The torch in the hidden vault burned low, its flame casting long, wavering shadows across the ancient drum. Princess Elara stood frozen, her hand still pressed against the weathered hide. The crimson runes pulsed faintly beneath her fingertips, syncing with the rapid beat of her heart. For a moment, the world above—the symphony hall, the mocking whispers, her father's untouched pride—felt distant, unreal.
This was real. This power that thrummed through her like a secret heartbeat.
She pulled her hand away abruptly, as if burned. The glow dimmed, but the vibration lingered in her bones, a promise or a warning—she couldn't tell which.
"I should not be here," she whispered to the empty chamber. Her voice echoed strangely off the stone walls, flat and note-less, as always.
Yet she did not leave.
Instead, Elara circled the pedestal slowly, studying the drum from every angle. The bone rings binding the frame were carved with scales—subtle, almost worn away by time, but unmistakable. Dragon scales. The forbidden texts had described them: instruments forged from the remains of the great beasts, back when dragons still soared the skies and their roars shook the earth like thunderous percussion.
Legends claimed the dragons themselves had been the first drummers, their heartbeats the original rhythm that birthed magic. Before melody tamed it. Before the great war that ended with percussion banned, its practitioners hunted, and the dragons... gone.
Elara shivered despite the warmth radiating from the drum. She reached out again, bolder this time, and tapped the center lightly with two fingers.
A low boom resonated—not loud, but deep, vibrating through the floor and up her legs. Dust sifted from the ceiling. A ripple of crimson energy flared along the runes, and for an instant, she felt it: power uncoiling inside her, raw and untethered, waiting for direction.
Her eyes widened. This was magic. Her magic.
But uncontrolled. The ripple surged outward, knocking the torch from its bracket. Flames hissed against the stone floor, nearly extinguishing before she stomped them out in panic. The chamber plunged into darkness save for the faint glow of the runes.
Heart pounding, Elara backed toward the spiral stairs. She had to get out. Think. Understand what this meant.
She turned—and froze.
A figure stood silhouetted at the top of the stairs, blocking her escape. Tall, broad-shouldered, clad in the dark leather uniform of the palace guard.
"Thorne?" she breathed, recognizing the outline even in the dim light.
The guard descended slowly, his boots silent on the stone steps. As he entered the torchless glow from the drum, his face came into view: early twenties, sharp-featured with tousled dark hair and eyes the color of forged steel. Thorne had been assigned to her personal detail for two years now—quiet, observant, never one for the fawning flattery of other guards.
"Your Highness," he said evenly, his voice low and steady. No bow, no panic—just a cautious glance around the vault. "You shouldn't be down here alone."
Elara straightened, forcing royal composure despite the flush creeping up her neck. "And you shouldn't be following me."
"I wasn't following," he replied, stepping closer. His gaze fell on the drum, and something flickered in his expression—recognition? Wariness? "I was on night patrol. Heard... something. A vibration through the walls."
He stopped a respectful distance away, but close enough for her to see the faint scar along his jaw, a remnant from some border skirmish years ago. Thorne was no ordinary guard; rumors whispered he came from the outer provinces, where old ways lingered despite the king's edicts.
"You felt it too," Elara said. It wasn't a question.
Thorne nodded once. "Like a heartbeat. Not melodic." He hesitated, then added softly, "My grandmother used to tell stories of such things. Before they were forbidden."
Elara's breath caught. Forbidden stories were dangerous—even speaking of them could invite scrutiny from the king's inquisitors. Yet here, in this hidden place, the words felt like a bridge.
"She said rhythm was the old magic," Thorne continued, his eyes on the drum. "Primal. Tied to the earth and the beasts that once ruled it. Melody... refined it. Tamed it. But at a cost."
Elara studied him. Guards were trained to be loyal, silent. Why share this now?
"Why tell me?" she asked.
Thorne met her gaze steadily. "Because you're not like them upstairs. You don't sing their perfect notes." A pause, then quieter: "And because I've seen how they look at you. Like you're broken."
The words landed like a soft blow. Elara looked away, toward the drum. "I am broken. In their eyes, at least."
"No," Thorne said firmly. "You're just... different. And down here, different might be exactly what's needed."
Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken risks. If he reported this—reported her—she could be branded a heretic. Exiled before her coronation. Or worse.
But he didn't move to leave. Didn't call for reinforcements.
Instead, he stepped forward and brushed the drumhead himself—lightly, reverently. A softer thump echoed, and the runes brightened again. Thorne's jaw tightened, as if the power resonated deeper for him.
"My blood remembers," he murmured, almost to himself. "Grandmother was from the Ridge clans. They kept the old rhythms alive in secret, passing them through hand drums and foot stomps. Until the purges."
Elara's mind raced. The Ridge clans—distant provinces where melodic enforcement was weaker. Whispers of rebellion had always come from there, quickly silenced.
"You could wield this?" she asked.
Thorne shook his head. "Traces, maybe. But suppressed for generations. It's faint." He looked at her. "But you... when you touched it, the glow was stronger."
Elara glanced at her hand, still tingling. "I don't know what I'm doing. It just... answered."
"Then learn," Thorne said simply. "In secret. With help."
"Help?" She arched a brow, royal skepticism returning. "From a guard who could lose his head for this?"
A faint smile tugged at his lips—the first she'd seen from him in months. "I've guarded worse secrets, Your Highness. And if the court thinks you're unfit..." He trailed off, then added, "Perhaps it's time someone proved them wrong."
Elara considered him. Thorne had always been professional, distant. But there had been moments—glances during long processions, a steadying hand when crowds pressed too close—that hinted at more.
"Why risk it?" she pressed.
He shrugged, but his eyes were serious. "Because silence isn't weakness. It's just unheard. And maybe the kingdom needs to hear something new."
The words stirred something in her—a spark amid the lingering shame from the hall. For the first time, someone saw her not as a flaw, but as potential.
"Show me," she said impulsively. "One rhythm. Something simple."
Thorne hesitated, then nodded. He placed his palm flat on the drumhead and tapped a steady pattern: thump-thump... thump. Slow, deliberate, like a walking heartbeat.
The runes flared brighter. A faint breeze stirred the air, carrying the scent of pine and earth—impossible in the underground vault. Elara felt it pull at her, inviting.
She mirrored him, her taps syncing with his. The power swelled, warm and grounding, wrapping around them both.
For a moment, they stood there—princess and guard, heir and commoner—connected by the forbidden beat.
Then footsteps echoed faintly from above. Real ones this time—patrolling guards, perhaps drawn by the subtle vibrations.
Thorne extinguished the runes with a final tap, plunging them into darkness. "Tomorrow night," he whispered urgently. "Same hour. I'll stand watch."
Elara nodded, adrenaline surging. As they ascended the stairs separately—she first, he lingering to seal the panel—the weight of the evening shifted.
Upstairs, Lady Seraphine's cryptic warnings replayed in her mind: tales of an ancient prophecy, murmured during lessons. Something about a silent heir awakening echoes that could shatter harmony... or restore it.
Elara slipped into her chambers undetected, but sleep evaded her. She lay staring at the canopy overhead, hand drumming silently on her blanket.
Thump-thump... thump.
The palace wards hummed their melodic lullaby outside her window, oblivious.
But deep below, something ancient stirred again—a distant roar, faint as thunder on the horizon.
And in the outer provinces, far from the capital's refined songs, old clans lifted their heads, feeling the first true rhythm in generations.
Elara smiled into the darkness. For the first time, silence felt like the beginning of a song.
Her song.