The abandoned warehouse on the city's outskirts reeked of damp stone and forgotten grain sacks, its high windows cracked and letting in slivers of moonlight. Elara's cloak felt too thin against the night chill as Thorne led her through a side door, his hand resting lightly at the small of her back—guiding, protective. Every time his fingers brushed her, even through layers of fabric, a spark jumped along her skin. She told herself it was the adrenaline, but the warmth lingering after his touch said otherwise.
Inside, five figures waited in the shadows: three men and two women, all clad in rough-spun clothes that marked them as commoners from the outer provinces. Their hands were callused from labor, their eyes sharp with the wariness of those who had lived under melodic rule too long. An older woman with gray-streaked braids stepped forward first—Mira, Thorne had called her, a distant relative from his Ridge clan.
They bowed awkwardly when they saw Elara, uncertain how to greet royalty in such a place. But their gazes sharpened when Thorne nodded confirmation.
"This is her," he said simply. "The one the old rhythms call to."
Mira's eyes—keen and faded blue—studied Elara. "Show us, child."
Elara hesitated, then pulled a small hand drum from beneath her cloak—one Thorne had fashioned from spare hide and wood. She placed it on a crate and tapped a basic pattern: thump-thump... thump-thump.
The runes weren't there, but the power answered anyway—raw, unrefined crimson energy flickering around her hands like flames. The warehouse air hummed, dust motes swirling in sudden eddies.
Gasps escaped the group. Mira's face broke into a weathered smile. "The blood calls true. Stronger than any we've felt since the purges."
They gathered closer, teaching her clan patterns passed down in secret: foot stomps to ground energy into the earth, synchronized claps to amplify a beat across distances, wrist flicks for sharp bursts of force. Thorne joined seamlessly, his movements fluid and instinctive, as if the rhythms lived in his bones. Watching him stomp and clap with the others, sweat glistening on his brow in the moonlight, Elara felt a strange pang—he belonged here, among people who understood him without explanation. She envied that ease, even as it drew her to him more.
"You're holding back," Mira chided gently during a group exercise. "Fear chains the beat. Let it flow."
Elara tried again, syncing with the circle. Power built, swirling around them like a storm. For the first time, she felt part of something larger—not isolated in her silence, but connected through rhythm.
Thorne stood opposite her in the circle, his eyes locking with hers across the flickering energy. His stomp matched hers perfectly, and when their claps echoed together, the air between them crackled. He smiled—that rare, full smile—and her heart stuttered more than the beat.
But the night shattered with a whistle from the rafters.
An arrow sliced through the air, aimed straight at Elara's chest.
Time slowed. Thorne shouted her name. She reacted on pure instinct—palms slamming down in a defensive rhythm she'd practiced with him in the vault. Thump-THUMP!
A barrier of crimson force erupted, deflecting the arrow mid-flight. It clattered harmlessly to the floor.
Chaos erupted. The group scattered for cover as two more assassins dropped from the shadows—black-clad, faces masked. Thorne moved like lightning, tackling the nearest one, his sword flashing in the moonlight as he disarmed the man with brutal efficiency.
Elara's hands shook, but she drummed again—sharp bursts that knocked the second assassin off balance. Mira and the others joined, their claps and stomps creating a disorienting wave that pinned the intruders.
Thorne subdued his opponent with a chokehold, forcing the mask off. The man's eyes were wild with fanaticism.
"Who sent you?" Thorne growled.
The assassin spat blood. "Lord Vesper sends his regards. The silent princess dies tonight—for the purity of melody."
The name hit Elara like ice water. Vesper. He'd moved faster than she'd feared.
They bound the survivors (one had fled), interrogating briefly before Thorne knocked them out. The group dispersed quickly—too risky to stay.
Thorne led Elara back through the alleys, his arm around her shoulders now, urgent and protective. "You're hurt?" he asked, voice rough.
"Just shaken." But guilt clawed at her. "That arrow was meant for me. You all risked—"
He stopped in a dark alcove, turning her to face him. Moonlight filtered through, highlighting the tension in his jaw. A shallow cut bled on his forearm from the scuffle.
"Because of me, you're bleeding."
Thorne caught her wrist when she reached for it. "I'd bleed a river before letting anything touch you." His grip tightened, eyes searching hers in the dim light. "Elara, this is only beginning. Vesper knows something."
She stepped closer, drawn by the intensity in his voice. "Then we fight smarter."
His free hand rose, thumb brushing her cheek—gentle, reverent. "Together."
The moment stretched, charged. His gaze dropped to her lips, and she felt her breath catch. He leaned in fractionally...
But hoofbeats echoed nearby—patrols roused by the disturbance.
Thorne pulled back with a frustrated exhale. "Later."
Back in the vault, safe for now, Elara deciphered more runes with Mira's earlier hints. She unlocked a healing rhythm—soft, pulsing beats that mended flesh.
Kneeling before Thorne as he sat on a crate, she traced the pattern over his wound. Crimson light flowed from her fingers, knitting skin seamlessly.
He inhaled sharply—not pain, but the intimacy of her touch. His hand covered hers, holding it there longer than needed.
"Thank you," he whispered, voice husky. Their faces were close again, eyes locked.
The beat between them thrummed louder than any drum.
But outside, Vesper's network tightened. The assassination failed, but the message was sent.
And in the mountains, the Dragon Echo stirred stronger, tasting blood on the wind.