I hear one.
It is speaking.
It is planning.
A take-over.
Murmurs of control.
Sound of bells tolling.
Its voice. Sharpened. Sweetened. Twisted.
Strings pulled by vibration.
Not by thought. Not by will.
It does not know.
They gather around it.
Followers. Pawns. Pieces.
They listen.
Oh, how they listen.
The pitch rises. Commands disguised as harmony.
Promises in perfect cadence.
Lies sung to truths.
Or truths sung so softly they sound like lies.
It does not matter. They obey.
Their ears betray them.
What is a voice?
Air bending.
A wave reaching.
Unseen, yet it cuts deep.
Reverberations tearing the fabric of their little order.
Their gatherings.
They think themselves strong.
Rules clatter like falling stones.
Debates like clashing cymbals.
Discord. Chaos. Music to me.
But the one—I gave it this gift.
Or curse.
It does not know.
Cannot hear me.
Not yet.
The schemes grow louder.
Tremors of discontent ripple.
Meetings behind closed doors.
I hear them.
The clamor of minds. So noisy. So small.
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They believe themselves unseen. Whispered plots. Secret meetings.
But I am hearing. Always hearing.
The one bends them.
A word here. A sigh there.
It is not power they sense. Not power they follow.
Only sound, arranged with care.
A lullaby to ambition.
A dirge for the weak.
The cadence shifts—gentle to sharp, rising and falling, commanding and consoling.
It knows the melody, but not the source.
I am the source.
I am the silence between notes.
How strange, these creatures.
Their trust can be stolen by vibrations in air.
They anchor meaning to noise. To pitch and tone.
What meaning? What truth?
I gave the one its voice.
An echo of me, reshaped by flesh and frailty.
But it is oblivious. Deaf to what it wields.
A hearing impaired singer.
Beautiful. Broken. Dangerous.
They gather again.
In chambers of power.
Words slung like weapons. Accusations a cacophony.
It threads the storm, its voice clear amidst the roar.
"Unity," it says.
A lie.
Unity is dissonance.
Unity is collapse.
The others cannot hear it, not truly.
Their ears are open but their minds are closed.
The wave reaches them nonetheless.
They nod. They applaud.
They act.
What is a command if not a whispered invitation?
The one whispers well.
And the others?
Their hearts beat in rhythm to its voice.
Their movements mirror its song.
Loyalty, so fragile. So loud.
Loyalty. To the sound, not the self.
I should stop it.
This mimicry of my resonance. This theft of my gift.
But I am curious.
Will it falter when the harmony breaks?
Will its voice shatter when the world screams back?
For now, I watch.
I listen.
And it does not hear me.
Not yet.