Kora felt odd. There was just something wrong. Something unnatural, something that shouldn’t happen but is happening.

The air weighted differently upon her fingertips, the notes she ricocheted off the piano sounding off. In tune, yet obscure. She has performed with this piano countless times over the past year, learning every knack and scratch upon its seemingly flawless surface. This piano was her partner, a friend, an ally. The only thing she dared to trust, the only thing she sang her tales to.

The piano was not cooperative today. It irked her, but Kora played on. Nothing changed. Or rather, her notes not only felt wrong, but unresponsive. The sounds she wanted to come out did not come out.

She shifted in her bench, trying to find a comfortable stance. The soft fabric of her pants clung snugly to her skin. Such moments were scarce, as a soldier, so she attempted to savor each moment of it.

Being cozy was exactly what she was raised against. Everything had to be hard, durable, practical. Softness makes a soldier go soft, and a soft soldier is easy to break.

Kora agreed, which is exactly why she gave up on becoming a soldier. Too much work, too much marching, too much cold food. Not enough sleep. If only there was some type of profession in which she could hold unfathomable power, control, fear, without having to do anything.

She shook the idea off. In her current state, such a thing was impossible. Besides, conspiring against the state comes later. For now, she would indulge herself in this.

It wasn’t working.

Kora’s blood was rising, her heart beating faster, her fingers tightening. It wasn’t her imagination. Some keys were not functioning. Yet they were making sound. Other keys were couple milliseconds behind, some a couple milliseconds ahead. She was playing but she was not the pianist. The tempo increased without her notice, a crescendo appearing when it shouldn’t have. A pianist controls the song, and Kora was not in control.

Kora did not like it when she was not in control.

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Wrath though, was not the way to control. It was the way to ruin. It was a fire that burned itself.

Kora tried to recall a different memory, from a different time. A soft one, a warm one. She let out a breath she did not know she was holding, attempting to relax her tightening muscles. She stopped watching the music sheet, for it did her no help.

She imagined the campfire, in one of her many nights in the wilds. She was with her three other brothers, when they were all small and cute. It was a time when she was too. She was the youngest and smallest of them all, cheeks pink and fluffy. The smell of blood was in the air, but it was mostly of the skinned boar. It was a tough opponent, for a bunch of kids that was. Kaledin, her second oldest brother at 16 winters, was roasting the thing with a big grin on his face. He’d gotten the killing blow. She was proud of him. The fire crackled, dancing when the wind whipped at her face. The trees swayed too, betraying many unknown shadows. But Kora wasn’t afraid, for her Father was one of those shadows, up in the trees, watching over them.

The piano listened this time. She heard the notes flow into the room, taking their place among the candles and vibrant room lights. She played the song with grace and ease.

The fire cackled once again, this time their fires gave color to her oldest brother, Khastan.He was smiling but his eyes were not. He was irritated. Angry. Kora remembered her confusion, her confusion even now. Her oldest brother was the most reliable out of them. Earnest, kind, gentle. Forgiving. He cared for his little siblings, blood or non-blood related. Yet his eyes betrayed something hard, something wicked. He looked like Father, and though Kora loved her Father, she was very, very afraid of him. She remembered how Khastan looked at her back then, how her hair stood up and how her skin turned cold.

She remembered what he would do, and what he’d try to do too.

She found no anger in her this time. She was tired, beaten and bruised. She played that song too. Emotion swelled up in her, something she was not too familiar with. The Syliva family was not accustomed with emotion. It was a weakness that clouded the mind.

Kora agreed, which is why she played the piano. To cloud her mind, to forget about the wrath and betrayal and revenge which attempted to seep through her notes. But Kora was too tired of it. Too tired of the fight she could never win. Fighting the world was too hard, too hard. All of her life she was soldered. All of her life she was taught nothing but how to take another life.

Never how to give life. She was too old and stiff now. Too full of disdain to ever love a person again. They were all fragile, weak, foreign.

At the end of it all, it amounted to nothing. Her sacrifices, her years, all to nowhere. Seeing her mentor in that pathetic condition broke something in her. The greatest being she’d known is now stagnant.

Stagnant, just like her.

The song had turned somber, quiet, beaten. Tired. Her hands slowed, the notes slowly dwindling, their life not sustaining any longer. Nothing made her heart beat. Slowly, everything became pointless. Empty. Vacant. Colorless.

Despire, Kora knew, would soon fill in that void.

Kora flinched. There was a distortion. She looked up with dull eyes, meeting face to face with a bunch of blue colored screens.

Her heart beat once, twice, and thrice.