The whisper was back.
Not creeping through dusty scrolls or forgotten tomes this time. Nope—this thing thudded right through Maelin's chest, like her own pulse had learned a new beat. Restless. Weird. Kind of thrilling, honestly.
She hung out at the edge of the Vale, clutching her parchment, the seven-star map glowing all soft and moody in the twilight. Behind her, the world was holding its breath. Up ahead, the stars? Yeah, they were doing their own freaky dance—shuffling into shapes that'd make even the most ancient astronomers spit out their tea.
Footsteps. Well, of course.
Some tall stranger drifted out of the gloom, rocking storm-gray robes and a hood pulled so low you couldn't even catch a glint of eyeball. There's this medallion hanging at his neck—a busted-up crescent, gleaming just enough to be ominous.
He goes, "You've heard her."
Uh, what? Maelin takes a step back, not even trying to hide it. "Who the hell are you?"
He shrugs. "A guardian. Not of her. Of what comes after."
He flicks his hand—like, just casually—and the stars above start flickering. No big deal, right?
"See, when one song wakes up, so do the rest. Elara's melody wasn't the only one stuck in a box. The Whisper broke the silence, yeah, but she also poked the Silenced Choir."
Maelin blinks. "The what now?"
"Those who sang with her—way back before time got its act together. People forgot them, probably for a reason."
Her grip tightens on the parchment. "Wait, so… she didn't stop it?"
"She pressed pause," he says, like he's explaining the weather. "Opened the sky again, but the Whisper was just the opening line."
The medallion shivers—no, really, it kind of shimmers, like it's about to change its mind about existing.
"I'm here for the next one," he says. "The next voice. Stars told me to look for you."
Maelin forgets to breathe for a second.
The air goes icy. Clouds peel back, moonlight spills right across her face. And in that silver spotlight, she hears something—a melody, raw and unfinished, like the universe messing around with an instrument it barely remembers.
The dude says, "Two options, Maelin. Walk away—live a nice, boring life. Or chase the song. Be something nobody's heard in centuries."
She stares up—stars, parchment, her own wild heart, all burning.
"I think," she mutters, voice shaking just a bit, "the world's overdue for a second verse."
The medallion cracks, crumbles, gone.
And the stars? They start singing again. Loud this time.