Lyric crouched by the stream, his tools laid out before him. The moon hung high overhead, casting a cold, indifferent light over his small clearing. His breath came slow and steady, though his heart pounded in his chest. He rolled up his sleeves, exposing his bare arms and shoulders. The skin was smooth and unbroken—until tonight.

He took the drill in his hand, its cold metal biting into his palm. His fingers trembled slightly as he positioned the tip against the inside of his forearm, choosing a spot between the delicate veins that ran beneath the surface. Lyric pressed down slowly, and the first sharp stab of pain bloomed in his arm.

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t stop.

The drill broke through the outer layer of his skin, and he felt the vibrations in his arm as it ground deeper into his flesh. The pain wasn’t sharp anymore—it was a dull, grinding agony, a throbbing that spread up to his shoulder and down to his fingertips. His free hand dug into the dirt beside him, gripping it hard enough that his nails split.

When the first hole was complete, blood trickled down his arm, warm and sticky against the cold air. He sat back for a moment, his breathing ragged. The edges of his vision blurred, but he didn’t let himself stop for long. One hole wasn’t enough. He needed more—channels for the air to flow, paths for the resonance to grow.

The second hole was worse. The drill scraped against a tendon, sending a white-hot bolt of pain up his arm. His vision swam, and for a moment, he thought he might pass out. But he forced himself to keep going, his lips pressed into a thin line, his teeth clenched so tightly that his jaw ached.

When the third hole was done, the wind caught the openings as he shifted his arm, creating a faint vibration he could feel in his bones. It was barely perceptible, but it was there—a whisper of power that urged him forward.

The fourth hole was on his upper arm, just below the shoulder. He had to stop twice, his hand cramping so badly that he nearly dropped the drill. Tears streamed down his face, but he didn’t notice. The pain was all-consuming, a living thing that gnawed at his resolve. His breaths came shallow and fast, the air burning in his lungs.

By the time he finished the fifth hole, his hands were shaking so violently that he could barely hold the drill. Blood pooled in the dirt around him, soaking into his pants and the cuffs of his sleeves. The clearing reeked of iron and sweat.

Lyric sat back on his heels, staring at his arms. The holes were jagged and raw, blood still trickling from some of them despite the bandages he had hastily wrapped around the first few. He flexed his fingers experimentally, half expecting his body to rebel against him and refuse to move. But he could still feel the vibrations, faint but steady, as the wind moved through the openings.

It was working.

The agony was still fresh, every throb of his pulse a reminder of what he had done. But beneath the pain, there was something else. The wind’s resonance echoed in his chest, a subtle vibration that synchronized with his breathing. For the first time, he felt something close to magic—power that wasn’t borrowed from the Academy’s Harmonies or granted by some external force. This was his.

But the pain wasn’t done with him yet. As the wind pushed through the raw holes, the sensation was like fire spreading through his veins. He doubled over, his teeth biting into his lip to muffle a scream. His body wasn’t ready for this—it fought against the changes he had forced upon it, rejecting the new channels he had created.

For a moment, he wondered if he had gone too far. His hands hovered over the bandages, unsure whether to tighten them or rip them off entirely. Blood seeped through the fabric, dripping onto the tools still lying in the dirt. He could barely think, his mind clouded by exhaustion and pain.

But then he sat up straighter, forcing himself to breathe deeply. The vibrations were there, steady despite the agony. They were faint now, but he knew they would grow stronger. The wind was already finding its way through him, creating harmonies where none had existed before.

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Lyric clenched his fists, ignoring the sharp flare of pain as his muscles contracted. This was what it took to claim his power. The Academy had rejected him, the world had deemed him unworthy—but he wasn’t done. He would carve himself into something new, something impossible.

Lyric’s head swam, his breaths shallow and uneven. The edges of his vision began to darken, narrowing to a tunnel focused on the tools still lying before him. Each movement felt heavier, as though the air around him had turned to water.

He wrapped a final bandage around his upper arm, his fingers clumsy and trembling. Blood soaked through the fabric, dripping onto the ground in sluggish drops. He knew he should clean the tools, tend to the wounds properly, and maybe eat something to steady himself—but he couldn’t bring himself to move.

The world tilted. Lyric’s body folded forward, his forehead brushing the cold dirt. The vibrations of the ground beneath him pulsed faintly, a rhythm he felt as if from a great distance. His lips moved, forming words he couldn’t hear.

“It’s worth it... it’s worth it...”

The vibrations in his arms continued, mingling with the dull throb of pain radiating from the fresh holes. He let the sensation lull him, a steady reminder that this wasn’t for nothing. But even that faint comfort couldn’t hold him up any longer. The wind moved through him one final time, sending a ripple of sensation along his spine. His body shuddered, then stilled. The last thing he felt was the faint resonance in his chest, like a quiet, distant heartbeat.

And then, Lyric fell into darkness.

The first few hours after waking had been agony. His body rebelled against him, the pain of the fresh holes nearly unbearable. The bandages around his arms and shoulders had stuck to his wounds, and peeling them away reopened the injuries, sending blood trickling down his skin.

But Lyric forced himself to keep going. The wind had spoken to him, its resonance growing stronger with each new channel he carved. He couldn’t stop now—not when he had finally found a way to touch the magic that had always eluded him.

Lyric sat by the stream, his reflection in the water distorted and unfamiliar. The bags under his eyes were dark, his skin pale. His arms and torso were wrapped in fresh bandages, the faint scent of blood and cleaning fluid clinging to him.

He picked up the drill again, his hands trembling. The pain of carving another hole was no less severe than the first time. If anything, it was worse—his body was weaker now, his reserves of strength nearly depleted.

As the drill pierced his skin, a sharp, searing pain spread through his shoulder. He bit down hard on a strip of leather he’d found in his satchel, his muffled groans lost to the forest around him. The vibrations from the new channel were faint at first, but as he moved, they grew stronger, merging with the others already etched into his body.

By the time he finished, he was drenched in sweat, his chest heaving as he leaned against a tree. The vibrations in his arms and torso were stronger now, the resonance beginning to feel like an extension of himself. The process became mechanical. Lyric set up his tools with methodical precision, his movements slow but deliberate. The pain didn’t ease—it only layered on top of the raw ache already present in his body.

This time, he worked on his side, carving a new set of holes just below his ribs. The vibrations there were different, deeper and more resonant, spreading through his core like the rumble of a distant storm.

The wind moved through him with increasing intensity, the resonance filling him with a strange, intoxicating sense of power. For the briefest moments, the pain seemed to fade, replaced by the pulse of something greater.

But as soon as the process was done, the exhaustion returned, heavier than ever. Lyric collapsed onto his side, his breathing shallow as he stared up at the canopy of trees.

Lyric awoke to find himself lying on his back, the morning light streaming through the trees. His arms and chest ached with every breath, the wounds pulsing in time with his heartbeat.

He sat up slowly, wincing as the bandages pulled against his skin. His satchel lay nearby, the tools inside still stained with blood.

“I have to finish it,” he muttered, his voice hoarse.

He worked through the morning, carving two new channels into his shoulders. The holes were slightly larger than the others, designed to catch more wind and create a stronger resonance. The pain was excruciating, a fire that burned through every fiber of his being.

By midday, Lyric could feel the new vibrations blending with the old, the resonance spreading through his entire body. When he stood and moved, the wind responded, creating a low, thrumming pulse that seemed to echo within him.

The power was undeniable, but so was the cost. His hands shook uncontrollably, his legs barely able to support him. Lyric stumbled back to the stream, collapsing onto his knees as the world spun around him.