Harahel walked the rest of the way in a hush that felt newly sharpened, as though the street itself had been tuned by the hymn and left slightly too bright for ordinary speech. The town’s morning resumed around her, doors opening, voices calling, the day gathering its familiar momentum, yet she carried the procession’s cadence beneath her skin.

  By the time she reached her dwelling, the sounds behind her had thinned into distance. She pushed open the wooden door and stepped inside, greeted by the quiet familiarity of the space.

  Her gaze settled on the mirror hanging on the wall, and she caught sight of her reflection. The wreath of flowers she had worn the previous day still rested atop her head, slightly disheveled from her night in the forest. With a wistful smile, she reached up and eased it free, placing it gently on the small table near the bed.

  She began to change from her celebratory attire, the soft rustle of fabric filling the quiet room as she slipped into more practical clothing. While folding the dress with careful hands, her thoughts returned to Lucan’s challenge: to write a song of forbidden love. She could not deny the thread connecting his words to her past, a love both enchanting and painful, a melody she had once followed without hesitation.

  Harahel lifted her lute and settled onto the edge of her bed, holding it close. The instrument lay still beneath her hands, its strings drawn tight, prepared to carry whatever truth she dared entrust to it.

  A few notes slipped free, uncertain of themselves. She tried a phrase beneath her breath, then shook her head slightly.

  “No,” she murmured, and let the chord fade.

  Her fingers moved again, slower this time, circling a progression that tugged at something beneath her ribs. A line surfaced, half-formed.

  In shadows deep…

  She paused, frowned, adjusted the melody.

  In shadows deep, where secrets lie,

  The words hung there, unfinished. She let them rest while the lute carried the thought forward, filling the silence she hadn’t yet named. Another line followed, softer, as if testing whether it belonged.

  A love the daylight passes by…

  She exhaled, dissatisfied. Too careful. Too clean.

  Her hand shifted on the neck of the lute, finding a darker turn in the chords. This time, the melody held, and the words came with it.

  In shadows deep, where secrets lie,

  A love forbidden, hearts defy,

  That earned a quiet nod. She played on, letting the rhythm guide her instead of the other way around.

  She worked the song in fragments, shaping lines, abandoning them, returning to phrases that refused to be forgotten. Verses formed and reformed beneath her fingers. The light shifted across the room without her noticing, morning thinning into noon, noon slipping onward still.

  At last her hands stilled.

  The melody had begun to circle itself, returning to the same tension without release. The chords pressed too close to memory; the air felt tight with it. She lowered the lute carefully to her lap and drew in a slow breath, aware that she had been leaning too far into something not yet ready to be named.

  She rose, setting the lute aside, and turned to the quiet demands of the room: a pitcher waiting to be refilled, shutters left half-open to the fading light, parchment scattered across the table where she had abandoned it. These were simple things, requiring no confession and no courage, only steady hands.

  She began with the shelf beside her bed, straightening a stack of loose parchment and gathering the garments she had cast aside in her restless work. Dust had gathered along the wood’s inner edge, fine and gray, and she brushed it away with the side of her hand. Her fingers struck something firmer beneath the cloth she had long ago draped across the corner.

  Carefully, she lifted the fabric. Beneath it lay a small leather-bound hymnal, its once-rich brown cover worn pale at the edges, the surface softened by years of handling. The faint imprint of Soter’s mark remained pressed into the leather, its lines thinned but unbroken.

  The sight brought the morning’s hymn to mind, the white and gold procession moving again across her thoughts.

  She lifted the book. The leather yielded easily in her grasp, familiar despite the years between. When she opened it, the pages released the faint scent of dust, oil, and candle smoke. The margins bore traces of her younger hand; careful annotations pressed between the printed lines. Certain passages had been marked more heavily than others, their ink darkened by repetition, their meaning once practiced until it rose unbidden whenever she needed it.

  In those years, the hymnal had been a constant presence. It shaped the rhythm of her mornings and evenings, giving form to hope and sorrow alike. Through its words, she learned how devotion could anchor a life, how belief could endure even when understanding faltered.

  There had been a season when that devotion carried them far from home. She remembered travel, unfamiliar towns, her mother’s voice lifted beside her beneath ceilings not their own. The hymns had sounded bold then, certain of their welcome. Doors had opened. Faces had listened.

  She remembered, too, the night the singing stopped.

  Even now, she did not allow herself to linger there. The memory hovered at the edge of her thoughts, heat, shouting, the sense of hands pulling her forward through smoke and confusion, then retreated.

  After that, something in her mother changed.

  The prayers grew strained. The hymns thinned. Eventually they ceased altogether. Soter’s name, once spoken with reverence, became something avoided.

  Harahel held fast to the hymnal then, keeping it close as though its presence alone could preserve what was slipping beyond her reach.

  Yet over time, its comfort began to shift. The words remained unchanged, but they no longer settled within her as they once had. Questions gathered where certainty had lived, and the assurance the book offered could no longer contain them. What had once affirmed her place in the world instead reminded her of a belonging she could no longer inhabit without doubt.

  She closed the hymnal slowly, holding it for a moment longer before letting her arms fall still.

  The cottage remained quiet around her, the afternoon light resting gently against the walls. Outside, the distant sounds of the town continued their steady rhythm, indifferent to the memories she had unearthed.

  She did not return the hymnal to its hidden place.

  Instead, she carried it to the small table beside her bed and set it there, where it could be seen.

  As the day slipped into evening, Harahel’s thoughts turned to dinner. The local inn beckoned, promising both sustenance and a welcome distraction. With her lute in hand, she made her way there, drawn by the scent of warm food and the sound of laughter.

  The inn’s interior was warm with firelight, its glow moving softly across the wooden beams overhead. Harahel found a seat near the window, where she could watch the street beyond while she ate. The food was simple and satisfying, and the chatter of patrons wove around her thoughts without demanding them.

  When her meal was finished, restlessness crept back in, quiet but insistent. She paid her tab and stepped into the night, where moonlight washed the town in a pale silver hush, softening the streets into something altered and reflective.

  Her wandering carried her to the town square, where the grand oak stood rooted in quiet permanence. Its branches reached high, their twisting shapes etched dark against the sky. She laid her hand against the bark, feeling its rough steadiness beneath her palm, and leaned there for a moment.

  She closed her eyes, letting the breeze move lightly across her face, listening to its passage through leaves and to the distant murmur of the river beyond the rooftops.

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  After a time, she pushed away from the tree and resumed her slow walk. The familiar streets offered a kind of shelter, their narrow turns and quiet corners giving space for thoughts she had not yet sorted.

  Before long, she found herself standing before a small fountain, its waters catching and scattering the moonlight. She watched the ripples gather and break apart, and her thoughts drifted once more to the song she had begun earlier that day.

  After a moment, she lowered herself to the stone rim, the cool surface steady beneath her. The fountain’s quiet rush blended with the hush of night. She drew the lute into her lap and tested the strings, tuning them gently until the notes settled into something close to ready.

  The melody returned, but not yet whole.

  In shadows deep, where secrets lie…

  Her fingers hesitated. The line felt familiar now, but fragile. She tried again, letting the progression turn darker beneath her hand.

  In shadows deep, where secrets lie,

  A love forbidden,

  The chord faltered.

  She adjusted the rhythm, searching for a stronger pulse beneath it.

  Whispers soft, beneath moon’s gaze…

  No. Too soft.

  She struck a firmer chord, and the sound rang sharper against the stone.

  A love that dares what light denies,

  Better. But not yet true.

  She exhaled, frustration threading through her breath. The fountain answered with its quiet, steady flow, indifferent to her struggle. The moonlight fractured across the basin, and for a moment her reflection wavered, blurred by the movement of water.

  She leaned closer, listening for the line that would not quite arrive.

  Oh, forbidden,

  The word lingered, unfinished, suspended between thought and sound.

  Then the square shattered.

  A burst of laughter split the quiet square.

  The laughter was nothing like the layered ease of patrons in an inn. It rose louder, jagged and uneven, breaking across the square in waves that felt hurled rather than shared. The sound cut through the quiet so sharply that Harahel found herself instinctively still, the half-formed melody dissolving beneath it.

  The sound came from the far end of the street, a cluster of voices approaching without restraint. Boots scuffed against stone. Someone shouted a half-sung refrain, deliberately off-key. Another voice answered with exaggerated mockery.

  A gang of fools rounded the corner, their motley garb catching the lanternlight in erratic flashes of red and gold. Bells stitched along sleeves and hems jingled without rhythm. Faces were painted in garish swirls, though the colors had smeared with sweat and drink.

  One of them stumbled against another, laughing too hard at something only they found amusing. Another dragged a battered drum behind him, striking it lazily between steps.

  As they drew nearer, the lanternlight shifted across their painted faces, and recognition tightened quietly within Harahel’s chest.

  Among them, though not quite of them, walked Merrick.

  The bells stitched along his sleeves were muted tonight, dulled by drink or dust, yet she would have known the angle of his shoulders anywhere, the unhurried confidence beneath the performance. The paint across his cheek had smeared, and his mask caught the lanternlight in fractured gleams.

  On another evening, she might have matched his wit with sure footing, ready to turn his mischief back upon him. Tonight, however, her heart rested too close to the surface, and her unfinished song left her unwilling to endure his mockery.

  Without drawing attention, Harahel slipped from the fountain’s edge and withdrew into the deeper shade cast by a nearby colonnade. Ivy crept thick along one of the pillars, and she positioned herself behind it, easing the lute close against her body so that no stray note might betray her.

  The fools spilled into the square in uneven formation, their laughter scattering against stone walls and returning to them distorted.

  “Sing it again!” one shouted.

  “No, no, the holy one!” another jeered, bowing in exaggerated reverence.

  The drum thudded in lazy punctuation beneath their noise.

  Merrick slowed as they passed the fountain, his gaze drifting toward the basin where the water still trembled faintly from her movement.

  His expression altered, subtle, almost imperceptible.

  One of the others clapped him on the shoulder, pulling him back into motion. He responded with an easy remark that earned another wave of laughter, yet before turning fully away, he cast a final glance toward the shadows lining the square.

  It was impossible to say whether he had seen her, or whether he merely sensed that someone listened.

  The gang continued on, their bells and drum fading gradually into another street, their disorder swallowed by distance until only the fountain’s quiet current remained.

  When she finally stepped from concealment, the melody she had been chasing no longer hovered at the edge of her thoughts. Drawing her cloak closer about her shoulders, she turned from the fountain and made her way home. The streets had grown quieter now, their lanterns burning low, their earlier laughter dissolved into sleep. With each step, the fragments of the melody returned.

  By the time she reached her cottage, resolve had settled where uncertainty had lingered.

  Inside, she did not pause to relight every lamp. With her lute in hand, she crossed to the bed and settled upon its edge, the familiar curve of the instrument resting against her ribs as though it had been waiting for her return.

  She let her fingers find the strings without hovering this time, drawing the opening chord slowly and allowing it to sound as it was. A second chord followed, then a third, the progression unfolding cleanly beneath her hands. Rather than measuring each word against memory, she allowed the lines to rise as they would, unguarded and unsoftened, trusting the shape they formed together.

  The melody strengthened as it moved, no longer circling itself in hesitation but carrying forward with quiet resolve. From beginning to end, she let it run its full course, each verse answering the one before it, the refrain lifting into place, the final line settling with a steadiness that required no revision. She played it through without interruption, without correction, allowing the song to stand as it had become.

  In shadows deep, where secrets lie,

  A love forbidden, hearts defy,

  Whispers soft, beneath moon's gaze,

  Two souls entwined in hidden ways.

  Oh, forbidden love, a dance we share,

  A melody that hangs in the air,

  Embracing fire, defying fate,

  In the dark, our hearts await.

  Through veiled glances, our story's told,

  A fragile truth, a love so bold,

  A stolen touch, a fleeting glance,

  In hidden corners, our hearts advance.

  Oh, forbidden love, a dance we share,

  A melody that hangs in the air,

  Embracing fire, defying fate,

  In the dark, our hearts await.

  But oh, the world conspires against,

  A love that's born in the shadows' nest,

  Yet still we stand, against the tide,

  Our hearts and souls, forever tied.

  In whispers soft, our love takes flight,

  A flame that burns through endless night,

  Though shrouded in secrecy, we dare,

  To keep this melody rare and fair.

  Oh, forbidden love, a dance we share,

  A melody that hangs in the air,

  Embracing fire, defying fate,

  In the dark, our hearts await.

  So let our love be woven true,

  In verses sung, and skies so blue,

  A melody of love untamed,

  In whispered echoes, it's proclaimed.

  As the song reached its final turn, Harahel’s voice wavered, carrying the last notes into the stillness of the room. They lingered for a breath before fading, leaving the silence intact and listening. She lowered her hands to the strings and remained there, feeling the aftershock of what she had given voice to.

  She set the lute aside and rose, a quiet vulnerability settling over her alongside a fragile release. Whether the song had eased her burden or simply clarified its shape, she could not yet tell.

  Only then did it occur to her how fully her thoughts had been consumed by Antioch and Soter, by memory, by doubt, by old devotion and unfinished severance. In turning so often between those two names, she had scarcely paused to consider the one she now served.

  Taliesin.

  She moved to the small space beside her bed and knelt, folding her hands in reverence.

  “My lord of song,” she murmured softly, “if my voice has strayed, draw it back. If my heart has divided, make it whole. Let what I sing be worthy of you.”

  The words were simple, yet they steadied her more than she expected. She remained there a moment longer, allowing the quiet to answer in its own way, before rising and slipping beneath the covers.

  Her thoughts did not immediately follow her into rest. The past two days, the ascension, the battle of songs, the hymnal, braided themselves together in restless patterns.

  Sleep did not claim her all at once. It gathered slowly, loosening her thoughts thread by thread until the room receded and the steady rhythm of her breathing deepened into something heavier, less restful than yielding. The warmth of her bed thinned, the boundaries of her body dimmed, and the familiar dark behind her closed eyes widened into something immeasurable.

  She became aware of standing within an expanse stripped of horizon and sky, where color and sound had been drawn away until only a vast, suspended stillness remained. Darkness extended in every direction, as though the world had been cleared to make room for an unveiling.

  Within that boundless void, form gathered slowly, light struggling against encroaching shadow until it shaped itself into something she knew.

  Taliesin stood before her, though not as she had last seen him. Shadow-bound cords coiled around his frame, tightening with patient inevitability, their texture shifting like living sinew. He did not fight against them; his stillness carried a strain more piercing than struggle. A thin veil of mist pressed across his mouth, swallowing any attempt at speech, while his eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that needed no voice to convey its plea.

  She moved toward him without hesitation, drawn by instinct deeper than thought, yet the ground beneath her softened and gave way. Darkness rose around her ankles, binding her where she stood. The void would not permit her to come closer.

  She tried to call his name, but the sound unraveled as soon as it formed, swallowed by the surrounding emptiness before it could reach him.

  The cords drew closer still, tightening increment by increment. Light flickered along the edges of his form, thinning as though some unseen force were steadily erasing him from the world he belonged to. She strained against the hold at her feet, desperation rising through her chest, but the distance between them refused to close, stretching instead into something immeasurable.

  She reached for him once more, forcing her body forward against the clinging dark, and the effort tore her upward through it.

  Her eyes opened on a ragged breath, the remnants of shadow collapsing inward as the ceiling above her slowly emerged from formless gray into wood and beam. The walls gathered next, familiar and close, while the faint light of approaching dawn pressed gently at the shutters, reassembling the small, solid boundaries of her room around her trembling frame.

  Yet the vision did not dissolve with waking. It remained vivid and unsoftened, clinging to her with the clarity of something witnessed rather than imagined. Whatever realm had opened before her had not felt like the wandering architecture of an anxious mind.

  It was real, and Taliesin was in danger.