He hung by the wrists, suspended from rusted chains that bit into his pale, bruised flesh. His jaw hung slack, dislocated, torn open wider than nature intended. Blood matted what remained of his hair. His fingers were broken stubs, each nail split or missing. His feet barely touched the ground.

  But even now...

  Even now, he hummed.

  It was a haunting sound—melancholy, fragile. The ghost of a melody that once brought people to tears.

  Cale stepped closer.

  Erel's one remaining eye flicked open.

  It glowed faintly red.

  The spirit’s head tilted.

  A rasp left his lips.

  "Do you hear it?"

  Cale stopped, hand trembling near his chest. "I hear you."

  "They made me sing. When there was nothing left of me but pain. I sang."

  The air pulsed. The memory deepened.

  Cale saw flashes now—nobles laughing behind iron doors. A guard swinging a whip. A broken lute lying on a damp floor.

  "You shouldn’t have mocked him," the guard had said.

  Erel wept then, not from pain—but from what had been stolen.

  His voice.

  His truth.

  Cale stepped closer, deeper into the cell.

  Erel Vann watched him with one glowing eye, the other socket a dark hollow of forgotten agony. The rusted chains binding his spectral arms clinked softly as Cale approached.

  Without a word, Cale knelt and reached for the chains. He grit his teeth, feeling the weight of the spirit's pain in every link. With a surge of spiritual force, the metal groaned—then snapped.

  Erel's form jolted. His body flickered, and for a moment, Cale saw not the grotesque, elongated spirit—but a broken man, pale and thin, skin hanging loose, bloodied and bruised. He slumped forward. Cale caught him before he could fall, one arm wrapping gently around the spirit's withered frame.

  Slowly, Erel stood. The floor beneath him was stained with the long memory of his torment—filth and blood dried into the stone. He stood barefoot and trembling, his gaze fixed downward.

  Cale stood beside him in silence.

  "Who are you?" Erel rasped, his voice more breath than sound.

  "My name is Cale Durand," he said softly. "I’m a Spirit Bender. And I’m here to help you."

  Erel didn’t answer at first. His head bobbed, barely perceptible.

  Then his eyes—or what remained of them—lifted. And he looked into Cale.

  In that moment, Cale felt it.

  The spirit's tether. What Erel needed to pass on.

  It wasn’t justice.

  .

  It wasn’t even vengeance.

  It was choice.

  In life, they had stripped Erel of every freedom—his voice, his body, his music, his will. They had silenced him, not only with iron, but with years of humiliation and agony.

  He had no grave. No marker. No name carved in stone. His memory had become a warning, his life reduced to a cautionary tale for others who might defy the powerful.

  But here he was, still bound to that prison.

  Cale understood now.

  Erel didn’t want revenge.

  He didn’t want his torturers burned or beaten.

  He wanted to choose what happened next.

  To sing again.

  But Erel had no voice left. His throat was destroyed, his soul too warped. Only a Spirit Bender could hear him now.

  How could he be heard by the world again?

  Cale thought hard. Then, gently, he asked:

  "Can you teach me how to sing?"

  Erel blinked. His twisted face twitched—confusion, disbelief, flickering behind his glowing red eye.

  "I would love to learn one of yours," Cale added. "I'm sure you know a lot of beautiful songs."

  Erel stared at him for several long, silent seconds. His eye flickered. His expression—one long locked in torment—softened just slightly.

  Then, slowly... he nodded.

  Erel opened his mouth.

  And tried to sing.

  A sound emerged—rasped, hissed, broken like a bottle dragged across stone. His voice gurgled, catching on each note, the melody twisted with suffering. Slanted words fell out disjointed. Every few lines, he paused, recoiling from his own sound.

  It wasn’t singing.

  He looked away in shame.

  But Cale reached out and touched his arm.

  "Please," he said gently. "Keep going. It doesn’t have to be perfect. I’m listening."

  And so Erel sang.

  He sang a song of stars and wandering roads. Of heartbreak and silence. Of a voice once heard across valleys now echoing through stone. It was broken—but beneath the scars, the melody lived.

  And when he finished, Cale repeated the final verse.

  Quiet. Clear. Steady.

  A fragile sound in a place built of pain.

  And as the last note faded—Erel Vann began to cry.

  The chain fused in to the flesh of his neck faded away.

  His figure shimmered—twisting, reshaping—as spectral flame licked away the grotesque distortion. In his place stood a man tall and slender, his posture proud but weary. His dark brown hair was neatly tied back, his face clean and striking. He wore a fine coat faded by time and a worn leather strap that held a lute across his back. His eyes, now both whole, were deep pools of sorrow—and peace.

  He looked at his hands.

  Then at Cale.

  Then Erel moved forward and embraced him.

  "Thank you," he whispered. "For listening."

  Cale returned the embrace, his eyes damp.

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  And then Erel began to fade.

  Light surrounded him, a final shimmer of the man he once was. His expression remained soft, content.

  He vanished.

  And the cell was quiet.

  But Cale could still hear the song.

  Cale opened his eyes.

  Cale looked ahead. They were still in the alley, but Erel was no more.

  "Very well done," Tiana said softly, her voice carrying quiet pride.

  Cale closed his eyes, and tears gathered behind his lids. He rubbed them away with the heel of his palm. There was no shame in his expression—only quiet mourning.

  "If it's not too much," Cale murmured as he turned to her, "can you buy me a lute? Please."

  Tiana raised an eyebrow, curious. "A lute? Why would you need that?"

  Cale's eyes drifted to where Erel's spirit had once been, then back to her. "You'll see soon."

  She stared at him for a moment, the pieces falling into place. A small, knowing smile curved her lips.

  She stepped closer and wrapped her arms around his right arm. "Then let’s buy you a lute."

  Cale leaned forward, hesitated briefly, then placed a soft kiss on her cheek. "Thank you."

  She smiled at him, warm and unreadable, and together they walked out of the alley and into the city.

  The morning market had blossomed like a field of colors and sound. The wide square was filled with stalls offering everything from sun-warmed fruit and herbs to blades gleaming in the light. Voices overlapped—vendors haggling, children laughing, carts creaking.

  They weaved through the crowd until they reached a stand of musical instruments. Strings, drums, flutes, and lutes of every size and shape were on display. Behind the table sat a thin middle-aged woman with crow's feet around her eyes and strong hands scarred from years of work. She stood as they approached.

  "How can I help you?" she asked, eyeing them with gentle curiosity.

  Cale was already scanning the instruments. His eyes had sharpened—focused.

  "We're looking for a lute," Tiana said.

  Cale reached for one and gently cradled it, turning it in his hands like it was something fragile. His fingers trailed along the polished neck, tapped the frets, and plucked a few strings to hear the resonance.

  The seller raised an eyebrow. "You a singer?"

  Cale didn’t look up. He nodded slightly, seemingly lost in memory.

  He placed the first lute down and picked up another. Then another. He moved with the confidence of someone who had done this before.

  On the fourth lute, he paused. Turned it in his hands. Strummed once. Then twice.

  He turned toward the seller. "How much for this one?"

  "Twenty silver coins," she said firmly. "That one’s one of my best."

  Cale looked at the lute, then back at her. "Fifteen."

  Tiana blinked, surprised. Cale didn’t seem like someone who bargained. But now he was cool, steady, direct.

  The woman hesitated. "Eighteen."

  "Sixteen," Cale countered, and then calmly pointed out three minor imperfections—a slightly uneven neck joint, a small warp in the back, a faint tuning delay.

  The woman sighed. "Fine. Sixteen. And five more for the strap."

  Tiana paid, and they shook hands.

  Back at the Crooked Lantern, the world was quieter. The buzz of the market faded behind stone walls. In their room, Cale sat on the edge of his bed, the new lute in his arms.

  He closed his eyes. His fingers explored the strings gently, testing their song. He adjusted the tuning pegs, listening, remembering.

  Tiana sat across from him, legs crossed on the bed, watching him with quiet intensity. Xentar hovered nearby, silent.

  Then—Cale inhaled deeply.

  And he sang.

  The melody rose, tentative at first, like a ghost returning home.

  Erel's memories stirred within him. The shape of the notes, the rise and fall of breath, the rhythm of sorrow and wonder.

  "He walked beyond the silver fields,

  Where sky and earth forgot to end.

  He followed stars with broken heels,

  And carried songs he could not mend."

  Tiana's breath caught. She had not expected his voice to sound like that.

  "He sang to trees and to the stone,

  To rivers lost in ancient sleep.

  He sang to skies that walked alone,

  And left behind what he could keep."

  Even Xentar was still, his form hovering without movement.

  "At edge of world, no gods, no flame,

  Just silence waiting in the sand.

  He sang, and stars recalled his name,

  And reached for him with broken hands."

  Tears welled in Cale's eyes. His voice trembled, but did not break.

  And when the song ended, the silence that followed was full of weight.

  Tiana lowered her gaze, brushing her fingers near her lips.

  "That...” she whispered. “That was beautiful."

  Cale set the lute on his lap and looked down at his hands.

  "It was his. Erel's song. I just... remembered it."

  Tiana reached out and took his hand gently.

  And in the quiet of that small room, a haunted spirit's voice lived again.

  Cale spent the day practicing his new talents.

  He sat by the window of their modest room, fingers gently tracing the strings of his lute, ears tuned not just to the notes, but to the memory that guided them. Erel's touch was there, like a whisper in the back of his mind. Not controlling, not haunting—but present. Like a teacher, patiently watching from the wings.

  It wasn’t magic. It was memory. Legacy.

  He only stopped when Tiana called him to eat.

  The sun had already dipped beneath the rooftops. The tavern below was alive with laughter and clinking mugs, the scent of roasted meat and warm bread drifting through the air. Patrons gathered around wooden tables, their cheeks flushed from drink, voices rising and falling like the tide.

  They found a table near the hearth and sat. The warmth of the fire brushed across Cale’s face.

  A familiar figure approached—the same young serving girl from the morning. Her apron still too large, her cheeks still flushed with youthful energy.

  After taking their order, she lingered a moment.

  "Ah... are you a bard?" she asked.

  Cale blinked. He opened his mouth to say no.

  But then he hesitated.

  He wasn’t. Not truly.

  But Erel had been.

  And his songs now lived in him.

  "Yes," Cale said softly. "I am."

  The girl lit up. "I thought so! I heard your singing earlier when I passed by your room. You have a very melodic voice."

  Cale flushed slightly, ducking his head. "Thank you."

  "Would you mind singing something tonight? My uncle, he owns the tavern, he’d pay you for your performance. Nothing grand, just a few songs. People would love it."

  Cale looked at Tiana.

  She shrugged. "Do what you want."

  He nodded. "All right."

  He excused himself, heading back to their room. The lute lay where he'd left it, on the bed, the evening light catching on its polished wood.

  He lifted it carefully, fingers trailing across the strings. He took a breath. Then another.

  And returned.

  Voices quieted as he walked down the stairs. Eyes turned, curious and expectant. Some people paused mid-sentence, mugs halfway to lips.

  Cale didn’t falter.

  He stepped into the center of the room.

  He adjusted the lute, checked its tuning, then let his fingers settle.

  The first note rang out like a drop of water into stillness.

  Then another.

  A smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he launched into a lively, cheer-soaked song—one of drunkards and lost love, of spilled ale and the kind of foolish hope that could only exist under the moonlight.

  The crowd came alive.

  Clapping.

  Laughing.

  Singing along.

  Mugs were raised. Tables thudded with fists. A few even got up and danced, tripping over chairs and laughing harder for it.

  Cale sang with clarity, joy, and something more—a presence. He wasn’t just playing. He was telling stories. He was giving them something real.

  For a moment, he was Erel.

  For a moment, Erel was him.

  When the final chord rang out, Cale bowed. Polite, composed.

  The tavern erupted in cheers and whistles.

  The serving girl rushed over. "Uncle said he really liked your song! Will you sing more? Please?"

  Cale smiled, adjusted his lute.

  "Of course."

  And so he played.

  All night, Cale's voice filled the tavern.

  He sang of wind and war. Of lovers lost and found again beneath starlit skies. Of roads winding forever, and hearts that still dared to follow them.

  Some songs made the crowd laugh.

  Others made them cry.

  But every word was true.

  And through it all, Cale felt something he hadn’t in a long time:

  Purpose.

  Cale walked into the room in the quiet hours of early morning, the last echoes of laughter and drunken song fading into silence behind him. The tavern below had finally emptied. Now, only stillness remained. The air felt sacred, like the soft hush that follows the final note of a long, beautiful melody.

  He placed his lute gently beside the bed, treating it with the same reverence he would a companion, then walked slowly to the window. Leaning on the sill, arms folded, he gazed out over the city as it slumbered beneath a blanket of soft moonlight.

  The streets were empty, shadows curling between buildings. Silver light painted rooftops, and in the distance, the creak of a cart echoed off the cobblestones. Somewhere far away, a dog barked once. Then nothing.

  As the rays of the sun illuminated the room, behind him, the bedsheets rustled.

  Tiana stirred. She sat up slowly, blinking sleep from her eyes. Her dark hair was tousled, her features bathed in the golden light of early dawn.

  She rose, silent on bare feet, and approached him. For a long moment, she said nothing—just stood beside him, watching the tension etched into his shoulders.

  Then she reached out and gently placed her hand on his arm.

  He flinched, the sudden contact jolting him from thought, but when he turned and saw her face, his expression softened.

  A faint, warm smile broke across his lips. "Good morning,"

  "Good morning," she echoed gently.

  "Did you enjoy yourself last night?"

  Cale lowered his gaze to his hands. He could still feel the wooden curve of the lute beneath his fingers, still hear the laughter, the applause, the joy in the voices that had joined his. It had been more than performance. It had been connection. Acceptance.

  He closed his hands into soft fists. "Yeah," he whispered. "I did."

  Tiana smiled at him. Not a teasing smile—but a quiet, proud one.

  Then her gaze drifted to the morning outside. "It’s time to leave this place, Cale," she said. "We’ve stayed long enough."

  Cale nodded slowly. His heart ached a little at the thought. The tavern, the city, the music—they had given him something he didn’t know he needed.

  "I know," he said.

  They changed in silence, the room filled only with the soft rustling of clothes and the distant sounds of the waking world. Cale’s travel gear felt heavier than usual, as if it knew they were carrying more than supplies now—memories, perhaps.

  Tiana retrieved the rune-carved cube from under the bed. It pulsed faintly, its glow a soft heartbeat in her hands before vanishing into her satchel.

  They descended to the tavern’s main floor.

  The old innkeeper stood behind the counter, already polishing mugs with the familiarity of a man who’d done it a thousand mornings before.

  "Leaving already?" he asked, voice gruff but kind.

  "Time never stands still," Tiana replied as she placed the key on the counter.

  The man nodded solemnly. "Breakfast before you go?"

  Cale looked up. "Yes, please."

  They took a seat near the hearth. The fire was low, the embers glowing faintly. The smell of baking bread and rich broth drifted from the kitchen.