Book 1: Chapter 20 - Siren's Song [Part 2]

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It was time to be loved, to cement her place among the people of the Sarien lands. Love alloyed with fear was one of the greatest foundations upon which to build power. And she knew precisely how to make the masses adore her.

The original Seraphina could never sing; her voice was flat and off-key. It was one of her few small flaws and a reason why the men in her father's barracks loved her—it made her less of a goddess and more human. A small imperfection that added instead of detracting from her popularity.

The first note rang out, tentative, drawing only curious glances from passersby who wondered who this girl resembling the Duke's daughter was before they continued on their way.

This Seraphina had sung before hundreds, before thousands upon thousands in her own world. She had been watched on a million screens in a billion homes. It had been the only way to capture the world's attention and ensure she was not simply brushed aside by a family that had denied her very existence.

In her voice a rare talent honed to perfection by the very best the music industry could offer, there had always been a quiet message: Look at me. I am here. Look at nothing else but me. It had been a while since she had summoned such notes filled with passion and her will, but what was a quaint rural square compared to a stadium filled with half a city? The very world had once been her stage.

The girl had done it all as the first stepping stone to greatness. Hours of grueling practice, friendships, a sweet love—all sacrificed on the altar of her own glory.

Some skills can be forgotten through misuse or lack of practice. Others are latent, ingrained so deeply they become the very fabric of one's soul. The art of song was one such thing for Seraphina, and now, in a world where magic could bend reality itself, it held very real power.

Her Strength did not only enhance the muscles of her arms but also the very muscles that controlled her vocal cords and diaphragm. Without any artificial amplification, she let loose another test note—as clear as a cool mountain stream but as loud as a fresh thunderstorm.

Hastily, the bard strummed his fingers across the strings of his instrument, crafting an accompaniment as she began the intro to a song of loss—a song of a people without a land to call their own, who bore the sins of the last Cataclysm.

It was a song that Este Lize's friend had taught her, a beautiful melody that the Saint of Silver would have made her own. A song of love, forgiveness, and redemption in the light of the Goddess. But here and now, Seraphina had stolen it from her. But how could you steal what was never theirs in the first place? After all, it was her company, her staff, who had labored well into the long nights to compose the musical score for the game.

Este Lize had sung this song and her words had reached out to the boy who would one day become the master of the sword. There was no reason that Seraphina could not do the very same.

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This very world was hers. Had always been hers. Would always be hers.

Though the words of the song remained the same, it was infused with Seraphina's true nature—a manifestation of her inner Strength. A need to dominate, to revel in the struggle. It had become more than a trite holy hymn but a song of life that gloried in defying fate and winning against all odds.

In each and every note was threaded a small aspect of the Covenant, the healing words that clashed in counterpoint to the demands of her song. For it was now her song; none could deny it.

Even as the intro had yet to finish, people stopped their business, drawn to the girl in the simple brown dress who sang as if she were an angel of judgment. On some fundamental level, the gathering crowd knew that something significant was happening here—that here and now was a crux, a turning point of fate.

Like moths, they were drawn to her golden flame, murmuring their appreciation before being silenced by the weight of the moment. Those closest to the magic of the song, who could gaze directly at the descended angel, broke into great displays of emotion. Those further back found their eyes misty with unshed tears.

The very nature of the Holy was one of Judgment. But before there could be Judgment, there had to be remembrance.

A whore, entwined with a customer, pushed him away, clamoring to the window of her dimly lit room where she plied her trade. Opening the shutters, bare-breasted and uncaring, she just wanted to hear more of the song. She cried, for it was a song of her childhood. The world had been a simpler place, and she had once held simple yet grand dreams. Tears fell down her face even as the man’s spent seed trickled down her inner thigh as he shouted at her.

An old soldier-turned-baker remembered the bitter times of campaign when he had turned tail and run, leaving his companions to die in the mud and grit of a forgotten field. He had won a medal for simply surviving. It was a decision he could never forget, haunting him for many years. The notes of the song promised forgiveness, and he stopped in his tracks. The baker dropped his basket laden with bread, uncaring of the loaves spilling across the stones.

For her entourage and the bard, they appeared to be in the throes of something akin to revelation. They looked at her as if she were the Goddess made flesh. The bard, as if possessed by the very muse of Music itself, feverishly played to accompany the Divine notes and words. Every note he delivered now would be remembered for as long as each man or woman in that square drew breath and lived.

He knew in these few moments that the name Haze Finleigh would step into legend.

The song was overkill, and very much like the Lady Seraphina. An embodiment of her nature. She had launched an explosive bomb from on high against an anthill when a good kick would have sufficed. It was a definitive strike against one specific target she was not bothered to go to the trouble of searching for or chasing after.

It was a trap built from love and a young boy's memories.

Against his will, the boy-thief was summoned to the source of the beautiful song and made his way back to the market square. His hunger forgotten and hot tears streaming down his face, he rushed as fast as his little legs could carry him. He pushed through the resisting crowd, scrambling through legs that kicked at him. He did not care. He would endure any pain to reach that song. The song was all that mattered.

His mother was singing to him.

Somehow, he made his way to the front of the crowd. His eyes saw what they wanted to see, believing the lies his ears were telling him.

His mother, without stopping her song, reached out and grabbed him. He tried to throw himself into her arms, but she held him firm and at a distance, crinkling her nose at him and looking as if he were a stray dog.

The last thing he remembered before a cudgel struck him across the head, knocking him unconscious, was that his mother's eyes never looked like that—and his mother's eyes were not that shade of cruel, callous emerald. He was sure they had been red like his.