Darkness did not end all at once.
It loosened slowly, like a heavy curtain being pulled aside by unseen hands. Arin felt it before he understood it—a strange warmth, a pressure all around him, followed by a sharp, sudden cold that cut through everything.
Air rushed into his lungs, his chest burned, and then—A cry tore from his throat. It was thin, weak and uncontrolled. But it was sound.
Hands caught him. Firm, careful hands, lifting him, turning him. The world spun in fragments—blurred shapes, flickers of light, shadows moving too fast for his eyes to follow. Voices overlapped above him, layered with emotion he hadn't heard directed at him in a very long time.
"He's breathing."
"Careful—support the neck."
"Look at him… he's really here."
Arin did not understand the words. Not yet.
But he understood the feeling behind them.
Warmth. Urgency. Something else—something unfamiliar.
LOVE.
His body trembled as he cried again, this time with more force. The sound startled him—it came from him, from the small, fragile body he now occupied. His limbs moved without permission, flailing clumsily as if they belonged to someone else.
Because they did.
I'm alive.
The realization came without panic. Without joy. Just certainty.
Arin's eyes fluttered open.
Light flooded in—too bright, too sharp. His vision blurred instantly, the world dissolving into soft colors and indistinct shapes. He tried to focus, but his eyes refused to obey. Everything felt distant, muted, as if he were underwater.
Yet even through the haze, he could feel it—the sensation.
He was small.
Tiny.
Cradled against something warm and steady.
A woman's face hovered above him, her features blurred but gentle. Dark hair framed her cheeks, strands loose from what looked like a hurried braid. Her eyes were wet, shining as she smiled down at him with a mix of relief and disbelief.
"He opened his eyes," she whispered, voice trembling.
Another presence leaned closer—a broader shape, solid and unmoving. A man. His voice was lower, rougher, but no less careful.
"He looks strong," the man said. "Loud, too."
Arin wanted to laugh.
Strong?
He could barely breathe without crying.
But laughter was impossible. His body refused complex commands. All he could do was stare, blink, and cry again as sensation overwhelmed him. The woman pulled him closer, pressing his tiny form against her chest. Her heartbeat echoed beneath him—steady, alive. The sound grounded him in a way he hadn't expected.
Then, suddenly, a faint memory surfaced—blurred, but heavy.
A hospital room.
Machines humming softly.
The slow, uneven rhythm of his own failing breath.
So that's how it ended.
He remembered now.
Illness. Long nights. Pain that dulled into numbness. A body that had finally given up after years of endurance. And at the very end, drifting through an open window…
The sound of a guitar.
Broken. Faint. Unfinished.
Arin's eyes closed briefly—not from exhaustion, but from surrender to the truth.
He had died.
And yet, here he was.
Reborn.
Time lost its meaning after that.
Days passed in fragments of sensation—warmth, hunger, sleep. The world shrank to simple needs. His mind, however, did not.
Even as an infant, Arin was aware.
He listened.
Not just to the voices, but to the space between them. The way sound lingered in the air. The subtle differences between footsteps on wood and stone. The rhythm of his mother's breathing when she thought he was asleep.
Sound felt… important.
As weeks turned into months, his vision sharpened. Colors gained shape. Faces became familiar.
The woman was his mother.
Her name, he learned through repetition, was Lyra Vale.
She was gentle, with warm hands and a soft voice that often hummed under her breath as she worked. Sometimes she sang—quiet songs without words, melodies passed down from her family. Whenever she did, Arin felt a strange calm settle over him, as if something deep inside was listening closely.
The man was his father.
Edrin Vale.
A merchant by trade, broad-shouldered and weathered from travel. His hands were rough, scarred from years of lifting crates and reins, but when he held Arin, they were careful—almost reverent. He didn't speak much, but when he did, his voice carried weight.
And Arin listened.
Their home was modest. Wooden walls. A slanted roof. The smell of dried herbs and polished metal lingered in the air. Through the open windows, he could hear the life of the village beyond.
This was Harmelune.
A mid-tier town nestled between rolling hills and a wide river that reflected the sky like glass. Not rich enough to rival the noble cities, not poor enough to starve. Merchants passed through often, their carts rattling over stone roads, bells chiming softly with each movement.
Sound was everywhere.
Blacksmith hammers rang like percussion. Children's laughter echoed through narrow streets. Somewhere in the distance, someone practiced a wind instrument—notes drifting unevenly on the breeze.
This world breathed music.
As Arin grew, so did his understanding.
By the time he could crawl, he began to explore. His small hands pressed against the floorboards, feeling the vibrations of footsteps before the sounds reached his ears. He learned the layout of the house through touch and sound long before sight.
By the time he could sit, his father brought home some books.
They were simple at first. Thick pages. Large symbols. Illustrated diagrams. Edrin would sit beside him in the evenings, pointing to words, sounding them out slowly.
"Sound," his father would say, tapping the page.
"Power," he'd add, turning to the next illustration.
Arin absorbed everything.
This world was governed by Resonance—the ability to channel one's spirit through sound. At the age of ten, every child would undergo an Awakening, a rite where their soul manifested a Relic of Sound.
An instrument.
Some were simple. Some were legendary. And some… shaped history.
Strength, status, and fate were all tied to what one awakened.
Nobles ruled because their bloodlines carried powerful Resonance. Merchants thrived by trading relic materials. Common folk lived quieter lives, their instruments modest but necessary.
The Vales belonged to the Midbound—neither noble nor peasant. Stable, but unremarkable.
Arin understood this hierarchy early.
And he understood something else too.
Every night, when sleep claimed him, he dreamed.
A guitar.
Not whole—but shattered.
Strings snapped and hanging loose. Wood cracked down the center. And yet, whenever his fingers brushed it, a sound tried to emerge.
A sound that shouldn't exist.
The dream followed him relentlessly.
At five years old, Aren wandered the streets of Harmelune alone for the first time. The town felt larger now, fuller. People greeted him kindly, some ruffling his dark hair. His reflection in a shop window startled him.
Black hair.
Blue eyes too old for his face.
He stared at himself for a long moment.
My name is Aren Vale, he thought.
Not Arin anymore. That life belonged to the past.
This one… this one would be different.
As the sun dipped low and the sounds of the town softened, Aren sat by the river's edge, watching ripples spread across the water. Somewhere far away, a string snapped.
The sound made his heart ache.
He didn't know why.
But deep inside, a broken song waited.
And one day, it would be heard.