Song of Burden

Arlen took a deep breath, the crisp morning air filling his lungs, and lifted his gaze toward the hills and valleys ahead. His chest ached under the weight of the past night—memories of Liora alone in the forest and Elara in captivity pressing on him like stones. With reluctant determination, he began to sing.

The melody rolled softly at first, threading through the trees and undergrowth. Each note was precise, measured, carrying an almost invisible pulse of magic—enough to stir the Thalorian Vilinkas hiding in the glades without alerting the soldiers waiting on the forest’s edge.

“Come forth, guardians of hidden glades,
Through shadowed leaf and forest shades.
Hear the call upon the wind,
Where safety hides, your paths begin…”

The song grew stronger, richer, weaving through the glades where the last Vilinkas had taken refuge. Slowly, one by one, they stirred. Small lights flickered among the trees as the creatures emerged, drawn to the enchanting sound of Arlen’s voice.

Arlen’s chest tightened. Each note carried intent. This was no longer a song of joy, no longer a melody of comfort—it was a weapon, a lure, a tool he was forced to wield against the very beings he longed to protect.

Shock gripped him. He had known his song could charm and soothe—but he had never imagined it could command, bending their movements almost without resistance. His voice had this power. His song could truly draw them in.

And a darker thought followed immediately. His voice—this same song that now lured the Vilinkas—might have drawn Liora as well. Maybe she had been at his side not purely by choice, but because the magic of his voice had pulled her there. The thought twisted his gut. He feared that perhaps her closeness, her trust, her laughter—had been influenced by him in ways he had never intended. He did not yet see the truth: Liora’s heart had wanted to be with him freely, of her own accord. But the seed of doubt gnawed at him, and guilt wrapped around his chest like iron. He felt both power and curse in his song.

From the shadowed undergrowth, Zevran’s soldiers waited. Nets coiled, snares ready, eyes sharp, hands twitching toward every hidden trap. Each Vilinka that stepped closer was a potential catch, a prize to be seized. The forest itself seemed to hold its breath, sensing the tension between Arlen’s unwilling magic and the soldiers’ intent.

The first Vilinka wandered toward a hidden snare, a pit lined with thorny vines. Arlen’s throat tightened, heart pounding as he modulated the melody, guiding without leading them directly into harm. The second, the third… each responded, drawn by the song he both loved and feared. Somewhere deep in Gaiane, Liora moved unseen, attuned to the forest. Fear prickled at her, but curiosity and the pull of the song threaded through her chest. She did not yet know who sang, only that someone was there—someone the forest cautioned her against.

Every note he sang carried precision and sorrow. Every Vilinka that moved closer reminded him of his dual role: protector and betrayer. He could not stop; every second mattered. Each step brought the creatures nearer to the waiting snares, but each note also held a subtle thread of protection, a quiet attempt to keep them safe even as he obeyed the King.

Arlen stole a glance toward Gaiane, toward the thick forest where he knew Liora hid. Her presence, so near yet out of reach, tightened the knot of guilt in his chest. He could not yet draw her fully—not now—but he could feel the inevitable moment approaching when his song might reach her hiding place.

By late afternoon, the forest was alive with magic and tension. Vilinkas, drawn by the melody, moved cautiously but inevitably toward the edge where Zevran’s soldiers waited. Arlen rode slowly, deliberately, keeping the song flowing while maintaining a fragile moral line. The soldiers whispered, adjusted traps, every motion precise. The power he wielded was intoxicating, terrifying—and deeply alien.

As the sun dipped lower, shadows stretched long across the forest. Arlen’s mind was a storm of guilt, fear, and longing. Each Vilinka caught was a silent stone on his shoulders, each note a reminder of the impossible task he had been forced to undertake. Yet the thought of Elara, fragile and captive, anchored him. He had no choice but to continue.

By early evening, he finally turned his horse back toward home, chest heavy, hands sore from gripping the reins. The spy on horseback followed silently behind, a shadow in the fading light. Arlen entered his cottage as the last golden glow faded from the horizon. Saira and Kael were waiting, worry etched deep in their faces.

They approached, trying to speak, trying to offer comfort—but nothing could reach him. Kael pressed a hand to his shoulder, Saira’s steadying touch on his arm; their presence, familiar and caring, failed to pierce the fog of guilt and despair around him. Arlen sank onto the edge of the bed, exhausted, defeated, utterly alone.

“I… I had to,” he whispered, more to himself than to them. “To keep her safe… I had no choice.”

Their hands lingered, helpless. No words could undo what had been done; no comfort could soothe the storm of guilt, fear, and despair he carried. Arlen closed his eyes, memories flashing—Liora cooking for them, Elara’s laughter echoing through the cottage, warmth and light now replaced by silence and shadow.

Outside, night draped the forest in shadow. Liora moved silently, each footfall measured, attuned to every rustle, every flicker of leaf or shifting branch. The woods themselves whispered warnings—something was out there, something powerful and dangerous. Her own strength rose, a quiet shield ready to meet the unknown.

Through the trees, a song drifted. Sweet, clear, impossible to ignore. It threaded through the forest toward her, carrying intent she could not see. She did not know who sang, only that someone was out there—someone the forest cautioned her against. Fear prickled at her skin, but beneath it ran a strange, magnetic pull.

For a fleeting moment, a thought crossed her mind: the voice… could it be Arlen? But she shook her head, telling herself it was impossible—he would never use his gift like this. Still, deep down, a small, uneasy sense of recognition lingered, though she could not name its source.

The delicate balance of vigilance, survival, and instinct stretched the night thin. Liora’s senses were sharp; her heart pounded in her chest with every rustle, every shadow. She felt the weight of the song, and even without knowing its source, she understood its power—and the danger it carried.