The following night found Elara slipping through the palace corridors like a shadow, her cloak pulled tight against the chill draft that whispered through the stone halls. The melodic orbs floated lazily overhead, their soft humming lullabies a constant reminder of the world she was defying. Every step felt heavier than the last, charged with anticipation and fear.
She had spent the day in a daze—enduring lessons with Lady Seraphine on court etiquette, nodding through council meetings where nobles debated trade routes and border wards as if her upcoming coronation were already settled. All the while, her mind replayed the vault: the drum's pulse, Thorne's steady gaze, the way his hand had lingered near hers on the hide.
My blood remembers.
His words echoed in her thoughts, stirring something warm and unsettling. No one had ever looked at her the way he had last night—not with pity or obligation, but with quiet belief.
She reached the archives without incident, the hidden panel yielding to her touch as if it recognized her now. The spiral stairs descended into familiar darkness, and the torch ignited on its own, bathing the vault in flickering orange light.
Thorne was already there.
He stood beside the pedestal, one hand resting lightly on the drum's frame, as if listening to a conversation only he could hear. When he turned at her approach, the torchlight caught the sharp lines of his face, softening them just enough to make her breath hitch.
"You're early, Your Highness," he said, a hint of amusement in his voice. But his eyes—those steel-gray eyes—held something deeper, scanning her as if checking for harm.
"I couldn't wait," Elara admitted, pulling back her hood. Her hair tumbled loose, auburn waves framing her face in the dim light. She stepped closer, drawn by the drum... or perhaps by him. "And down here, you can call me Elara."
Thorne's brows lifted slightly, but he nodded. "Elara." He said her name slowly, like testing its weight, and the sound of it from his lips sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the cold.
They stood in silence for a moment, the space between them shrinking without either moving. Close enough now that she could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the way his uniform strained slightly at the shoulders. Close enough to smell the faint scent of leather and pine that clung to him from his patrols.
"Shall we begin?" he asked, voice softer than before.
She nodded, grateful for the distraction. They positioned themselves on opposite sides of the drum, hands hovering over the hide.
"Start simple," Thorne instructed. "Feel the beat first. Not force it. Let it come from here." He pressed a fist lightly to his chest, over his heart.
Elara mirrored him, then brought her palms down in a gentle thump-thump... thump. The runes flickered to life, crimson light pulsing in time.
"Good," Thorne murmured. "Now sync with me."
He joined her, his larger hands tapping a counter-rhythm: thump... thump-thump. Their beats intertwined, building into something steady, grounding. The air in the vault thickened, charged with energy that raised the hairs on her arms.
Power surged through her—not the refined flow of melody she had envied all her life, but something wilder, deeper. It coiled in her chest, waiting.
"Direct it," Thorne said, his voice low and close. He leaned in slightly to guide her wrist. "Imagine a shield. Around us."
His fingers brushed hers as he adjusted her position—warm, callused from sword work. The touch lingered a fraction longer than necessary, sending heat racing up her arm. Elara's focus wavered; her next beat faltered, and the energy spiked unpredictably.
The runes flared bright crimson. A shockwave rippled outward, slamming into the nearest melodic ward embedded in the palace walls above—a subtle protective charm woven into the stone centuries ago.
Upstairs, in the royal wing, a crystal vase shattered without warning. Guards shouted in alarm.
Down in the vault, the backlash hit them like a gust of wind. Elara stumbled back, but Thorne caught her arm, steadying her. His grip was firm, protective, pulling her close enough that she could feel the rapid beat of his heart through his uniform.
"Easy," he breathed, his face inches from hers. In the crimson glow, his eyes looked darker, intense. "You did it. A real spell."
Elara stared up at him, breathless. "I... shattered a ward."
A slow smile spread across his face—rare and genuine, transforming his usually guarded expression. "You did." His thumb brushed unconsciously along her arm before he released her, stepping back as if realizing how close they'd been.
The distance felt colder suddenly.
"We need control," he said, clearing his throat. "But that's proof. You're not silent, Elara. You're just speaking a different language."
She rubbed her arm where his hand had been, the skin tingling. "Show me more."
They practiced for hours—simple rhythms for focus, faster ones for bursts of strength. Thorne demonstrated patterns his grandmother had taught him: foot stomps that grounded energy, hand claps that sharpened it. With each success, Elara's confidence grew, the power responding more eagerly to her touch.
But questions gnawed at her. Between rhythms, she turned to Lady Seraphine's lessons for answers.
"I need to understand why this was banned," she said during a break, leaning against the pedestal. Thorne stood nearby, wiping sweat from his brow.
He hesitated. "The war. Rhythm mages—drummers—were said to be too powerful. Unpredictable. They could shatter entire symphonies with a single beat. When the dragons fell..."
"Dragons?" Elara pressed.
Thorne nodded. "Legends say the last drummers fought alongside them. When the melodic houses won, they erased it all. Declared percussion heresy."
Elara's hand drifted to the bone rings. "And my family led that victory."
"Your ancestors," Thorne corrected gently. "Not you."
But the words stirred unease. She tapped the drum thoughtfully, seeking calm—and something answered.
The runes blazed suddenly, brighter than before. The air shimmered, and the vault dissolved around her.
She stood in a vast hall—not the palace, but ancient, ruined. Columns cracked, overgrown with vines. In the center, a woman who looked strikingly like Elara—older, regal, with the same auburn hair—beat a massive drum. Power thundered from it, shaking the earth.
The woman's face was fierce with concentration... and grief.
"Mother?" Elara whispered, though she had never known her mother's face from anything but portraits.
The vision-woman turned, eyes meeting Elara's across the impossible distance. Her lips moved: "I'm sorry, my daughter. I hid it to protect you. The silence... it's not a curse. It's my gift. Our blood runs with rhythm, not melody. I suppressed it in you, fearing what they would do if they knew."
Tears streamed down the vision-mother's face. "Forgive me. The drums call because the balance is breaking. The dragons stir. You must choose—embrace it, or let the world fall silent forever."
The vision shattered. Elara gasped back to reality, collapsing against the drum. Thorne caught her before she fell, arms wrapping around her waist.
"Elara!" His voice was sharp with worry. "What happened?"
She clung to him for a moment, shaking. His embrace was solid, warm—anchoring her as the emotional storm raged inside.
"My mother," she whispered against his shoulder. "She was like me. Rhythmic. She hid it... from my father. From everyone. To protect me."
The betrayal hit like a physical blow. All her life, she'd believed herself flawed, broken. But it had been deliberate suppression—a mother's desperate choice in a world that hunted difference.
Thorne held her tighter, one hand stroking her hair gently. "You're not broken," he murmured into her ear. "You're waking up."
She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. Tears blurred her vision, but she saw the intensity in his eyes—the unspoken concern, the something more that had been building since the first night.
His thumb brushed a tear from her cheek, lingering on her skin. Their faces were close again, breaths mingling in the charged air.
For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to just them—the vault, the drum, the forbidden pull between princess and guard.
Then footsteps echoed above—multiple, hurried. The shattered ward had drawn attention.
Thorne released her reluctantly, stepping in front to shield her. "We have to go. Separately."
Elara nodded, wiping her face. But as she fled up the stairs, the vision's warning echoed: The dragons stir.
And somewhere in the distant mountains, a massive form shifted in ancient slumber, scales scraping stone as a rhythmic heartbeat—faint but growing—called it awake.
In the palace above, Lord Vesper smiled thinly at reports of unexplained disturbances. His spies had noted the princess's late-night wanderings.
The game was beginning.