on entertainment is a kingdom built on sand.
"Is that so, King Boron?" Aster muttered to himself, a sharp, ambitious glint in his eyes. "Then I suppose I'll have to show you that even iron can be shattered by the right frequency."
It was in that moment that Aster's mission changed. He didn't just want to sign a contract for magic stones; he decided that he was going to change this entire country before he left. He would turn the "useless" art of sound into the very thing Orestes couldn't live without.
***
The journey to the capital took the rest of the day. As their carriage climbed higher, the terrain became a dizzying series of hills and plateaus. By the time the High-Rock Citadel came into view, they were so high that the clouds were no longer above them—they were drifting through the streets like white ghosts.
The capital was a marvel of masonry. It was built atop a cluster of seven massive hills, connected by stone bridges that looked like spiderwebs spanning the misty voids. The buildings were tall and narrow, carved directly into the rock, with windows of thick, translucent quartz.
"It's like we're in the sky," Astra whispered, her face pressed against the glass. "Aster, look! I can see the tops of the eagles' wings!"
"It's magnificent," Arliene agreed, though she looked tense. She knew that behind this beauty lay a court of hard-hearted men who saw her family as nothing more than flamboyant valley-dwellers.
As they reached the gates of the inner city, the guards checked their crests with grueling slowness. The formality was a test of patience, a way for Orestes to show that they moved at their own pace.
"Mother," Astra said, turning away from the window as the carriage finally rolled into the central district. "Before we go to the castle... before we have to be 'Royal Snowflakes' and talk to the King... can we please go sightseeing? Just for an hour?"
Arliene looked at Aster. He knew his mother wanted to get the diplomacy over with, but he also knew they needed to understand the "soul" of this city before they stepped into the throne room.
"I think it's a good idea, Mother," Aster supported. "If we show up at the palace smelling like a long carriage ride, we'll look weak. Let's walk the streets. Let's see what life is like here."
Arliene relented with a small smile. "Very well. But keep your cloaks closed. We are 'tourists' for the moment, not princes and princesses."
***
The capital's central district was a labyrinth of stone-paved streets and bustling markets. Despite the "silence" of the kingdom, the market was loud—but it was a functional noise. The clatter of hammers, the shouting of prices, the heavy footfalls of pack-beasts. There was no laughter, no street performers, no joy in the air. It was a city of pure utility.
They walked toward the "Fountain of the First Mine," a massive monument in the center of a wide plaza. The fountain didn't spray water; it poured liquid mana that glowed a soft blue, recycled by ancient runes.
As they approached the fountain, a new sound cut through the industrial din.
It was thin, wavering, and fragile, but it was undeniably a voice.
Aster stopped in his tracks. He signaled for his mother and sister to wait. There, sitting on the edge of the mana-fountain, was a boy. He looked to be about ten years old, dressed in the rough, stained tunic of a miner's apprentice. His hands were calloused and dirty, and he looked exhausted, but his eyes were closed.
A boy was singing.
It wasn't a complex aria or a practiced hymn. It was a simple, repetitive folk song, likely something passed down through generations of laborers. The lyrics were about the "Light in the Deep"—a song for those who worked in the dark.
Aster watched the people passing by. Most ignored the boy, stepping around him as if he were a misplaced cobbler's bench. A few glared at him, their lips curling in distaste at the "noise." One merchant even barked at the child to "pipe down and find a real job."
But the boy didn't stop. He sang because he wanted to.
Aster watched the boy's throat, sensing the vibrations with his Sound Magic. He could feel the raw potential there—the way the boy's mana was subconsciously trying to resonate with the mana in the fountain, but failing because he had never been taught how to bridge the gap.
He's like me, Aster thought. Or like who I would have been if I didn't have the memories of Raze.
"He's brave," Astra whispered, standing beside Aster. "Everyone is looking at him like he's doing something wrong, but he's still singing."
Aster didn't speak. He was looking at the boy, but he was seeing the entire kingdom.
He realized that the "harmonic players" the worker had mentioned weren't just a dying breed; they were a suppressed one. The desire for music was there, buried under layers of cultural "pragmatism" and the King's iron-fisted focus on industry. This child was the proof.
Aster felt a cold, sharp clarity wash over him.
They think music is a luxury for the weak, Aster thought, his hands clenching into fists inside his cloak. They think it's a distraction from the 'real' work of building a kingdom. They see this boy and they see a nuisance.
A slow, dangerous smile spread across Aster's face.
"Aster?" Arliene asked, noticing his expression. "What are you thinking?"
"I was thinking about the contract, Mother," Aster said, his voice dropping an octave, sounding far more like a king than a seven-year-old prince. "I was thinking that if I just buy their stones, I'm just a customer. They'll always have the power over the supply. They can raise the prices, they can cut us off, they can treat us like children playing with toys."
He looked at the 10-year-old singer, who had just finished his song and was now wiping sweat from his forehead, looking defeated as not a single coin had been dropped in his small cap.
"But," Aster continued, "if I make music the lifeblood of their industry... if I make it so their mines collapse without my songs and their workers can't move without our rhythm... then I'm not just a customer. I am more than that "
Astra looked at her brother, a bit startled by the intensity in his voice. "Are we going to help him, Aster?"
Aster stepped forward, pulling his hood back and letting his silver hair catch the high-altitude sun. The dragon mark on his collarbone seemed to pulse with a faint, sympathetic vibration.
"We aren't just going to help him, Astra," Aster said, his eyes fixed on the boy at the fountain. "We're going to use him. He's going to be the first voice of the revolution. If King Boron wants iron, we'll give him iron. but we'll make it dance to our tune."
Aster walked toward the boy, pulling a small, high-grade resonance crystal from his pocket—the very thing he had come here to buy in bulk. He didn't drop it in the boy's cap. Instead, he held it out, letting the mana within the stone hum in harmony with his own voice.
"That was a good song," Aster said, his voice cutting through the plaza with unnatural clarity, stopping the surrounding merchants in their tracks. "But would you like to hear how it's supposed to sound when the mountain actually answers you?"
The 10-year-old boy looked up, his eyes widening as he saw the elegantly dressed, silver-haired boy standing before him. He saw the authority in Aster's gaze and the strange, humming stone in his hand.
In that moment, the "vacation" ended. The cultural conquest of Orestes had begun.