The southern district of Highspire never slept.
From sunrise to the last moon's glow, it sang—sang with voices of merchants, clinking of tools, tap-tap of artisan shoes against stone. And in the middle of that song, tucked between a bakery and an open-air theater, sat a small shop too clean to be poor and too cramped to be rich.
Paia's Sound Atelier.
A wooden sign, hand-carved. One corner chipped. A paper charm fluttered from the bell over the door—warding off bad customers, supposedly. Everyone knew it didn't work.
"Morning, Paimon!" called a plump woman passing by, arms full of steamed buns.
Paimon peeked out from a stack of instrument cases and waved with both hands. "Morning, Miss Klara! Can I have the burnt one again?"
"Already wrapped it for you, cheeky girl!"
She ducked back inside as the crowd rolled on.
Inside the Atelier, the smell of oiled wood, resin, and warm tea filled the air. Instruments of all shapes leaned against the walls: harps made from frostwillow bark, violins inlaid with spark-thread, chimes that could hum when the wind hit them just right. All hand-crafted. All slightly imperfect.
Paimon was perched on a stool behind the counter, bare feet swinging, fine tools scattered across the workbench before her. She wore thick goggles, oversized gloves, and a spark-powered magnifier lens over one eye.
Her face was scrunched in concentration.
"Just a little more… there!" she whispered.
With one final twist, she clicked the crystal tuning core into place inside a metal flute. The moment it settled, the flute hummed faintly, catching the ambient Spark in the room and converting it into a gentle warmth. She grinned.
"Now you'll play even in a blizzard. Take that, mountain gigs!"
Just then, the door creaked.
In stepped a lanky man with calloused fingers and a heavy stringed case strapped to his back. He sniffed the air.
"Still using sunleaf polish?" he asked.
"I like the scent," Paimon replied without looking up. "What broke this time, Uncle Bran?"
"My pride. And my cello. Beast cart crash."
He placed the battered cello on the counter like laying a corpse to rest.
She winced. "Oof. That's at least four cracks and a shattered tailpiece. This'll take me a few days."
Bran sighed and scratched his chin. "Take your time. You always fix what the big shops can't."
Paimon glanced up and grinned. "Of course I do. I'm small, which means I notice the tiny details others miss!"
He chuckled. "Say, when are you going to play outside again? The plaza crowd misses you."
Paimon paused.
Then she tapped her goggles up and looked toward the open window. Down the lane, performers juggled, dancers twirled, children laughed. The city was always alive. Always moving forward.
"I'll play again," she said, voice quieter. "When I finish her song."
Bran blinked. "Her?"
Paimon looked at the painting hung near her ceiling—a faded image of a blue-haired woman bathed in light, harp in hand.
"Aqua," she whispered. "Goddess of Music. She only ever played three songs in the history of the world."
"And you want to play the fourth," Bran said.
She nodded slowly. "I want to finish what she left behind."
He didn't argue. No one ever did. Not because they believed it, but because Paimon's belief was beautiful. It felt wrong to poke holes in something that fragile and pure.
"Well, when you do," Bran said, shouldering his case, "I'll be the first to throw coins."
She smiled again. This time, it didn't quite reach her eyes.
The afternoon sun cast gold over Highspire's southern district. Banners swayed gently between buildings. The aroma of roasted meats, spark-toasted sweets, and fried dumplings filled the market square. The streets pulsed with life—every stone a rhythm in the city's song.
Paimon adjusted her woven satchel, the flute from earlier nestled inside, and stepped out of her shop with a skip in her step.
"Don't run, Paimon!" called the baker's wife. "Your legs are too short to stop!"
"They're efficient, not short!" she yelled back.
She waved at the twin boys selling berry-ice from a floating cooler cart. She high-fived the tinker girl whose leg brace hissed with steam. She even spared a nod for that one sour-faced priest from the Church of Practical Salvation.
As she crossed the central arch bridge, she paused.
Above the rooftops, the blue sky rippled.
Just once.
Like a mirage. A shimmer, subtle and sharp—there, then gone.
"Huh?" she blinked. "Weird…"
No one else noticed. The market buzzed like always.
She shrugged it off.
At the plaza stage, performers were setting up. One of the bards—an overdramatic lute player named Venti—waved from behind his harp.
"Paimon! Play with us tonight!"
"Still owe me for last time, Venti! I don't play for exposure!"
"Boo! Cruel loli capitalist!"
She snorted. "You're not even good enough to expose!"
But her eyes lingered on the stage.
She missed it.
The feeling of performance, the rise of a crowd's breath held at the edge of sound. She hadn't played outside in… what, seven months?
Too many distractions. Too many half-finished projects. Too many nights alone, scribbling notes for a song that didn't yet exist.
Aqua's fourth melody…
She shook the thoughts away and skipped down an alley shortcut toward the merchant post. A certain gluttonous cat always waited behind the building—her self-appointed second-best friend.
Sure enough, he was there. Gigantic. Orange. Fat. Regal.
"Meow."
"I brought smoked fish," she said seriously. "You may praise me."
He blinked and allowed her to place the food offering with the appropriate reverence.
But again, as she sat beside him and watched the sky, her smile faded.
A thin trail of cloud drifted across the horizon. No, not cloud. Smoke.
Faint, far—barely visible.
She didn't know why, but it made her chest feel tight.
The sun had dipped behind Highspire's towering spires, and the city bled orange. Most shops in the southern district were closing. But not Paia's Sound Atelier.
Inside, soft candlelight danced across the scattered pages of musical notation.
Paimon sat cross-legged on the floor, ink smudged on her nose, tongue poking from the corner of her mouth as she scribbled in furious silence.
"No… no… this chord's too soft."
She hummed the bars under her breath.
Scribbled. Paused. Hummed again.
The melody refused to cooperate.
She threw down her quill and flopped back onto the floor, arms outstretched, staring up at the ceiling like it had answers.
A single page hung above her—a tattered piece of aged parchment with faded notes. The so-called "First Melody of Aqua," copied from the Holy Archive.
She stared at it every night.
Not to copy it. No, never. She wasn't dumb enough to think she could recreate a goddess' song.
But she wanted to understand.
Why did it sound like sorrow wrapped in warmth?
Why did the second song sound like a battle hymn, and the third like mourning?
And what would the fourth sound like?
She rolled over and reached for her harp, tiny fingers dancing along the string array.
A haunting chord rang out.
She added a note. Took another away. Frowned. Rewrote.
The bell over the shop door jingled.
"Closed!" she called, not looking.
A familiar voice replied, "Closed to customers, maybe. But I'm your neighbor. Legally, I count as infestation."
"Mr. Gray, it's past curfew!"
The man chuckled. A quiet shuffling, then a soft clunk as something was placed beside her.
"Bread. And dried sausage. You forget to eat again?"
"...Maybe."
He sighed. "What's so important that you skip meals over it?"
She hesitated.
Then, she sat up slowly, holding a single sheet of paper up toward him—her current draft.
He glanced at the messy staff lines. Notes. Strange symbols. Spark-channel notations. Then back at her.
"This… is?"
"The fourth melody," she said, eyes gleaming. "Aqua only played three. But I think… I think the fourth is buried somewhere inside me. I want to finish it. Not because I'm worthy or anything. But because I believe someone has to. I could feel it , the whisper of the world"
There was silence for a while.
Finally, Mr. Gray sighed again.
"You really are a lunatic," he said gently. "But the good kind."
She pouted. "You're the lunatic! Your whole family is lunatic!"
Outside, a wind howled.
The shutters creaked.
Somewhere far off—too far for normal ears—a beast screamed.
But inside the shop, there was only the sound of music being rewritten for the thousandth time.
The next morning began as always—with her shop cat meowing like it paid rent.
"Yea, yea, your royal fluffiness. Coming," Paimon muttered, yawning.
She placed a dish of dried fish and hot broth by the window. The cat sniffed, meowed again in satisfaction, and promptly ignored her. Typical.
She stepped outside into the crisp northern air. The early market was already buzzing, filled with merchant wagons, spark-driven carts, and noisy kids chasing each other around streetlamps.
"Morning, shortstack!"
"Go trip on a cable, Royce!"
The baker's kid laughed and tossed her a sweet roll. She caught it midair with one hand, took a bite, and chewed smugly.
As she crossed into the small park by the plaza, she spotted her students already waiting—five kids of varying ages, each holding poorly maintained instruments.
"All right, you little gremlins," she said. "Scale drills, round two. Don't make me beat you with your own flutes again."
One of the boys groaned. "But Paimonnn—"
She clapped her hands. "No 'buts!' Aqua didn't make war gods cry by slacking off in scale practice!"
Another groan.
She smiled.
They began to play. Badly. Painfully. A murder of notes screaming for help.
Still, she hummed along with them, correcting posture here, adjusting hand position there. Her tone was strict, but her eyes were warm. She loved this.
As they practiced, an old man with a harmonica sat nearby, quietly listening. A merchant paused to drop a coin in a donation box someone had set up beside her by mistake weeks ago. She never removed it.
Then—
A tremor.
Almost a misstep in the earth.
Everyone paused. Looked around.
"Was that…?"
"Probably a resonance surge," one merchant muttered. "Some idiot testing a new artifact. Again."
The others nodded. Lost interest. Returned to their work.
She stood still, head tilted.
The air felt… off.
Like something was watching, far beyond the skyline.
She brushed it off and resumed practice.
But at lunch, when she walked past the northern messenger post, she saw a pair of guild scouts—bloodied and breathless—rushing into the city with a third on a stretcher.
That wasn't normal.
At the guildboard near the square, someone had quietly nailed a new notice.
⚠️ ALERT — ALL SALVAGE OPERATIONS IN TWILIGHT WASTES HALTEDDue to rising aggression from beast clans. High-risk rating in effect. Avoid travel unless necessary.
She frowned.
Twilight Wastes was far. But… not that far.
Still, no one panicked. That was the strange thing about Highspire.
They were used to danger.
So people carried on.
As did Paimon.
That evening, she locked up her shop and returned to her practice room. She played. Wrote. Rewrote. Re-played. Hours passed like mist.
Until the candles burned low, and the shop cat curled beside her lap.
Outside, under a crescent moon, the first silhouette crossed the frostline.
Eyes glowed red.
Fangs shimmered.
And Highspire's last quiet night ticked away.
The next morning, sunlight filtered through the pale frost on her shop windows, casting everything in a dreamlike haze.
It should have been peaceful.
Instead, the air was off—like it held its breath.
Paimon still opened her door, smile ready as always.
"C'mon, music goblins! Today's lesson is called 'Why You Suck, And How to Suck Slightly Less.'"
Three kids showed up this time instead of five. Their eyes looked distant.
She crouched, gently placing her hand on the littlest one's shoulder.
"What's wrong?"
"Mom said to stay home. That the guards looked nervous yesterday."
Paimon paused.
Her gaze drifted to the street beyond. More patrols. More armored feet stomping past. And that eerie tension hanging between every shout and clink of gear.
Still, she forced a grin.
"Well, guess what? That means fewer people here to witness your mistakes."
The kid cracked a small smile.
They played. She laughed. They made fun of each other's tempo. She corrected their posture like usual, but every note that echoed off the alley walls sounded a little more fragile.
At one point, Paimon paused mid-song, hand trembling slightly over the strings.
She couldn't shake it—this pressure in her chest.
It wasn't fear.
It was urgency.
She dismissed the kids early that day, pressing sweets into their hands as they left.
"Come back tomorrow," she said.
She didn't believe it herself.