Threads of Destiny

2

The theatre in Verschau was overflowing. Every seat taken, every balcony crowded with eager faces leaning forward, waiting for the prodigy they had all come to see. Baron Blaise had grown used to it — the hush before he played, the way people seemed to hold their breath as his hands touched the keys — but tonight, the silence pressed heavier than usual.

He sat at the grand piano, the gleam of the instrument reflecting the stage lights, his posture flawless. His teacher, Maestro Vollin, stood in the wings, arms folded, watching with the same hawk-like focus as always.

Baron drew in a breath and began.

Chopin, Ballade No. 1.

The first notes shimmered into the air like spun glass. The theatre, all velvet and gold, seemed to bend toward the sound. He lost himself in the music — the storming runs, the aching pauses — until the audience ceased to exist. There was only him, and the piano, and the truth he could never put into words but always into sound.

And then it happened.

A low groan. A snap of wood. A tremor under his bench. Baron’s fingers faltered, striking a sour chord as the stage itself shifted beneath him. The chandeliers above trembled. Gasps rippled through the audience.

Another c***k, louder.

“Get off the stage!” someone shouted.

The floor gave way with a deafening roar. The piano lurched, the black lid swinging open like a wounded bird. Baron leapt sideways, instinct over thought, his shoulder slamming against the boards as the instrument toppled into the splintering hole.

Screams filled the theatre. Dust and plaster rained down. Ushers rushed forward, pulling people back, as musicians scrambled for safety. Baron coughed, dazed, the sting of wood dust in his throat. He could hear Maestro Vollin shouting his name, hear hands trying to drag him up.

He staggered to his feet, heart hammering, eyes fixed on the ruins where the piano had vanished. Moments ago, it had been his voice. His anchor. Now it lay shattered in the wreckage.

The applause he was used to was gone. In its place, only panic.

---

The white walls of Verschau General Hospital were too clean, too silent. They swallowed the memory of crashing wood and panicked voices, leaving only the steady tick of a clock above the door.

Baron sat on the edge of the examination bed, his right hand wrapped neatly in gauze. The ache throbbed with every heartbeat, sharp enough to remind him what had happened, but not sharp enough to distract him from the real fear gnawing at him: What if I can’t play?

Maestro Vollin paced near the window, arms folded tight, his stern face drawn into uncharacteristic worry. Baron’s parents sat close by, his mother’s hands clutched together in her lap, his father trying and failing to look calm.

The door opened and the doctor returned, a middle-aged man with spectacles slipping down his nose. He held the chart as if it carried the verdict of Baron’s entire life.

“Well,” he said, with a small smile, “you’re a lucky young man.”

Baron’s chest tightened. “My hand?”

“No broken bones. Just a bad sprain and swelling. You’ll heal, but—” the doctor raised a finger, “—you must rest. No piano. Not for several weeks.”

The words landed heavier than any collapse. Baron swallowed hard, his fingers twitching against the bandage. “Weeks?”

“Push it, and you risk permanent damage,” the doctor warned. “You’re seventeen. You have time. Let yourself recover.”

His mother exhaled, relief washing her face. His father nodded firmly. Even Maestro Vollin seemed to relax, though only slightly.

But Baron felt hollow. Music was not something he could set aside. It was his pulse, his breath, his reason for being. And now he was told to stop.

The doctor patted his shoulder, already moving to the door. “Rest, young man. You’ll play again. Better to take a break now than to lose your gift forever.”

When the room quieted, Baron stared at his hand. The fingers were there, unbroken, yet they felt foreign to him. He wondered what he was supposed to do with himself in the silence that would follow.

---

The studio smelled faintly of varnish and old wood, the piano lid closed for the first time in weeks. Baron sat opposite his teacher, Maestro Erhardt Vollin, in the high-backed chair that always seemed to dwarf him, his bandaged hand resting in his lap.

The Maestro regarded him in silence for a long moment, his sharp eyes softened by something like patience. “You look like a lion in a cage,” he said at last.

Baron lifted his gaze. “Because that’s what I am. Every day I sit here, listening to the silence. I should be practicing. Preparing. I have concerts scheduled in autumn—”

“Concerts can wait.” Vollin’s voice cut clean through his protest. “Your hand cannot.”

Baron bit back his reply, jaw tight.

The Maestro leaned forward, folding his hands. “Listen to me, boy. You’ve been at the piano since you were seven, and since then, you have done nothing else. Practice, performance, acclaim. That intensity has carried you far. But it is also a danger.”

Baron frowned. “You’re telling me to stop caring?”

“No,” Vollin said gently. “I am telling you that music is not only in your fingers. It is in the way you live, the way you see, the way you feel.” He let the words sink in before continuing. “You need a change of scene. A different rhythm. Go to Étoilemont. Study, walk its streets, listen to its people. Rest your hand. Feed your soul.”

Baron blinked. Étoilemont. The capital of Léviaire. He had performed there once, years ago, but only for a night. To live there…

“You’re serious.”

“As serious as the injury that nearly ruined your hand.” Vollin’s tone softened again. “If you are to be more than a prodigy — if you are to be an artist — you must learn the world beyond the keyboard. Trust me in this.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them. Baron stared at his bandaged hand, then at the Maestro’s steady eyes. His chest tightened — part fear, part longing.

At last, he nodded. “Étoilemont.”

Vollin leaned back, satisfied. “Good. Let the city teach you what no scale, no étude ever will.”