Soen had always believed in logic. In discipline. In the strength of the kingdom's order.
But order had its cracks. And in those cracks, he found the Frozen Chimes.
He had first encountered the book two years ago, during the aftermath of an attack on the capital. At the time, it was just a curiosity—one among many texts looted from the bodies of the fallen. A small, unassuming book with its pages unreadable to those who followed the kingdom's harmony.
But it called to him.
He found it again in the hands of bandits, their leader strangely resilient, fighting past the limits of pain. He cut the man down, only to find the book among his belongings. The same book.
A third time, it surfaced in the underground gambling dens, a place where fighters seemed to resist exhaustion longer than natural. Their methods were brutal but effective. Another copy.
And now, after the fall of Tona, it appeared again—this time in the hands of an invader who had seemed to move with unnatural efficiency. The man had no official training, yet his body reacted faster, struck harder, endured more.
Four books. Four different places.
Not a coincidence.
Soen sat in his quarters that night, surrounded by the stolen books, flipping through their pages. The Frozen Chimes spoke of a power outside the kingdom's teachings. A power that did not follow harmony but opposed it.
Dissonance.
It whispered of those who rejected the natural flow. Those who broke the limits set upon them. If one could embrace the imbalance within, they could reach further, push beyond their supposed peak.
This power was not granted like the kingdom's sacred arts—it was claimed.
A thought unsettled him.
What if the reason he kept finding this book was because he was meant to?
The village was settling, but not in peace.
The survivors of Tona still held onto their bitterness, not openly, but in how they turned away when the warriors passed, how they whispered among themselves.
Among them was Ryen.
He was unlike the others. Not because of how he spoke—he didn't speak at all. But because his silence held weight.
Soen had seen men broken by war, their spirits crushed into quiet obedience. But this was different.
When Ryen walked, people unconsciously moved in rhythm with him. When he stopped, others stopped too, as if waiting for something.
Even when he did nothing, it felt as though he was leading them.
And Soen, a man of reason, could feel it.
One evening, as Soen observed the village, a child approached Ryen—a girl, no older than ten.
She had lost everything in Tona, yet she did not cry. She did not ask for comfort.
She simply stood beside him.
Soen watched.
Ryen said nothing. He did not acknowledge her.
Yet, she stayed.
And somehow, the weight of her loss seemed lighter in his presence.
Soen stared long enough to be noticed.
He had fought in many battles, faced countless enemies. He had seen warriors wield swords with deadly precision and generals command armies with mere words.
But he had never seen a man lead without speaking.
Soen had trained for years to sense movement, to read people. And yet, Ryen stood before him in a way that felt... wrong.
Not in appearance. Not in action.
But in existence itself.
As if he were both there and not there.
Soen studied him carefully.
Ryen wasn't grieving. He wasn't lost in thought.
He was absent.
And yet—he was watching.
Something settled in Soen's chest. Not fear, not tension—something deeper. A pressure that made no demands, yet refused to be ignored.
He didn't flinch. He simply observed.
And Ryen—
Vanished
Not turned away. Not stepped into the shadows.
Just… gone.
Soen's breath remained steady, but his pulse quickened. His senses sharpened, scanning for anything—the displacement of air, the shift of a shadow, the faintest hint of movement.
Nothing.
Not even a lingering presence.