The war smelled of oil and prayer.
Smoke hung over the Republic of Kaen like a second horizon. Somewhere beyond the haze, hammers sang on steel—steady, rhythmic, the heartbeat of a nation learning to weaponize faith. I followed the sound through the valley until the first forge came into view: an entire mountainside carved into workshops, every anvil wired to a lattice of glowing runes. Sparks rose in clouds. Each spark carried resonance.
They were forging emotion into metal.
When I stepped closer, the air thickened with heat and conviction. Dozens of smiths worked bare-armed, their movements guided by a single chant. A foreman beat a drum to keep the rhythm; the drum itself hummed faintly, tuned to the Thirteenth Tone. Every strike on molten iron echoed that impossible note I had birthed in Saint-Hollow.
"Don't stop the beat!" someone shouted. "The steel forgets if we falter!"
The men obeyed as if the words were law. Their eyes were glassy, mouths moving in unison. The resonance guided them. I could almost taste it—fear disguised as discipline.
I slipped through the crowd, hood low. My presence distorted the rhythm; nearby flames bent toward me, hungry for silence. A few smiths flinched, then looked away, uncertain why their hammers suddenly felt heavier.
At the heart of the forge stood a woman in officer's armor, her gauntlets red with heat. She swung a blade through the air and it sang—a high, perfect tone that sliced through the hammer chorus. The others froze instinctively. Authority wrapped her like aura.
Daya Voln.
Commander of the Kaen frontier legions. I remembered her name from intercepted reports—mercenary turned general, strategist by instinct, killer by necessity. The resonance shimmered around her blade, responding to pride, loyalty, exhaustion. Pure emotion feeding pure function.
"You temper it wrong," I said.
She turned, expression sharp. "And you are?"
"A listener."
The soldiers stared. Daya studied me for a heartbeat, then motioned the others back. "You've got the look of a scholar, not a craftsman. What do you hear?"
I pointed at the sword. "It sings too loudly. A perfect tone, but too perfect. Perfection fractures. Steel that resonates without flaw shatters under pressure."
She arched a brow. "And you know this because…?"
"I wrote the note you're chasing."
The forge fell silent.
Her eyes narrowed. "You expect me to believe you made the Thirteenth Tone?"
"I didn't make it," I said. "I broke something, and it sang."
A faint smile ghosted her lips. "Either a poet or a lunatic. Maybe both."
She gestured toward a table of unfinished blades. "Fine then, Teacher of Silence. Tell me what my forges are doing wrong."
I picked up one of the swords. The metal vibrated faintly, alive. With every heartbeat of the soldier who forged it, the blade inhaled a trace of his emotion. Rage, mostly; devotion next. A reservoir of humanity condensed into edge.
"Your people bind themselves to their weapons," I said. "Each swing burns their emotion faster. Eventually they'll run out of self to give."
"War burns everything," she answered. "At least this way, we choose what turns to ash."
She believed it. I admired that clarity, even as I despised its cost.
"What do you call them?" I asked.
"Echo Blades."
"They remember the last kill and strike truer each time."
Memory as sharpening stone. Efficient, fatal. I could see how quickly the doctrine had mutated.
A distant explosion rolled through the valley—one of the frontier tests. The forge workers paused, listening to the faint chorus of screams carried on the wind. Daya didn't flinch.
"Another resonance engine failed," she said. "They'll refine it."
"They're refining themselves to death," I replied.
She turned fully then, meeting my eyes. "You talk like you care."
"I care about data. Waste ruins results."
Something in my tone made her hesitate. "You really are him, aren't you? The Scholar of Saint-Hollow."
Rumor traveled faster than truth. I gave no answer. The silence was confirmation enough.
She sheathed the sword and studied the horizon. "If you built the tone, you can help us control it. Kaen's senate believes the Thirteenth Seal is the future of warfare. They're building an amplifier—something to make every soldier part of one resonance."
"The War Choir," I murmured.
She blinked. "You know?"
"I've heard the first rehearsal."
For a long moment, only the forges spoke. Finally she said, almost quietly, "You could stop them."
I shook my head. "I could, but I won't. Not yet. Observation first."
Daya studied me, seeing not indifference but the calculation behind it. "Observation ends in ashes," she said. "When the Choir sings, there won't be a world left to listen."
She left me then, barking orders, her soldiers hammering harder to drown doubt. The forge roared back to life, sparks flying like a meteor storm. Every strike carried the Thirteenth Tone, building a chorus of steel and despair.
I stepped outside. The night air shimmered faintly, carrying echoes of the forge—iron, fire, and human will. Each sound found a place inside me, feeding the Silent Lung. Power gathered, but uneasily; resonance wanted to expand, not rest.
In the distance, thunder rolled—no storm, only another engine exploding. A faint ringing followed, a bell's aftershock vibrating through the valley. The Thirteenth Tone again, restless, multiplying.
"The world learned to sing," I whispered. "Now let's see who survives the melody."