Chapter 19: To the Music Room (1)
The academy's side halls stretched quiet and long under the morning sun, their high walls lined with tall windows that let light spill in like spilled honey—warm stripes of gold cutting through the cool marble floors, turning dust motes into tiny drifting stars. Far off, the main halls buzzed with student voices, laughs mixing with the clatter of bags and footsteps, that fresh energy of a new school year kicking off after the raid's scare. But here, in this forgotten wing, the air hung still, broken only by the faint hum of mana lamps tucked in alcoves, their blue glow soft as a held breath.
Lucian Azrael Von Blackstar walked it all without a sound, his boots barely whispering on the stone, like he was part of the shadows themselves. His ashen white hair caught the light in faint, dusty shines, falling loose around his face, and his deep black eyes—dark as the bottom of a well—stared straight ahead, empty of the buzz around him. He moved like someone who'd walked this way a hundred times, even if the world said it was his first.
His steps led him to a heavy wooden door at the hall's end, plain and old compared to the fancy carvings everywhere else. No big sign, no gold trim—just a brass handle worn smooth from years of quiet hands. The music room.
He paused there, hand resting light on the knob, his deep black eyes flicking up to the door like it held some old secret. Behind him, the hall felt empty, but a soft scuff of footsteps echoed faint—someone trailing, careful not to be heard. He felt it, that pull of another person's mana, warm and unsure, but he let it go. Ignored it like a breeze passing by. Right now, he needed the keys under his fingers, the notes that might fill the hole inside. The rest could wait.
He pushed the door open slow, the hinges giving a soft creak like a sigh, and stepped in.
The room wrapped around him gentle—big windows letting sun pool on the wooden floor, shelves of old books and sheet music gathering dust in corners, a few chairs pushed back like they'd been left in a hurry. And there, in the middle, the piano waited: a grand black thing, polished to a shine that caught his face back at him, keys white and black like teeth ready to bite or soothe.
Lucian shut the door behind him quiet, the click loud in the hush. He crossed the room easy, pulling out the bench with a scrape that felt too big for the peace. Sitting down, he let his fingers hover over the keys, feeling their cool smoothness, like touching something alive but asleep.
'Seems Celestia remembers something,' he thought, the words heavy in his head, sitting there like stones in a pocket. 'Maybe from our past life? So what if she regressed or something, whatever happened to her—it's already too late for me to come back looking for a way to make things right. My heart's too full of sorrow, ache, and emptiness.'
The thought hung there, dark and done, like a door slammed on a room he couldn't go back to. He stared at the keys a second, thumb brushing the first white one soft.
'Should I go to Moonlight Sonata?' he wondered, fingers itching for the slow, sad flow of it. 'Seriously, it's still morning—we should go to Golden Brown.'
Yeah. That one. Lighter, warmer for the sun coming in, even if inside him it felt like night.
He settled his hands proper—left pinky curving light on the low A, ring finger resting easy on C, middle on E, index on G, thumb hovering ready over the higher notes. Right hand mirrored soft, pinky on the octave above, building the base. He took a breath, steady and deep, then pressed down.
The first note bloomed low and smooth from the left hand—pinky sinking full into that deep A, ring finger joining on C sharp, middle holding E, index tapping G sharp light, thumb brushing B—chords rolling out rich and full, like warm earth after rain. The sound filled the room slow, wrapping around him gentle, pulling him in without force.
His voice joined next, quiet at first, rough around the edges from days of holding back words, but real and low, like talking to an old friend in the dark.
"Golden brown, texture like sun Lays me down, with my mind she runs Throughout the night No need to fight Never a frown with golden brown"
Right hand took the lead then, index finger dancing light over the higher melody—starting on the D above middle C, sliding to E flat with his middle finger, pinky holding the G flat steady while thumb plucked the A flat soft. It flowed easy, like a river finding its way, the notes chasing each other without rush—left hand keeping the beat underneath, pinky and thumb walking the bass line slow, ring and middle filling in the harmony, index adding those little lifts that made it feel alive.
"Every time just like the last On her ship tied to the mast To distant lands Takes both my hands Never a frown with golden brown"
He leaned in a bit, shoulders easing as the song built—fingers shifting smooth, left hand climbing the scale half-step by half-step, pinky leading on the low notes while thumb stretched for the highs, right hand weaving the tune higher, middle finger trilling light on the F sharp, index circling back to the E, ring holding the D steady like an anchor. The room felt warmer now, the sun slanting in stronger, catching the dust in the air and making it sparkle faint, like the music brought it to life.
"Golden brown, finer temptress Through the ages she's heading west From far away Stays for a day Never a frown with golden brown"
The chorus came round again, his voice picking up just a touch—not loud, but fuller, like letting out a breath he'd held too long. Hands worked together now—left pinky and thumb walking a steady bass, ring and middle filling the chords thick, index adding runs that danced up the keys; right hand took the lead full, thumb on the melody's heart, index and middle chasing the harmony, pinky stretching for those high accents that hung sweet in the air. It rolled like a wave, easy and sad all at once, the notes wrapping the emptiness inside him soft, not fixing it, but holding it for a minute.
"Never a frown (never a frown) (Never a frown) with golden brown (with golden brown) (With golden brown) never a frown (never a frown) (Never a frown) with golden brown (with golden brown) (With golden brown) never a frown (never a frown) (Never a frown) with golden brown (with golden brown) (With golden brown) never a frown (never a frown) (Never a frown) with golden brown (with golden brown)"
The repeats faded slow, fingers easing off the keys one by one—pinky lifting last from that final G, the sound trailing into quiet like smoke up a chimney. His hands stayed there a second, flat on the black and white, feeling the cool under his skin, the room going still again around him.
Outside the door, the footsteps had stopped—someone listening, maybe, but he didn't care. Let them hear. This wasn't for anyone else. It was for the quiet he chased, the one that came in bits between the ache.
The music room held still, sun climbing higher through the windows, and for that one breath, it felt like peace—small, but real.