The candles on the enormous cake guttered out in a single breath from Arlienne, sending thin spirals of smoke curling into the warm night air. Cheers rolled across the plaza like thunder, wave after wave, until the very cobblestones seemed to vibrate with joy. Aster and Astra gently guided their mother to a beautifully carved wooden chair placed in the front row, mere steps from the flower-draped stage. Cushions of sky-blue silk—Arlienne's favorite color—had been added at the last moment by Mila and her florist apprentices.
Arlienne sank into the seat, hands pressed to her chest as though trying to still her racing heart. Tears still traced shining paths down her cheeks, catching the lantern light like tiny stars.
"My precious ones," she whispered, voice trembling with emotion, "you have already given me the most beautiful gift anyone could dream of. I don't need anything more."
Aster knelt in front of her, silver eyes steady and bright. "Mama, the night isn't over yet."
Astra bounced on her toes beside him, barely containing her excitement. "We prepared so much more! You'll see!"
A ripple of delighted murmurs spread through the crowd. Everyone had expected perhaps one encore—a tender closing song to seal the miracle of the evening.
No one expected ten full songs.
No one expected an entire concert.
***
While the plaza buzzed with anticipation, practical magic was already at work.
Long tables had been set up along the edges of the square, laden with food prepared by the vendors Aster had come to know so well. There were no delicate palace canapés or towering sugar sculptures here—just honest, hearty dishes that warmed both body and soul. Thick vegetable stew simmered in massive iron pots. Fresh loaves of bread, still steaming from the ovens, were sliced thick and slathered with herb butter. Roasted root vegetables glistened with honey glaze. Fruit tarts burst with seasonal berries. Paper plates and wooden spoons were passed hand to hand, a deliberate choice: nothing that required servants or formality.
Hervin the fish vendor presided over a corner dedicated to smoked fillets and seafood skewers. Tomas and Lira's bakery stall offered endless trays of honey rolls and cinnamon twists. Mila had woven edible flowers into garlands that decorated every table.
People ate standing in cheerful clusters, voices overlapping with wonder.
"I've never heard anything like that first song. It felt like it reached inside my heart and pulled."
"The little princess—Astra—her voice is like morning bells."
"And Prince Aster… he made an entire orchestra out of thin air!"
Word of the celebration had already traveled far beyond the plaza's borders. The amplification stones Aster had rented—paid for with every saved coin of his allowance and generous contributions from grateful merchants—had carried the birthday tribute to nearly a quarter of the capital. Runners spread the news faster than mana could travel. Families hurried from nearby districts. Apprentices abandoned evening chores. Even off-duty city guards drifted closer, helmets tucked under arms, drawn by an irresistible pull.
The crowd swelled.
Hundreds became thousands.
Food supplies, generous as they were, began to run dangerously low.
Arlienne rose in sudden concern, ever the caretaker even on her own birthday. "Children, we didn't prepare enough—"
Two household maids hovered anxiously nearby. "Young master, the stew pots are nearly empty—"
Before panic could take root, Madam Elira—the shrewd, kind-hearted dress merchant who had sewn many of Arlienne's simple yet elegant gowns—stepped forward with a confident smile.
"Sit down, my lady," she said warmly, placing a gentle hand on Arlienne's shoulder. "Tonight is for you to be celebrated, not to worry."
Arlienne blinked, touched. "But the people—"
Elira winked. "Leave the people to us."
She turned and raised her voice with the authority of someone long accustomed to managing market chaos. "Backup barrels from the eastern warehouse—now! Extra loaves from Baker Tomas's second oven! Skewers from Hervin's reserve! Move, move!"
Within minutes, fresh carts rumbled into the plaza. Neighbors who hadn't been part of the original plan arrived with baskets of bread, wheels of cheese, crates of fruit. The shortage vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by abundance born of spontaneous generosity.
Aster bowed deeply to Madam Elira. "Thank you. Truly."
She ruffled his white hair with a knowing grin. "Don't thank me yet, little prince. When you and your sister become legends—and mark my words, you will—remember who kept the stew coming."
Her words sent a quiet thrill through him, half prophecy, half promise. In that moment, Aster felt the weight of possibility settle on his young shoulders—not heavy, but exhilarating.
***
With bellies full and spirits soaring, Aster returned to center stage.
The massive crowd quieted instantly, an ocean falling still.
He looked directly at his mother, voice warm and clear through the amplification stones.
"Mama, tonight we're going to sing ten songs. All of them for you. Some gentle, some bright, one… completely new. We hope you like them."
Astra skipped to his side, waving both hands enthusiastically. Cheers erupted, then hushed into reverent anticipation.
The concert began.
The first song was soft and nostalgic—a lullaby-like ballad drawn from an old Earth melody Aster had loved in his previous life. He reshaped the lyrics into a tribute to quiet strength: a mother who turned hardship into hope, silence into song. Arlienne's tears began anew.
The second was upbeat, rhythmic, with a driving beat that had children clapping and stamping feet in unison. Laughter rang out as strangers linked arms and swayed.
The third was a duet showcase—Astra taking the lead with crystalline high notes while Aster wove rich harmony beneath. Gasps rose at the seamless blend of their twin voices.
Song after song unfolded, each one distinct.
A heartfelt anthem about found family.
A playful tune that had the crowd singing the simple chorus back to them by the end.
A slow, aching piece about second chances—Aster pouring the unspoken grief and gratitude of his past life into every note.
A soaring celebration of friendship, dedicated to the vendors who had become their extended family.
Twilight deepened into full night, but the plaza only grew brighter. Thousands of lanterns—paper, crystal, mana-floated—blazed to life overhead, turning the square into a bowl of golden light. Faces glowed with wonder, tears, joy.
People wept openly during the slower songs.
Laughed and cheered during the lively ones.
Held hands with neighbors they had never met before.
Danced in place when the rhythm demanded it.
Aster's voice carried the depth and maturity of someone who had lived two lives—the raw ache of lost dreams, the fierce triumph of redemption.
Astra's rang with unshadowed purity, the boundless love of a child who had known only kindness in this new world.
Together, they created something transcendent: the kingdom's first true concert, born not of royal decree or noble patronage, but of love made audible.
When the ninth song faded into hushed reverence, the crowd roared for more, voices hoarse but insistent.
Aster caught his breath, sweat glistening on his brow despite the cool night air. He glanced at Astra, who gave him a small, excited nod—she still didn't know what came next.
"One last song," he announced, smiling mysteriously.
He closed his eyes.
A new rhythm ignited.
Sharp.
Driving.
Relentless.
Layered percussion pounded like a heartbeat. Bass-like pulses thrummed deep in every chest. A rapid, syncopated beat unlike anything Vornis had ever heard.
Then Aster began—not to sing, but to speak.
Fast.
Rhythmic.
Precise.
Words flowing in intricate patterns, riding the beat like a warrior on horseback.
This world had never known rap.
The crowd leaned forward as one, confusion flickering across thousands of faces.
"What is this?"
"He's… talking? But it has rhythm—"
"It's like the words are dancing—fighting—flying—"
Aster channeled the raw energy of "Lose Yourself," reshaping structure, flow, and intensity for his young voice and limited mana. The lyrics—clean, powerful, universal—spoke of seizing fleeting moments, rising after every fall, turning pain into purpose, never surrendering the dream.
"One chance—one shot in the dark,
Grab it, hold it, leave your mark.
Fall a thousand times, still stand tall,
Voice is power—answer the call."
His delivery was electric: breath control honed in secret, mana woven to sharpen every consonant, deepen every beat.
Confusion melted into awe.
Shock became exhilaration.
Astra's eyes went wide with stunned delight. Then, instinctively, she jumped in—adding soaring vocal runs on the chorus, playful echoes, harmonious counterpoints that transformed the track into something explosive and utterly unique.
The plaza lost all remaining composure.
People shouted in astonishment.
Some climbed fountain edges or shoulders for better views.
Children tried—and failed hilariously—to mimic the rapid flow.
Seasoned mages clutched their chests, feeling Sound Mana resonate in ways no elemental spell ever had.
"This is insanity!"
"What kind of magic bends words into weapons?"
"He's inventing an art form—right here, right now!"
"This child is a genius!"
By the final verse, Aster poured every ounce of passion he possessed—breathless, fierce, alive.
Astra gripped his hand tightly, anchoring the triumphant closing harmony.
When the last beat dissolved into silence…
One heartbeat.
Two.
Three.
Then the plaza detonated.
Screams of pure joy.
Thunderous applause that shook the ground.
People surged forward—not dangerously, but desperately wanting to be closer to the miracle on stage.
Children chanted "As-ter! As-tra!" in rhythmic unison.
Merchants wept without shame.
Even stoic guards grinned helplessly.
Aster and Astra stood center stage, panting, faces flushed, glowing under rivers of lantern light.
Arlienne rose slowly from her seat, hands pressed to her mouth, fresh tears streaming.
"My children…" she whispered, voice breaking. "You are… you are miracles. Gifts I never deserved."
Words failed her completely.
But the love radiating from her eyes spoke volumes no song could match.
***
Later, as the celebration spilled deep into the night—people dancing to hummed fragments of the new melodies, attempting clumsy rap verses, sharing the last of the food—the twins finally slipped backstage to rest.
They collapsed onto stacked crates, legs dangling, breathing hard.
"We… really did it," Astra whispered, voice hoarse from singing.
Aster nodded, gazing out at the thousands still lingering under the lanterns. Some groups had formed circles, trying to recreate beats by clapping and stomping. Others sang the simpler choruses with heartfelt inaccuracy.
A shaky laugh escaped him. "Look at them. They're trying to rap."
Astra giggled. "They're terrible at it."
"But they're trying." He leaned his head back against the stage wall. "We changed something tonight, Astra. Something big."
She rested her head on his shoulder. "Yeah."
Neither fully grasped how profoundly.
The ancient balance of elemental magic had trembled.
Ripples of potent Sound Mana had spread far beyond the capital—felt by sensitive mages in distant provinces, noted by scholars in forgotten libraries, sensed by creatures in deep forests.
Music, long dormant, had roared awake.
And the world was listening.
***
While the plaza sang beneath a canopy of lanterns, faint echoes reached even the royal palace.
In the queen's opulent ballroom, where her own celebration continued under crystal chandeliers and fire-mana displays, a distant hum intruded.
Soft vibration.
Drifting melody.
Carried on invisible mana currents.
Guests paused mid-conversation, heads tilting.
"What is that sound?"
"It isn't part of the program…"
"It's… beautiful. Like nothing I've heard."
As fragments of Aster's voice grew clearer, conversation faltered entirely. Nobles listened, entranced, some drifting toward open windows.
A few slipped quietly out side doors, cloaks pulled low, drawn irresistibly toward the city.
The queen noticed immediately.
Her painted smile fractured.
"Where are my guests going?" she demanded, voice sharp as breaking glass.
A nervous courtier bowed. "Your Majesty… reports speak of a large gathering in the central plaza. Extraordinary music—unlike any elemental performance."
"During my birthday celebration?" Fury rose like a storm.
The king, seated beside her, raised a calm hand. "Let the people have their joy, my queen."
She whirled on him. "You would allow this—this common spectacle—to overshadow the crown?"
His gaze remained steady, unreadable. "I would allow happiness where I find it."
Unseen by either, Princess Seraphine had already fled the ballroom with several wide-eyed young noblewomen. Cloaks over gowns, they raced through palace gates and into the streets.
Seraphine arrived breathless just as the rap performance ignited.
Her jaw dropped.
Her little half-siblings—center stage for thousands of commoners, their mother weeping with joy in the front row, the entire plaza alive with light and sound.
She clutched her heart, eyes shining.
This wasn't mere entertainment.
This was love made audible.
Something raw, powerful, and utterly beyond the queen's comprehension.
***
The following days shook the kingdom to its foundations.
Magical newspapers unfurled with blazing headlines:
"Royal Twins Transform Plaza into Night of Legends!"
"Ten Songs and a Revolutionary New Form: The Capital Weeps, Cheers, and Dances"
"Sound Magic Evolves Before Our Eyes—Prince Aster Invents 'Rapid Verse' Art?"
Crystal broadcasters replayed captured fragments endlessly. Tavern performers scrambled to imitate the new rhythms. Children across every district attempted beatboxing and clumsy rhymes, turning streets into impromptu stages.
Travelers arrived from neighboring towns just to hear retellings.
The twins—especially Aster—became national icons overnight.
And the queen seethed in cold silence.
***
Two days later, a royal summons arrived at Wynfall Mansion.
The king received the twins alone in his private study—no guards, no queen, no courtiers.
Aster stood straight and composed. Astra hovered half-behind him, clutching his sleeve.
The king studied them for a long moment.
"Why didn't you come to me first?" he asked quietly. "I could have provided anything—stages, resources, protection."
Aster remained silent.
He couldn't voice the truth: Because the queen would have forbidden it all.
The king read the unspoken answer in his son's steady silver eyes.
He exhaled heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Your mother deserves every happiness. I knew that truth the day I first heard her sing—a voice that cut through rank and duty straight to my heart."
Aster's eyes widened slightly in surprise.
"But you have angered powerful people," the king continued, voice low. "People who do not forgive easily. Be careful. Both of you."
It was the only warning—the only protection—he could offer without igniting open conflict.
Aster bowed deeply. Astra followed.
They left in silence.
***
Days later, the retaliation landed.
The household steward arrived pale and trembling, a sealed palace decree in hand.
"My lady… the monthly allotment for Wynfall Mansion has been halved. Effective immediately."
Arlienne froze in the sunlit parlor, teacup paused halfway to her lips.
But her expression remained serene—graceful even in shock.
"Thank you for informing me," she said softly, dismissing him with gentle dignity.
No outburst.
No tears before the staff.
Only quiet strength.
Later, when Aster passed her room, he saw her folding laundry with careful precision—tasks she had never needed to do before—and watched her hands tremble.
Something hardened inside him.
The mansion adjusted swiftly and painfully.
Fewer fresh supplies in the kitchens.
Beloved maids dismissed with tearful farewells and generous severance.
Training mana stones strictly rationed.
Music practice limited to conserve resources.
That night, Astra crept into his room, eyes red.
"Aster… we won't have enough. For lessons, for food, for anything—"
He placed steady hands on her shoulders.
"We'll be fine."
"But how?"
His gaze drifted to the window—toward the capital's distant lights, toward the people who had cheered until voices cracked, who had shared their last crust of bread to keep the celebration alive.
"From now on," he said quietly, voice firm with new resolve, "we don't need palace money."
Astra stared.
He turned to her, eyes gleaming with the fire of someone who had already lost one life to helplessness.
"I'll earn it myself."
"With Sound Magic?"
"With Sound Magic."
He faced the city fully, small silhouette framed against the night.
"We're going to do something this world has never seen before."
Astra stepped closer, curiosity overtaking fear. "What?"
Aster's smile bloomed—small, fierce, certain.
"A real concert.
With stages, lights, an audience of thousands…
And—something no one here would ever expect—
We're going to charge admission.
We're going to sell tickets."
In that quiet declaration, spoken by a seven-year-old beneath the quiet glow of bedroom lanterns, the history of music in Vornis—and perhaps the fate of the kingdom itself—shifted irrevocably.
A new era had begun.
One built not on fire or bloodline.
But on song.
And it would not be silenced.