Chapter 16 — The Song That Softened Stone
The palace had always held echoes.
Lyra noticed them more now — in the way the halls whispered when she passed, in the way the torches flickered even when there was no wind. It wasn't frightening. It was… curious. Like the walls were listening.
That evening, she returned to the music room alone.
She wanted to practice the lullaby.
The harp waited for her, its strings humming faintly as if remembering the touch of the Dragon King's hands. Lyra sat gently, her shawl slipping from her shoulders, and began to play.
The notes were soft, uncertain at first.
Then they found each other.
She sang quietly — not with power, but with care. Her voice was like moonlight on water, trembling but true. The lullaby rose and fell, weaving warmth into the cold corners of the room.
And something stirred.
Not loudly.
Just… a shift.
The air grew warmer. The candles brightened. And from the far end of the room, a tapestry fluttered — though no breeze had entered.
Lyra paused.
"Hello?" she whispered.
No answer.
But she felt it — a presence. Not cruel. Not angry. Just… tired.
She stood, walked slowly to the tapestry, and lifted it.
Behind it was a wall of stone, etched with ancient runes. One glowed faintly — the shape of a dragon curled around a star.
Her mark.
She placed her hand over it.
The stone pulsed once.
Then a voice — not spoken, not heard, but felt — brushed her thoughts.
> You remember me.
Lyra's eyes filled with tears.
"I don't know who you are," she whispered. "But I want to."
The runes shimmered.
She sang again.
This time, the lullaby wasn't just music. It was memory. It was promise. It was the voice of someone who had never asked for power, only peace.
And the wall softened.
Not physically — but in spirit.
The presence faded, gently, like a sigh finally released.
Lyra stepped back, heart full.
She didn't understand everything.
But she knew this: her song had reached something that had waited too long to be heard.
---
Later that night, the Dragon King found her asleep in the music room, curled beside the harp.
He didn't wake her.
He simply sat nearby, watching the rise and fall of her breath.
And for the first time in centuries, the palace was quiet — not with fear, but with rest.