Tradesholm hummed all the time.

  The grown-ups said it was the sound of prosperity. I thought it sounded like the world grinding its teeth.

  Dust hung in the air like it had nowhere better to be. It settled in your hair, your boots, your teeth. If you stood still long enough, you became part of the mine. Father said that was “the mark of honest work.” I said it was itchy.

  Our house leaned against the side of the rock wall, as if it were afraid to fall in. Most of the town did. Stone stacked on stone, pale and practical. The people matched. Fair or brown hair, weathered skin, eyes that looked bleached by wind and grit.

  When the wind picked up, it carried the smell of copper and sweat and something sharp that made your nose wrinkle. Father said that smell meant money.

  He liked smells that meant money.

  “Focus, Soryn.”

  Father’s voice cut through the low hum of the mine. He stood with one palm pressed to the rock face, head tilted slightly as if listening to a secret. His hair was cornflower blonde once, now mostly dust that clung damply to his temples. His soft blue eyes were closed, lashes pale against grit-streaked skin.

  He looked like part of the mine. Just a little kinder.

  “Listen,” he said.

  I listened.

  Carts creaked. Picks rang against stone. Someone swore creatively in the lower shaft. Wind slipped through the mine mouth and carried the metallic tang of copper. Underneath it all was the hum. Low. Constant. Like a giant bee that refused to leave.

  “I don’t hear anything,” I said.

  One eye opened. Patient. Too patient. “You’re not hearing, Soryn. You’re listening wrong.”

  That was unhelpful.

  He tapped the stone and sent a gentle Resonance pulse into it. It was gentle, like knocking on a door. The rock answered him. I knew because he smiled.

  “There,” he murmured. “Hollow vein running left. Weak point just under the ridge.”

  I placed my own hand against the stone. It was cold and faintly damp. I tried to feel what he felt.

  Nothing answered me. The rock, apparently, did not respect children.

  “I think it’s ignoring me,” I muttered.

  “Stone doesn’t ignore,” Father said. “It responds to rhythm.”

  “Well,” I said, pressing harder, “I am clearly off-beat.”

  He huffed a quiet laugh despite himself. “You can hear the rhythm just fine, Soryn.”

  That was the problem. I could hear rhythm. Boots striking earth in perfect time from the training grounds nearby. The measured clang of steel. Even Mother’s chopping knife at home had a steady cadence.

  But this? This invisible hum everyone swore was obvious? It tangled in my head like threads pulled too tight.

  “Maybe it doesn’t like me,” I muttered.

  “Stone doesn’t care whether it likes you,” Father said. “It answers strength and patience.”

  “I’ve been patient for nearly seven minutes,” I said. “That’s a very long time.”

  Father sighed the restrained sort that meant he loved me but wished I came with clearer instructions. Before he could answer, a shadow fell across us.

  “Before you teach her to bully rocks,” Mother said, “you might teach her to eat.”

  She always arrived like that. Quiet until she wasn’t. She carried a straw basket hooked over one arm, wrapped in cloth to keep the dust out. It never worked. Nothing in Tradesholm was ever truly dust-free. The dust simply waited.

  Her black hair (which was a rarity in these parts) was braided tight against her head, dark as coal and glossy despite the mine air. Her eyes (narrow, sharp, and nearly black) missed nothing. She was smaller than most in Tradesholm. Slimmer. Quieter in stance, though never in presence.

  People stared sometimes.

  I stared back harder.

  Father straightened like he’d been caught doing something bad, which was impressive considering he was only knocking on stone.

  “You spoil us,” he said, stepping toward her.

  “I feed you,” she corrected.

  He took the basket like it contained jewels instead of bread, meat stew and cheese.

  Mother brushed dust from my cheek with her thumb. “How goes the lesson?”

  “She refuses to listen to the stone,” Father answered for me. Then added, “And to me.”

  “I am not refusing,” I muttered. “The rock is.”

  Mother smiled like she knew something I didn’t. She handed me a piece of bread and a wedge of cheese wrapped in cloth. We sat together on the crate. Their shoulders touched in a way that felt unnecessary for eating.

  “You’ll find your rhythm,” Father said, tearing bread and giving the larger piece to Mother without looking. “Everyone does.”

  “Not if they’re tone-deaf.”

  He smiled gently. “You hear the soldiers. Perfect step. Perfect timing.”

  “That’s different.” I pouted in annoyance.

  He studied Mother as he spoke next, voice lowering into that thoughtful register that meant something Important was about to be said. “Every man and woman needs a Reason that drives them forward. Something that gives their Resonance meaning.”

  Rhythm. Reason.

  Right. Sometimes I think Father just strings together words that are supposed to mean something to me… and then watches to see if I nod convincingly.

  He looks at me and waits. Mother gave him a warning look.

  “And what’s yours?” I asked, already regretting it.

  He didn’t hesitate. “Love.”

  I gagged on bread.

  Mother smacked my shoulder lightly. “Manners.”

  “It’s true,” Father said, eyes bright. “Your mother is the reason I strike stone instead of letting it strike me. Love gives a person strength. And patience. And appreciation for certain–”

  Mother’s palm strikes the back of his head. “What are you saying to a child?!”

  “I was complimenting your cooking!”

  “You were not!”

  “I was about to.”

  “You were about to embarrass yourself!”

  He grinned. “Her stew is poetry.”

  “That is acceptable,” Mother allowed.

  I stood quickly. “I’m eating somewhere else.”

  “Stay where we can see you,” Mother said.

  “I will,” I promised, which was not entirely untrue. I carried my food toward the training grounds.

  The soldiers moved in formation, boots striking earth in clean rhythm.

  Thud. Turn. Strike.

  That rhythm made sense.

  And then I saw her.

  She wasn’t the tallest. Or the loudest. But she moved like she belonged to the wind instead of the ground. Auburn hair caught the sunlight, tied back but rebellious at the edges. When she turned, her dark blue eyes flashed… not pale like Father’s, but deep. Like the sea I’d only heard about. A scout’s insignia rested on her shoulder.

  She laughed at something another scout said. It was quick. Easy. Unbothered. Then she looked toward the mine. Toward me.

  Our eyes met.

  Oh.

  Oh no.

  She noticed.

  I did what any rational, mature person would do. I panicked and tried to flee. Unfortunately, I ran directly into something that did not move. Or rather… someone.

  I bounced off an iron-plated chest. My bread flew off to Guide knows where. “Oof.” I staggered backward and craned my neck up. The knight sergeant (because of course it would be him) stood like a mountain that had learned to wear armor. He was broader than Father by a full quarried stone. His shadow could cover a small cart if positioned correctly.

  He looked down at me with amused gray eyes beneath a heavy brow. “If you stared any longer,” he rumbled, “my poor scout will melt on the spot.”

  Heat shot straight to my ears. “I was not staring,” I said quickly. “I was observing.”

  “Ah.” He folded his arms. “Observing.”

  “For tactical purposes.”

  He raised one brow.

  “I’ve never seen a scout move that gracefully before,” I added, because that sounded safer. Behind me, I heard a soft voice, light and teasing.

  “You think I’m graceful?”

  I froze.

  Slowly… Very slowly… I looked behind me.

  She was there. Dark blue eyes squinting from a barely contained smile. Close enough that I could see the faint dust along her cheekbone. Close enough that my brain stopped functioning entirely.

  “I-- well-- that is-- statistically speaking–” I began.

  She tilted her head, smile growing. “Statistically?” The sergeant chuckled like distant thunder.

  “She means yes,” he said.

  “I did not say that!”

  “You did with your eyes,” he replied drolly.

  I considered lying down and letting the earth reclaim me. Instead, I straightened, because dignity is important when one is twelve and actively combusting. “I simply appreciate skill,” I said stiffly. “It is educational.”

  The scout stepped forward, a thumb hooking casually on the loop of her belt. “Educational?” She echoed. “Do you train?”

  “With stone,” I said.

  Her gaze flicked toward the mines. “Resonance?”

  “Yes.” I hesitated. “Allegedly.”

  The corner of her mouth twitched. “Well,” she said, glancing at the sergeant, “perhaps she should try something with a little less… silence.”

  Before I could process what that meant, the sergeant barked a short laugh. “Careful, Kess.” Kess. So that was her name.

  He looked down at me again. “You want to try a blade, little observer?”

  My brain screamed no. My pride said absolutely. “Yes,” I said.

  The scout’s smile widened. It was not mocking. More… curious interest. She drew a short training blade from the rack nearby and held it out to me handle-first. “Here,” she said gently. “It won’t bite.” That felt like a promise and a threat.

  I took it. It was heavier than I expected. Not like stone! Stone was solid and unmoving. This had balance. Potential.

  She stepped behind me to adjust my grip. “Relax your wrist,” she murmured. Her hand brushed mine.

  I forgot how wrists worked.

  “There,” she said softly and corrected my grip. “That’s better.”

  “Now,” Kess continued, stepping around to face me properly, “you’ve been taught to listen to the Resonance, haven’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said. “It refuses to cooperate.”

  She shook her head in amusement. “That’s because you’re treating it like a lecture.” I blinked. “The Resonance isn’t something you wait for,” she said. “You answer it. You sing with it.”

  I stared at her. “Sing,” I repeated.

  “Yes.”

  That was… nothing like what I’d been taught.

  She nodded. “The hum you feel under everything? That’s not merely sound. It’s intention. When we train… we don’t just follow it. We slip inside it. We borrow it. Then we bend it.”

  “That sounds illegal,” I muttered. The sergeant snorted quietly.

  Kess ignored him. “Close your eyes.” I obeyed. The training yard beat that familiar rhythm around me-- boots striking earth, steel shifting, breath and dust, and the distant groan of mine carts.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  “Find the Resonance,” she said softly. “Not in the stone. In yourself.”

  That was the problem. I can hear it in everything else except me.

  “There,” she murmured and pressed a hand against my back. “Feel how it moves through your chest? Through your arms?” I felt… my heart attempting escape.

  “When you hear it,” she said. “answer it. Let it rise. Let it carry your movement.”

  “How?”

  “Like you’re singing along to a tune you already know.”

  I opened one eye.

  “I cannot sing,” I informed her seriously. “For the love of the Great Guide’s milkers, I absolutely cannot sing.” To clarify… What I produce when I attempt a song has been described accurately as a dying wail of a cat who regrets its life choices.

  Her mouth twitched like it did before. Stifling amusement. “It’s not literal. Let your soul tune into the Resonance and answer its song.”

  “That is not reassuring.”

  “Try.”

  I inhaled and did what felt right… or at least close enough. I pushed like I was trying to flex a muscle I’d never been born with. I made my soul sing along, pictured the hum rising inside me, and… Something flared!

  Briefly.

  The blade in my hand jerked forward far too hard. My wrist twisted. My stance collapsed. I stumbled, windmilling in what I hoped resembled a controlled maneuver but likely resembled a chicken in distress.

  The Resonance flickered out immediately, as if offended. I nearly fell but Kess caught my upper arm before I embarrassed myself completely. The yard had gone quieter. Not silent, but quieter. Someone coughed like they were hiding a chuckle. And the sergeant cleared his throat in a way that was deeply unhelpful.

  Heat crawled up my neck. “I told you,” I muttered, staring at the ground. “I can’t sing.”

  Kess released my arm gently. “It’s normal,” she said.

  “It did not look normal.”

  “It is,” she insisted. “You’re trying to force it.”

  “My father says to listen.”

  “And he’s right,” she said. “For stone. For mining. But for combat? For people? You don’t wait for the world to answer. You answer first.”

  That felt… different.

  I glanced at her. “You make it sound easy.”

  “It wasn’t,” she said lightly which surprised me.

  “I was terrible,” she added. “Worse than that.” She gestured vaguely at the sword I dropped near my feet.

  “That seems unlikely.”

  She laughed softly. “I promise you. I couldn’t hold a blade straight when I started. I only improved after I entered the Knights Academy at Albaris.” The name sounded like a place with tall towers and clean streets and significantly less dust.

  “They hone you there,” she said. “Resonance control. Discipline. Movement. You train with others who are just as bad as you are.”

  “That is comforting,” I admitted.

  She smiled again. “You’re not meant to be good yet. That’s what the academy is for.”

  The academy.

  The words settled somewhere strange inside me.

  The sergeant shifted behind us.“Name?” He asked me.

  “Soryn,” I said, trying very hard to appear composed. “Soryn Asher.”

  The sergeant’s expression shifted. “Asher?” He repeated.

  “Yes?”

  He looked at me more carefully then. From my black hair which was coal-dark like Mother’s, and to my wide blue eyes. “Harlan Asher,” he said. “You’re his kid?”

  “Yes,” I said slowly. “Why wouldn’t I be? Did he forget to sign the birth certificate?”

  He snorted under his breath. “You’re your old man’s kid, alright.”

  I frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  He smiled but there was something else in his eyes. Something almost like pity. “You will,” he muttered. I did not like that answer.

  Kess stepped around me and offered a hand properly this time. “Tarin Kess,” she said, as I automatically clasped my hand around hers. “Scout division.”

  Her grip was firm. Warm.

  There was a long awkward silence as Tarin Kess’s twinkling eyes bore down on me.

  Great Guide piss-stained breeches, smite me now… and maybe pry my hand off while you’re at it!

  “Soryn Asher,” I blurted out, realizing I’d already said it and winced. “In case you forgot.”

  She gave me a look that suggested she absolutely did remember and was quietly enjoying my panic. She pushed the training sword back onto my hands. “Show me your stance, Soryn Asher,” she said.

  I raised the blade. It wobbled. She stepped closer again, adjusting my shoulders. “Graceful,” the sergeant muttered under his breath.

  “I heard that,” I snapped. Tarin laughed… soft and bright.

  The rhythm of boots and clashing training swords resumed around us. For the first time in my life, I didn’t need to listen for the mine’s hum. I had found something louder.

  —--------------------------------------------

  It had been a few days since the scouts left. And Tradesholm felt smaller without them.

  The training yard behind the eastern wall had returned to being what it always was… a patch of dirt where boys with sticks pretended to be heroes and gave up when they got bored. No silver glint of proper steel. No sharp commands. No Tarin.

  Just wind.

  I remember from the beginning that Father had not been pleased. He’d found out (of course he had) that in the three days after my first lesson, I had taken two more. Sword drills at dawn. Resonance exercises that left my bones humming and my pride in shambles. “You don’t need to know these things,” he’d said.

  I agreed. I truly did. I liked our life. I liked stone and dust and bread still warm from the oven. I had never once woken wishing to fight in some distant war. But I had not told him the real reason.

  I wanted to be near Tarin. Which felt like a ridiculous thing to declare while standing ankle-deep in mud from earth washed out from the mines.

  Father’s jaw had gone tight when I remained stubbornly silent. “You don’t have the talent for Resonance, Soryn. Let alone the makings of a soldier.”

  That had stung.

  Not because I believed I was some hidden prodigy. I knew perfectly well my “singing” sounded like a dying cat pleading for mercy. But it was the first time something had pulled at me from the inside. And he dismissed it.

  I was obedient. Granted, I usually complained first. Loudly, and with impressive creativity. But I obeyed in the end. I always had. This time, I only nodded once. Sharp. Final. Then I turned and walked away before my face betrayed me.

  And then I held my anger quietly. I did my chores. I answered when spoken to. I left the room quickly when I could.

  Father, for his part, tried twice to start a conversation about the weather and once about copper ore tariffs. I escaped each attempt with suspicious efficiency.

  We were both stubborn but mine was quieter.

  I began sneaking out. Not far. Just far enough to “happen” to pass by the outer fields when the scout division trained beyond the walls. I never joined them again. Father’s disapproval had been clear.

  But watching did not count as defiance. It was observational research.

  Purely academic.

  I would stand by the wheat fields and pretend to be deeply interested in clouds while Tarin moved like steel had been born in her hands. Something inside me always pulled taut when she trained. Like a string waiting to be plucked.

  I came home later than usual one evening.

  Mother was waiting, seated by the doorway outside, hands folded in her lap, as though she had always intended to be precisely there at precisely that hour.

  “Were you Listening today?” she asked. Not, ‘Where were you?’ Listening.

  I hesitated. “To what?”

  She tilted her head slightly. “To yourself.”

  That almost sounded accusatory which I found deeply unfair. “I was only walking.”

  She hummed thoughtfully and allowed the silence to stretch. Mother does not fill silence. She let it do its work. After a moment of watching me fidget on the spot, she asked, “Is this your Reason?”

  I swallowed. “What?”

  “The one your father spoke of. The Reason that drives you forward. Is this it? The thing that makes you hold your anger so tightly?”

  I stared at the cobblestones underneath my feet. “I just…” The words felt clumsy. “I want to be around her.” There. It was out.

  Mother did not smile nor did she tease. “You’re finally being honest,” she said.

  I frowned and looked away. “Is that a good Reason to be stubborn?” I asked, a little mulish despite myself. Any answer would do, really. Anything to satisfy her curiosity so I could retreat inside the house.

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On whether it is truly your Reason,” she said softly, “or only your hurt.”

  That lodged somewhere uncomfortable. “I don’t want to be a soldier,” I muttered.

  “No?”

  “No.” I hesitated. “But when I train… when I try to sing with the blade… something answers.”

  Mother’s gaze sharpened almost imperceptibly. “And what does it say?”

  “I don’t know.” My voice dropped. “It just feels… loud.”

  She nodded slowly. “It is good to Sing, Soryn,” she said. “But never forget to Listen. If you do not listen first, you may mistake noise for music.”

  I scowled faintly. “That sounds like something Father would say.”

  She smiled. “Your father listens more than you think.”

  I doubted that.

  She rose then and brushed imaginary dust from her skirt. “I will speak with him.”

  “About what?”

  “About allowing you to train.”

  I blinked. “He won’t agree.”

  “Perhaps,” she said mildly. “But listening is not the same as agreeing.”

  I had no idea what that meant.

  Father said nothing about my training with the scouts again after that. He neither forbade it nor encouraged it. Which was somehow worse.

  On my thirteenth birthday, a month since I first met her… Tarin had asked me to walk with her beyond the wheat fields. I spent an unreasonable amount of time wondering if this had constituted a date or if she had found out somehow and wanted to spare me the humiliation of being rejected in public.

  She walked beside me, hands clasped behind her back, expression thoughtful. “Happy birthday, Soryn.”

  “Thank you,” I managed, perfectly composed… or so I told myself.

  She stopped near the edge of the wheat fields. The grains burned gold in the setting sun and reflected that gold back into her eyes. The deep blue sea was gone. Instead, they smouldered like green fire. She held something out to me. A shortsword. It was simple, balanced, and honest.

  My throat tightened.

  “For you,” she said. “So you don’t forget how to sing.”

  I took it carefully. “I won’t.”

  Her smile wavered. “We’re returning to Albaris tomorrow.” Of course they were. The world did not pause for my convenience.

  “Oh,” I said brilliantly and did not cry. I considered it a triumph.

  She stepped back. “You’ll decide what you want, Soryn. Not anyone else.” Then she turned and walked away before I could embarrass myself further.

  The scouts left without a grand farewell, only sleepy chatter, banners, and the distant rhythm of hooves fading into morning. Tradesholm swallowed the silence afterward.

  The yard was empty. The fields were ordinary. I felt foolish for how hollow my chest felt.

  I was quiet for days after while Father watched. He finally spoke about it while we were sitting together by the hearth after dinner. Mother had gone to bed. I was holding the blade Tarin had given me on my lap. “Have you found your Reason?”

  I stared at the steel. At my faint reflection warped along its length, blue eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “I don’t know.”

  He was silent for a long time. Then, gruffly, “I won’t deny you the chance to find out.” I looked up. He met my gaze steadily. “If you’re going to chase this… you’ll do it properly.”

  My pulse jumped. “Properly?”

  “I’ll teach you,” he said. “The sword song.”

  I blinked. “You said I didn’t have the talent.”

  “You don’t,” he replied bluntly. I scowled at that. “But talent isn’t the same as drive.” He leaned forward and adjusted my grip on the blade. “Listen first,” he said quietly. “Then sing.”

  The sword felt different in my hands. Not lighter but clearer.

  Perhaps Tarin was not my Reason. Perhaps she was only the beginning of it. Whatever it was, it was calling.

  And this time, I intended to listen.

  —--------------------------------------------

  There were many times I wanted to ask my father how in the Guide’s favorite third bastard he knew the things he knew. I had been asking for months until I turned 14. He had been refusing for just as long.

  “You’ll know,” he would say. “Later.” Always with that grim set to his mouth. That carefully blank expression. As though knowledge were something measured in rations.

  A year of training passed like that. A year of steel and blood. Father never held back. We used real blades and not blunted practice swords. Real steel that rang and bit and occasionally drank. Tarin’s gift was taking a beating from Father’s heavy strikes. Mother always watched and never interfered.

  But her brows furrowed deeper with each cut. Her knuckles turned white around the basket she carried. Bandages, herbs, needle and thread. As though she could will the bleeding to behave.

  Father taught me to counter. Only counter. “You are too weak to overpower anyone,” he said plainly. “So do not try.”

  My Resonance lasted in trickles. A thin drip of strength that vanished the moment his blade pressed hard enough. When we sang against one another, his steel swallowed mine whole. He did not teach defense. “Defense gets you cornered,” he barked.

  He did not teach dominance. “Attacks get you cut.”

  He taught me to wait. To bait. To step where no one expected. To cheat.

  “Precision,” he snapped. “Do not watch my sword. Watch my shoulders. The blade follows the body, not the other way around.”

  Reaction. Reflex. Strategy. Escape.

  He trained me like a man who expected me to face overwhelming foes and lose. He did not train me like a knight. And strangely… He never once taught me how to strengthen my Resonance. Not properly. That absence festered.

  Was I truly so hopeless? So talentless? Was I being taught to survive a battle because he did not believe I could win?

  The question rotted like an untended wound festering with pus. Until one morning, it finally burst.

  Steel rang. My grip slipped. His blade carved a thin line along my forearm. I did not even feel the sting. “Why?” I demanded, tears blurring my sight. “Why are you teaching me to fight like a rat?” Mother stiffened behind him.

  Father did not lower his sword. “Because you are a girl,” he said evenly. “You will never be physically stronger than most men.”

  The words hit harder than steel.

  “Haven forbid,” he continued, “that men like the sergeant struggle against a Drakari warrior on the field. If grown Solivari soldiers cannot overpower them, what do you think brute strength will do for you?”

  My chest heaved. “If you would just teach me to Resonate properly!” Silence fell.

  Mother stepped forward slightly. “Dear…”

  Father did not sheathe his sword immediately. He stood there for a long moment, chest rising once, slowly. As though choosing whether this was a door worth opening.

  At last, he expelled his breath with a defeated sigh then turned toward the house, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “Min,” he said quietly, without looking at her. “Bring the chest.”

  Mother hesitated. Just a fraction. Then she nodded and disappeared inside.

  I wiped at my face angrily. I hated that I had cried. Hated that my voice had cracked. The cut on my arm began to sting now that the anger had drained from it.

  Father motioned to the low stone bench near the wall of our house. “Sit.”

  I almost argued. Almost. Instead, I obeyed like always.

  He wiped the sword clean of my blood before sheathing it. Then removed his gloves with deliberate care and tucked them inside his pocket. His hands were scarred. I had seen those scars my whole life, but I had never thought to ask where they came from. He picked up the basket of healing items Mother left behind, knelt in front of me, and grabbed some herbs to squeeze over my wound.

  A minty cold was followed by burning pain. I hissed at the feeling, long used to such hurts by now that I had stopped crying over it. At least the wounds were always shallow enough that they wouldn’t scar. And he never hits the same area once he draws blood. Father was very careful about that.

  “We were not always Ashers,” he said at last after bandaging my arm.

  I frowned. “What do you mean?”

  His jaw tensed. “Our name was once longer.” That meant nothing to me. “We were Val Asher.”

  I blinked. “Val?”

  “The patriarchal line of nobility,” he said. “Vey for the matriarchal houses. You know this.”

  “I know the words,” I said slowly. “I didn’t know they belonged to us.”

  “They do not. Not anymore.”

  The wind shifted between us, carrying the dry scent of herbs, sweat, and dust.

  “We were Iron Lords,” he continued. “Small. Unremarkable. We owned a mine. We traded in ores and were talented with metallurgy. One house among many that fill noble coffers with something practical instead of beautiful.”

  “We were nobility?” The words felt strange in my mouth.

  “Barely,” he said. “But enough that when the Drakari invaded, our House was required to answer the call.” His gaze drifted somewhere far beyond the fields. “Our ancestors did not wish to.”

  Something in his tone made my spine straighten.

  “They were meant to ride with the knights. To fight. To Resonate with the Guiding Voice.” Father’s face hardened. “They poisoned themselves instead.”

  The word dropped like a stone in water. “Poisoned?” I echoed.

  “To damage their attunement,” Father said flatly. “They weakened their connection to the Resonance so that they could not be called to serve as knights.”

  I stared at him. “That’s-- ” I stuttered in a shocked gasp. “That’s blasphemy!”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened?”

  “They were discovered.” His voice did not waver. “The entire family was nearly executed. Instead, mercy was granted.” That word sounded bitter. “Even the innocents were ordered to take the same poison. All of them. To cripple their attunement. To ensure no Asher would ever again stand among the Resonant elite.”

  My throat tightened. “And their title was…”

  “Stripped. Disgraced. The Val removed. We became… simply Asher.”

  The wind seemed colder now. “The poison did not leave,” Father continued. “It lingered. Passed from blood to blood. A dulling. A deafness.”

  My thoughts raced backward. My own failed attempts to sing, the thin drip of Resonance that never completely swelled, the way my sword song seemed to fray against steel.

  “We are tone deaf,” I said faintly.

  “Yes.” The word was not cruel, but it was the truth.

  “Are you?” I asked, before I could stop myself.

  He looked at me. Then, to my complete horror, he inhaled and sang.

  It was… catastrophic.

  It began somewhere near a note and then abandoned it entirely. The sound wavered like a dying goat caught in a storm. I clapped both hands over my ears in self-defense.

  The back door creaked open. Mother stepped out just as Father attempted a higher pitch. “Harlan,” she said sharply. “If you continue, the birds will start dropping again.”

  He stopped. I stared at him. “You’re worse than I am,” I whispered.

  “Consider it proof,” he said dryly. The absurdity of it almost made me laugh. Almost. But the weight of his earlier words returned swiftly.

  “If our blood is cursed,” I said slowly, “then what is the point?”

  Father did not answer immediately. His gaze shifted to the object cradled in Mother’s arms as she moved closer to us. It was a small wooden chest. Old. Scratched. She carried it as though it weighed far more than wood should.

  Her eyes met Father’s. He nodded once. She placed it between us and clicked the latch open with a sound too loud in the quiet yard.

  Inside lay folded fabric. Father reached in carefully, almost reverently, and drew it out.

  A surcoat.

  Deep black once, though time had faded it to a dark gray. Torn through at the side. Stiff in places where blood had long ago dried and darkened. At its center was a crest. A crow. Wings spread. Beak open.

  I stared at it. My pulse pounded in my ears.

  Father’s fingers tightened slightly on the worn cloth. “I was a student once. In the Knights Academy of the Argent Hall,” he said. His eyes met mine. “And maybe you will succeed where I had failed.”

  —--------------------------------------------

  The year after Father revealed the truth of our name did not break me. The next two tried. He did not train me only with the sword. That had been my foolish assumption.

  Knights use swords. Songs are tuned to sharp metal. Blunt weapons and spears are pointless against those who can bend Resonance like an unseen shield. Steel tuned properly can cut through what force cannot.

  That was what I believed. That was what I argued.

  “Swords are the knight’s weapon,” I insisted one afternoon, bruised and irritated, holding a walking stick as though it personally offended me. “Blunt weapons are useless. You can’t sing with them properly.”

  Father struck my ankle with the butt of his own walking stick.

  I yelped.

  “Then what,” he barked, “are you going to do if you lose your sword?”

  I opened my mouth, then closed it. He struck again. Not hard, but enough to remind me that indignation did not equal defense.

  “Everything,” he said, pressing the shaft of the stick against my shoulder, “is a weapon.”

  And so I learned about spears, daggers, staff, and even the weighted rope he once used to yank my feet out from under me.

  “You are not strong,” he repeated often. “So you must be clever.” He taught me to strike joints. To step where balance faltered. To throw sand if I must. To trip, shove, distract.

  “To wait,” he reminded me. “Stronger foes grow impatient.”

  He never taught me to overpower. He taught me to endure. And when I protested that knights fought with honor… “Honor,” he snapped, “is often decided by the one still standing.”

  He taught me survival too. How to build a shelter from broken branches and damp leaves. How to find warmth and sustenance without announcing myself to everything nearby. How to track footprints by depth and stride. How to disappear.

  “Wear dark colors,” he said. “You will end up taking night duty. All those the Academy considers trash will take the night watch. Blending in the darkness will get you out of most trouble when it comes looking.”

  That word again.

  Trash.

  He said it without bitterness, which somehow made it worse. It was then I began to understand something else. Father had been tormented with that word by others. So much that he had grown used to it.

  Not for the disgrace as a Val Asher, since they were a house so minor… so insignificant… that (according to Father) they were completely forgotten in history. No. He had been tormented because he could not sing like they could. Because he endured. He survived. And in the Academy, survival without brilliance was apparently unforgivable.

  Tradesholm had never been cruel like that. Common folk judged with their eyes, perhaps. Whispered. Kept distance from anything that smelled faintly of nobility, but they did not torment. They did not hunt weakness for sport.

  The thought unsettled me.

  I had been loved here. Sheltered and safe.

  Mother saw the fear on my face long before I spoke it. She sighed one night as I sat staring at the darkening skies beyond our window. “Come,” she said. “If you insist on walking into a nest of prideful vipers, I will prepare you.” We sat together by the hearth, ignoring Father’s cheerful whistling from across the room as he peeled potatoes for tonight’s dinner.

  Mother did not teach with blades. She taught with words. “You are already obedient,” she said. “That is good. You cannot win a battle of pride with those born thinking they are entitled to it.”

  She taught me to nod without agreeing. To answer without promising. To accept praise without being trapped by it.

  “If someone says, ‘Surely someone as talented as you would volunteer,’ you reply?”

  “I would be honored to consider it,” I recited.

  “Good. You have promised nothing.”

  She taught me to listen for hooks hidden inside flattery. To recognize when someone wished to own my loyalty. “To high society,” she said, “words are weapons sharper than steel.” Then, with a heavier sigh, she added, “And you must also learn the opposite.”

  “Aren’t we already low society?” I asked.

  “There are always lower,” she said evenly.

  She taught me how thieves marked potential victims. How violent men tested boundaries. How to move through crowded streets without inviting notice. How to get help from the very people others dismissed.

  “There are times when evil is necessary,” she said quietly. “No matter what those Knights preach about chivalry.”

  I stared at her.

  “How in the Guide’s left nut do you know all this?”

  She smirked.

  “Were you nobility too?” I demanded.

  “Quite the opposite,” she replied calmly. “A con artist. A rather good one.”

  My jaw dropped.

  “I managed to trick your father into marrying me.”

  From across the room where Father was now boiling the potatoes, he muttered, “You most certainly did not…” Mother continued to ignore him.

  She later apologized that she could not prepare me academically. “I am a foreigner,” she admitted. “And your father was a dreadful student.”

  “I was not dreadful,” Father protested faintly.

  “Don’t worry, Mother,” I said quickly. “At least I know how to read. I’ll study when I go.”

  Mother paused. “You truly intend to go through with it? To the Academy?” she asked quietly. “After everything you now know?”

  I hesitated. “I don’t know if it will be worth it,” I admitted. “I just… want to see Tarin again.”

  Mother’s brow lifted slightly. “You are very young for such devotion.”

  “I don’t know if it’s love,” I said honestly. “Maybe I’ll last a month. At least I tried. Maybe I’ll return to become a guardswoman for Tradesholm.”

  Father studied me long and hard during dinner that night. He did not forbid me, nor did he discourage me. He just nodded and chewed on the mashed potatoes thoughtfully.

  —--------------------------------------------

  Years passed. Training hardened me. I was lean and muscular like a whip that can crack stone open. My reflexes sharpened. My Resonance remained thin but steadier. However, to my dismay, I only grew an inch. Oh, Great Guide’s barnacle-fested behind, is this because I have committed the sin of calling your name in vain?

  Sixteen arrived quietly. The right age. The Academy would not turn me away now. The journey would take thirty days on foot. Less, if I accepted rides from wagons or passing horsemen.

  “Judge them carefully,” Mother warned, tucking a rolled map of Solivane into my pocket. “Kindness is not always safe.” Her lip trembled as she looked me over before stepping back to allow Father his moment.

  Father adjusted the straps of my pack himself. His hand settled on my shoulder. “Val Ashers may have been cowards,” he said quietly. “But we are simply Ashers.” His grip tightened. “I am proud of you for facing what frightened me.”

  I found it hard to breathe. “Choose your battles wisely.” I nodded at his parting words before I turned around to set off for Albaris.