The Soul’s Chorus

Chapter 12

The air in the Long Hall was heavy with the scent of beeswax candles and expectation. It was the night of the Remembrance Rite, a somber ceremony where the pack honored ancestors through music and quiet recitation. For Chloe, it was another performance, another test. She had been commanded to play the Silverharp, an ancient instrument of pale wood and moon-metal strings, said to echo the voices of the departed. She did not want to but she had no choice.

She sat on a low stool before the assembled pack, the harp leaning against her shoulder. The silver chain around her neck felt heavier than ever, its cold burn a constant distraction. The crimson dress was gone, replaced by a simple grey one, as befitted the solemn night. But nothing could make her blend in. The silver streak in her hair caught the candlelight, a flickering beacon of otherness.

Kaelen stood in his usual place, off to the side near a stone column. His posture was rigid, but his eyes were soft with a worry he could not show. He watched her hands, pale and slender, as they hovered over the strings. He saw the faint tremor in her fingers.

Corbin sat on a raised seat at the front, his expression one of benign approval. This was his display, too. See how the Alpha’s grace even extends to beautifying a ritual with a stained one’s talent.

An elder, a woman with a face like folded parchment, intoned the opening words. “We pluck the strings of memory. Let the music bridge the veil. Let no false note disturb the sleep of those who came before.”

The words felt like a threat. Chloe took a shallow breath. She knew this piece. It was slow, a melancholy cascade of notes meant to sound like weeping willows and distant moons. Her mother had taught it to her, the one thing of beauty Freya could freely give.

She began.

The first notes were clean, clear, and heartbreakingly sweet. They shimmered in the silent hall. For a moment, the sheer beauty of it cut through the prejudice. Faces softened. Eyes closed. Even Kaelen felt the tightness in his chest ease slightly. She played not just with skill, but with a deep, resonant feeling that the sterile piece usually lacked. She poured her loneliness into it, her longing for the willow’s hidden space, her dread of the chain and the coming moon. The music was no longer just a bridge to the dead; it was a window into her living, trapped soul.

Kaelen listened, mesmerized. This was the true Chloe, the one behind the silence. A creature of profound depth, speaking the only way she safely could. His hand, resting against the cold stone column, curled into a fist. It was a crime to cage this.

She reached the bridge of the piece, a series of ascending, hopeful notes. Her fingers moved with more confidence, pulling harder on the strings, filling the hall with a sound that was almost joyful.

Then, it happened.

The highest string, a thin filament of singing silver, was under the most tension. As her finger plucked it for a piercing, clear note, it did not sing.

It snapped.

The sound was a vicious, shocking TWANG that cut through the music like a knife. The broken end recoiled, whipping across the back of Chloe’s right hand, leaving a thin, immediate line of red. The harp groaned, a discordant, dying vibration that hung in the suddenly dead air.

Chloe froze, her hands still hovering over the wounded instrument. The note of pain she swallowed was louder in her head than the snap had been. She stared at the broken string, coiling uselessly. A perfect, terrible silence descended.

In that silence, a whisper, dry and venomous as a snake moving through dead leaves, came from the row of elders. It was Elder Orin, the one who had warned Kaelen. His voice was low, but in the absolute quiet, it carried to every corner.

“A Sunderling’s touch corrupts even music.”

A collective inhale swept the room. The spell of the beautiful music shattered, replaced by something older and darker: superstition. Heads turned. Eyes that had been soft with reflection now hardened with suspicion and fear. A false note was one thing. A broken string during a Remembrance Rite was an ill omen of the highest order. It spoke of disrespect, of a curse, of a spirit so out of harmony it could break the very tools of memory.

Chloe’s face drained of all color. She looked down at the thin cut welling blood on her hand, then up at the hostile, staring faces. The weight of their judgment was a physical pressure. Her breath hitched. She wanted to disappear into the floor.

Kaelen took an involuntary step forward, his body thrumming with the need to intervene, to block their stares. But he was frozen by protocol. This was a sacred space. He was a guardian, not a priest. He could not interrupt.

Corbin did not move. He watched, his head slightly tilted, as if observing a fascinating experiment. He let the silence and the suspicion build, a pot coming to a boil. Finally, he rose.

“A regrettable accident,” he announced, his voice smooth, dismissing the elder’s words without truly challenging them. “The instruments are ancient. The air is damp. See to your hand, Chloe.” His tone was kind, but his eyes were not. They held a cold gleam. The accident, whether truly an omen or not, served him. It isolated her further. It proved her inherent instability to the pack.

He gestured, and a servant rushed to help Chloe up, to lead her away from the harp. She stood, her movements stiff, cradling her injured hand. As she turned, her eyes, wide with humiliation and a darting panic, found Kaelen’s.

In them, he saw no corruption. He saw shock, and pain, and a desperate, silent plea. I didn’t mean to. It wasn’t my fault.

He gave her the smallest, almost imperceptible nod. I know.

But the pack did not know. As she walked out, head bowed, the whispers began in earnest, swirling like toxic fog.

“...always a sign of a troubled spirit...”

“...my grandfather said a broken string foretold a death...”

“...her touch is blight, I’ve always said it...”

The Remembrance Rite continued, but the mood was ruined. The sacred peace was now charged with nervous energy and dark speculation. The music that followed was played with cautious, timid notes.

Kaelen remained at his post, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. The cut on her hand was his fault. He was her guardian. He should have checked the instrument. He should have been able to protect her from this, too. He watched Corbin resume his seat, the Alpha’s face a mask of pious concern. This was no accident. The string may have broken on its own, but Corbin had expertly wielded the aftermath. He had let the poison of the elder’s words spread.

The weight of suspicion now settled over Chloe like a second, heavier cloak. She wasn’t just an impure bride; she was a bearer of bad luck, a corrupting influence. A bad omen.

As Kaelen finally left the hall to resume his watch outside her rooms, he heard the final, fading whisper from a group of passing Lunarths.

“...things break around the stained ones. It is their nature.”

He stopped, closing his eyes for a second. The wolfsbane’s warning echoed in his mind. Danger. The danger was not just from Corbin’s cruelty, but from the pack’s willing belief in it. Their fear was a weapon, and a broken string had just sharpened it to a razor’s edge.