The years went softly in Thalenford, as years often do in forgotten places. It was a small village of stone and timber, clinging to the curve of the western river where it widened and lost itself in the arms of the sea. Mists dwelt there as if they were born from the water, veiling the cottages each dawn in pale shrouds. The people were fishermen mostly, and their lives were measured by the tides, by the gleam of scales in their nets, and by the temper of the weather.
It was a quiet life, simple and unadorned, yet not without care. The land was poor, the sea uncertain, and though the river brought fish in plenty, it also brought floods and strange things from the deep. The folk of Thalenford were close-lipped and wary of new faces, for many still remembered the war between Men and the Demonkin, when the skies burned red and the very waters ran black for a season.
In the cottage by the forest's edge dwelt Eira Valenor and her son Kael. Some said they had come from the north, from the mage-fortresses of Valmere; others whispered darker things. Few knew the truth, and fewer still dared to ask. Eira tended her small garden of herbs and roots, and the villagers, when their children were sick or their nets cursed by ill luck, would come knocking despite their unease. She would greet them kindly, speak little, and ask no payment. Yet when they left, they crossed themselves or muttered charms beneath their breath.
Kael grew beneath such eyes — seen but seldom understood. He was slender, quiet, and pale of skin, with hair the color of ash and eyes dark as the deep river. His mother often said he had his father's gaze, though she would speak no more of that matter.
By day he helped the fishermen on the docks, mending ropes and carrying baskets of silverfish up from the boats. The men would nod to him, gruffly perhaps, but not unkindly. Old Taren the net-weaver, who had lost a son in the last war, sometimes let Kael sit by his fire and listen to the creak of his tools as he worked.
"Quiet lad," Taren would mutter. "You've got river-eyes. Always looking past the mist, as if something's there that the rest of us can't see."
Kael would only smile faintly, for he could not tell the old man that he did indeed hear things the others could not. The river spoke to him — not in words, but in music. In the whisper of water against stone, in the sighing of reeds, and in the murmur that came when the tide turned at dusk, he heard the faintest threads of the Song of the Seven.
It was not constant; it came and went like breath. At times it was bright — full of light and wonder, and his heart would lift with it. At others it was sorrowful, as though some vast voice wept beneath the waves. When that happened, Kael would grow quiet for days, and Eira, seeing the far look in his eyes, would hold him close though she said nothing.
One morning in early spring, Kael wandered farther than he ought, following the riverbank where it wound among rushes and stones. The air was cool and filled with the scent of wet earth. He knelt by the water and watched the minnows dart beneath the surface — silver flashes in the gloom. Then, faint but clear, he heard a sound.
It was like the hum of a harp-string struck by an unseen hand — low, trembling, and full of age. The current shimmered as if touched by moonlight, though the sky was clouded. The sound grew, weaving itself into harmony: seven voices, rising and falling together, ancient and beautiful beyond telling.
Kael's breath caught. He reached toward the water — and the moment his fingers brushed the surface, the song faltered. A sharp pain ran through his hand, as though he had touched fire, and the light upon the river went out.
When he returned home, Eira saw the mark upon his palm: a faint shimmer like silver dust that faded even as she watched. She said no word, but her face grew pale. That night, as he slept, she stood long beside his bed, whispering prayers in a tongue no mortal had spoken for ages.
The days that followed passed in uneasy peace. Kael worked as he always had, but the whispers in the village grew once more. Old women said they had seen strange lights in the reeds at twilight, or heard voices under the bridge. Children kept their distance from him, save for one — Mira, the fisher's daughter, who had his same curious eyes.
"You listen to the river, don't you?" she asked one evening, as they sat together on the shore.
Kael hesitated. "How do you know?"
She shrugged. "You're always still when the rest of us talk. My father says you're half asleep, but I think you're listening."
He smiled, a rare thing for him. "Maybe I am."
"What do you hear?"
He looked toward the horizon, where the last light of day was dying over the water. "Songs," he said at last. "But not like ours. Older. Like the world itself is remembering."
Mira frowned. "I wish I could hear them."
"You will, one day," Kael said softly, though he did not know why he believed it.
Yet that night, the Song returned stronger than before — no longer gentle but vast, echoing through his dreams. He saw a figure wreathed in flame, and seven stars burning in the sky above him. A voice, deep and sorrowful, spoke his name — not as it was, but as it was meant to be.
He woke before dawn, trembling, and went to the window. The mist lay heavy upon the village; no sound but the slow murmur of the tide. And yet beneath it all, faint and insistent, the Song still lingered, threading through the wind like a promise.
That morning he did not go to the docks. He stood upon the hill behind the house, looking down upon the river as it coiled away into the west. His heart ached with something he could not name — longing, perhaps, or loss for something he had never known.
When Eira found him there, she said nothing. She only placed her hand upon his shoulder and looked with him toward the water.
"The river carries more than fish and silt, Kael," she said softly. "It carries memory. Every drop that passes through our land remembers the beginning of the world — and all that has fallen since. That is what you hear."
He turned to her, troubled. "Then why does it sound so sad?"
"Because the world is not yet mended," she answered. "And because there are still those who sing against the harmony. Their voices are faint, but they grow stronger."
The sky darkened, and thunder rolled far off toward the sea. Kael shivered, though the wind was warm.
"Will they come here?" he asked.
Eira's gaze lingered on the river's bend, where the first drops of rain rippled the surface. "All songs return to their beginning," she said. "And all shadows seek their light."
That night, as storm and tide mingled upon the shore, Kael lay awake listening to the world. He could hear the rain drumming upon the roof like the beating of a thousand distant hearts. Beneath it, the old melody stirred again — now faint, now strong, like something vast awakening beneath the earth.
And though he could not yet name it, Kael felt within himself an answering chord.
He closed his eyes, and the world seemed to tremble.