The Soul’s Chorus

Chapter 8

The image would not leave Kaelen’s mind. The pale, still face in the shadows. The gesture for silence. The way the Umbra had vanished, like smoke. It was more unsettling than a direct threat. A threat was a clear thing. A mystery was a door left open in the dark.

He walked the halls of the Lunarth quarters before dawn, his boots sounding too loud on the stone. Chloe was still asleep, her door guarded by another for a few hours. This was his time. His mind was a tangle of questions. Who was the Umbra? Why watch Chloe? What did Lyra’s old scroll mean? And what was his real duty?

He needed answers. Not guesses. Not sisterly theories. Facts.

His first stop was the Archives of the Citadel. It was a vast, circular room under a domed glass ceiling. The morning light was weak and grey. The air smelled of parchment dust and forgotten things. Rows of dark wooden shelves reached up into shadows. This was where the acceptable history lived. The approved records.

He walked to the section labeled Societal Protocols: Guardianship. The scrolls and ledgers here were neat, their bindings uniform. He pulled a heavy volume titled Pre-Nuptial Security & Sunderling Stewardship, Edicts 12-45.

He sat at a cold wooden desk and opened it. The language was dry as bone. It listed rules about distance, about reporting "errant behavior," about ensuring "physical and doctrinal purity" before a wedding. It spoke of the guardian as an "extension of the Alpha's will." It said nothing about anchors. Nothing about shields. Nothing about protecting someone from anything except their own supposed weakness.

Frustrated, he looked for anything on the Umbra. The official index had only one entry: Umbra, Order of: See "Cultural Antiquities." He found that section. It was small. A few scrolls describing them as "reclusive lore-keepers," "harmless historians," and "a benign function of our rich tapestry." It was a description of a museum piece, not of the watching phantom in the woods.

The official records were a wall. They showed only what they were meant to show.

He needed to talk to someone who had been here longer. Someone who knew the rules, inside and out.

He sought out Elder Orin. Orin was a retired Lunarth, now a teacher of young ones. He was old, his back bent, his beard white. He was known for his strict adherence to tradition. He sat in a sunroom, his gnarled hands warming over a cup of tea.

"Elder," Kaelen said, bowing his head respectfully. "I seek your wisdom on the guardian protocols."

Orin’s milky blue eyes looked up. "Kaelen. The Alpha’s chosen guardian. The role is clear. You keep the Sunderling from trouble. You prepare her for her place. What wisdom do you need?"

Kaelen chose his words carefully. "The old texts... I've heard there might have been... other purposes for such guardians. In the distant past."

Orin’s face closed like a shutter. "The past is a country we do not visit. We live by the laws of now. The purpose is what the Alpha Primus says it is. Nothing more."

"But if the purpose was once to protect the Sunderling, not just from themselves, but from—"

"From what?" Orin interrupted, his voice sharp. "They are a stain, boy. A political problem. You are not there to protect the stain. You are there to contain it. To polish it for presentation." He took a slow sip of tea. "Do your duty. Do not look for shades of grey where there is only black and white."

Kaelen pressed on, thinking of the figure in the woods. "And the Umbra? If they were to take an interest...?"

Orin almost spilled his tea. He set the cup down with a hard clink. "The shadow-walkers? You have seen one?"

"I... I may have sensed a presence. Near my charge."

Orin leaned forward, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "You listen to me. The Umbra swim in deep waters. Waters that drowned greater wolves than you. Their 'interest' is a curse. If they are near, it is because they smell blood in the water. Your job is to keep your charge and yourself far from those waters. You report to the Alpha, only to the Alpha. You do not speak to shadows. Do you understand?"

The old man’s fear was real. It was a cold, stale fear that had been sitting in his bones for decades.

"I understand," Kaelen said, but he didn't.

His next visit was to Warden Selene, a high-ranking Lunarth who oversaw security protocols. She was in her armory, checking blades. She was a practical woman, all muscle and efficiency.

"Warden. A question of guardian priority," Kaelen began. "Is the primary duty to the Alpha's decree? Or to the physical safety of the charge?"

Selene gave him a look like he was a simple child. "The charge's safety is the fulfillment of the decree. A damaged bride is a failed duty. Keep her healthy. Keep her calm. Keep her compliant. That is safety. That is your duty."

"And if... external threats appeared? Not from her, but from others?"

Selene paused, a polished dagger in her hand. "What kind of talk is this? 'External threats' are handled by border keepers. Like you used to be. Your world is very small now, Kaelen. It is the space around one Sunderling girl. Nothing more. Do not invent complexities where there are none. It leads to failure."

Each conversation was like beating his fists against the same stone wall. The answers were rigid, clean, and empty. They offered no room for the shimmering fungus, for the weeping girl under the tree, for the silent watcher.

Finally, he went to the oldest one he knew he could approach: Historiographer Lyle. Lyle was not a Lunarth, but a pure-blood elder who managed the census records. He was frail, buried in paper, and known for his love of obscure details.

"Historiographer, do the old marriage logs ever mention Umbra involvement? Or unusual phenomena around Sunderlings before weddings?"

Lyle peered over his spectacles, his eyes bright with curiosity. "Umbra? Oh, they keep to themselves. Phenomena? You mean like weather? There was a storm on the eve of Alaric's wedding, hail the size of—"

"No," Kaelen cut in gently. "I mean like feelings. A sense of being watched. Or things happening in the forest."

Lyle's face softened, then grew somber. He looked around his dusty office as if checking for spies. He lowered his voice. "Young Kaelen. The past is a forest. Official history is the path cleared, safe, and marked. What you are asking about, that is the thicket beside the path. Full of thorns and strange sounds. A guardian’s job is to keep his charge on the path. Not to wonder about the thicket." He reached out a trembling hand and patted Kaelen's arm. "Do your duty. Walk the path. It is simpler."

As Kaelen left the old man’s office, the last words followed him. Walk the path.

He walked the quiet corridor, the weight of his failure pressing down. He had learned nothing useful. Only that questions were not welcome. That curiosity was a weakness. That his unease was something to be buried, not explored.

He turned a corner and nearly bumped into Elder Orin, who seemed to be waiting.

"Kaelen," the old man said, his voice like dry leaves. "A final piece of wisdom. From one who has seen many guardians come and go."

Kaelen stopped. "Yes, elder?"

Orin’s milky eyes held his. "The bond you must form is with your duty. Not with the charge. You are a tool for the Alpha's will. Tools do not feel pity. Tools do not ask 'why.'" He leaned closer, and his next words were a chilling whisper, clear and sharp as an ice blade.

"Do not confuse duty with sentiment. Sentiment is how good soldiers are broken. And how Sunderlings get people killed."

The elder held his gaze for a long, terrible moment. The warning was not just advice. It was a threat. A prophecy.

Then Orin shuffled away, leaving Kaelen alone in the cold hallway.

The words echoed in the silence. Do not confuse duty with sentiment.

But what was his duty? To be a jailer for a cruel game? Or to be a shield for something he did not yet understand?

He thought of Chloe’s finger tracing words in the dirt. I am the hawk. He thought of the silver chain burning her skin. He thought of the Umbra’s silent, knowing gaze from the shadows.

His duty, as defined by Silvathorne, was clear.

But for the first time in his life, Kaelen felt the clear, clean path of tradition crumbling beneath his feet. And he was starting to look, with a fearful heart, into the thorny, whispering thicket beside it.