Songs of Emberlain

Chapter 1: Hall of Soft Light

The Hall of Soft Light had no shadows.

Sona stood at its entrance, breathing the bleached air, feeling the weight of its emptiness press against her chest. The great vaulted ceiling arched overhead like the ribcage of some vast, desiccated creature. Pale stone columns rose in perfect rows, their surfaces smooth and featureless, unmarred by decoration or memory. The light itself seemed wrong — not warm, not cold, but simply absent of quality, as though someone had carefully extracted every trace of character from it.

She had not been here in three years. Not since the day they took Marta.

The hall looked exactly as it had then. Clean. Quiet. Merciful.

Sona's hand moved to her collar, fingers finding the small iron locket that hung there. The metal was warm against her skin, and she felt the faint vibration within — Emberlain, restless and waiting. The captive voice had been her only companion since the exile, whispering in the dark hours, reminding her of what she had lost and what she intended to reclaim.

"This place smells of forgetting," Emberlain murmured, her voice like smoke curling through Sona's mind. "Can you taste it? The ash of all they've burned?"

"Quiet," Sona whispered, though her fingers tightened on the locket. "Not yet."

A figure emerged from between two columns — a tall man in the grey robes of the Warden's Office, his face composed and unremarkable. He moved with the careful precision of someone who had trained themselves to leave no impression, to pass through the world like water through a sieve.

"Sona Veil," he said, his voice perfectly neutral. "You were not expected."

"I wasn't invited," Sona replied. "But I've come anyway."

The warden studied her for a moment, his expression unchanging. "The Hall of Soft Light is a place of peace. If you are here to cause disruption—"

"I'm here to remember," Sona interrupted. "Is that still permitted in Caer Selenis? Or have you unthreaded that too?"

The warden's eyes flickered — just for an instant — with something that might have been concern. Then the moment passed, and his face smoothed again into perfect blankness.

"Memory is permitted," he said carefully. "When it serves the common peace."

"And when it doesn't?"

"Then it is eased. For the good of all."

Sona felt a surge of anger rise in her throat, hot and bitter. She thought of Marta's face as they led her away — not frightened, not pleading, but simply empty, as though someone had reached inside her and scooped out everything that made her human. The wardens had called it mercy. They had called it healing.

They had called it necessary.

"I want to see the Archive," Sona said.

The warden's expression did not change, but his posture shifted slightly, a subtle stiffening of the shoulders. "The Archive is sealed. By order of High Warden Nemorin."

"Then I'll see Nemorin."

"High Warden Nemorin does not grant audiences to the exiled."

Sona took a step forward. The warden did not retreat, but she saw his hand move to his belt, where a small glass vial hung — filled with grey dust, the powdered remains of someone's unthreaded grief.

"Tell him," Sona said quietly, "that Sona Veil has returned. Tell him I carry the voice of Emberlain, and I know what he's hidden beneath the city. Tell him I'm coming for the Archive, whether he grants me permission or not."

The warden's hand tightened on the vial. For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Then, from somewhere deep within the hall, a bell began to ring — a single, clear note that echoed through the empty space like a warning.

The warden's eyes widened, just slightly. "You should not have come back," he said, and for the first time, his voice carried something other than neutrality. It carried fear.

Sona smiled. It was not a kind smile.

"I know," she said. "But someone had to."

She turned and walked away, leaving the warden standing alone in the Hall of Soft Light, his hand still clutching the vial of grey dust.

Behind her, the bell continued to ring.

And in the locket at her throat, Emberlain began to laugh.

Chapter 2: The Warden's Summons

The summons came before dawn.

Sona woke to the sound of footsteps outside her lodging — measured, deliberate, the rhythm of authority. She lay still for a moment, listening to the pattern of their approach, counting the seconds between each strike of heel against stone. Three wardens, perhaps four. They moved with the practiced precision of those who had come to collect rather than to negotiate.

She was dressed before they knocked.

The door opened to reveal a woman in grey robes, her face as smooth and expressionless as the columns in the Hall of Soft Light. Behind her stood three others, silent and watchful.

"Sona Veil," the woman said, her voice carrying no inflection whatsoever. "High Warden Nemorin requests your presence."

"Requests," Sona repeated, glancing at the escorts. "An interesting choice of word."

"The High Warden is a courteous man," the woman replied. "He believes in extending dignity, even to those who have forfeited it."

Sona felt the locket pulse against her skin, a warning throb of heat. "Careful," Emberlain whispered. "They're watching for any excuse."

"Then I accept his courtesy," Sona said, stepping through the doorway. "Lead on."

They walked through streets that were beginning to stir with the first movements of morning. Caer Selenis looked exactly as Sona remembered it — clean, ordered, serene. Citizens moved past one another with polite nods and measured smiles, their faces pleasant and empty. No one shouted. No one wept. No one laughed too loudly or embraced too long.

The city had been perfected.

Sona thought of how different it had been in her childhood, before the Unthreading had become policy. She remembered the market square alive with arguments and songs, the way grief and joy had mingled freely in the streets, messy and human and real. She remembered her mother's tears at her father's funeral, the way the whole neighbourhood had gathered to weep and remember together.

Now, funerals were quiet affairs. Brief. Efficient. The grief was collected afterwards, unthreaded and stored away for the common good.

They arrived at the Warden's Hall just as the sun crested the eastern wall. The building was tall and narrow, built from the same pale stone as everything else in the city. Its windows were thin slits, admitting light but revealing nothing of what lay within.

The woman in grey led Sona through a series of corridors, each one identical to the last, until they reached a door of dark wood. She knocked twice, waited, then pushed it open.

"High Warden," she said. "Sona Veil, as requested."

"Thank you, Warden Salis," came a voice from within. "You may leave us."

The woman — Salis — hesitated for just a moment, her eyes flicking to Sona with something that might have been concern. Then she nodded and withdrew, closing the door behind her.

Sona stepped into the room.

It was smaller than she had expected, and surprisingly austere. A simple desk stood near the window, covered with neat stacks of parchment. A single shelf held a row of glass vials, each one filled with grey dust and labelled in precise script. The walls were bare except for a single tapestry depicting the city as it had been centuries ago — chaotic, crowded, alive.

And behind the desk sat High Warden Nemorin.

He was older than Sona remembered, his hair now completely silver, his face marked with the fine lines of someone who had spent years in careful thought. But his eyes were unchanged — sharp, dark, and utterly certain.

"Sona Veil," he said, rising from his chair. "It has been a long time."

"Three years," Sona replied. "Since you exiled me for refusing to surrender my grief."

"Since you chose exile rather than healing," Nemorin corrected gently. "The distinction matters."

"Does it?"

Nemorin gestured to a chair opposite his desk. "Please. Sit."

Sona remained standing. "I prefer not to get comfortable."

A faint smile touched Nemorin's lips — not cruel, but sad, as though he pitied her for her stubbornness. "You always were difficult, Sona. Even as a child. Your mother despaired of it."

"My mother is dead," Sona said flatly. "And you made sure no one remembers her properly."

"I made sure," Nemorin said, his voice hardening slightly, "that her loss did not tear this city apart. Your mother was beloved, Sona. Her death could have sparked riots, vendettas, years of feuding. Instead, we eased the grief, and the city remained at peace."

"You erased her."

"We preserved her. In a form that could not harm."

Sona's hand moved to the locket at her throat. Inside, she felt Emberlain stir, eager and electric. "Say the word," the voice whispered. "Let me speak. Let me show him what he's truly created."

"Not yet," Sona murmured.

Nemorin's eyes narrowed. "What was that?"

"Nothing," Sona said. "Just remembering something."

Nemorin studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he sat back down, folding his hands on the desk.

"You came to the Hall of Soft Light yesterday," he said. "You demanded access to the Archive. You threatened disruption." He paused. "Why?"

"Because I want my memories back," Sona said. "Mine, and everyone else's. The ones you've stolen and locked away."

"Stolen," Nemorin repeated, as though tasting the word. "An ugly accusation. We have taken nothing that was not freely given."

"Freely?" Sona's voice rose despite herself. "You gave people a choice between suffering and erasure. That's not freedom, Nemorin. That's coercion."

"It is mercy," Nemorin said firmly. "You of all people should understand that. You watched Marta suffer after her son's death. You saw how the grief consumed her, how it turned her into a shell of herself. We offered her peace, and she accepted it."

"She accepted it because you made the pain unbearable," Sona shot back. "You let it fester until she had no choice but to beg you to take it away."

Nemorin's expression did not change, but his voice grew colder. "You speak from ignorance, Sona. You were not there when the city tore itself apart with grief. You did not see the riots, the murders, the families destroyed by uncontrolled emotion. I did. I watched this city burn, and I swore I would never let it happen again."

"So you smothered it instead," Sona said. "You turned everyone into ghosts."

"I gave them peace."

"You gave them emptiness."

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Outside, the city continued its quiet morning, oblivious to the confrontation unfolding in the High Warden's office.

Finally, Nemorin sighed. "You will not be permitted to access the Archive, Sona. Whatever you think you will find there, whatever you hope to accomplish — it will not happen. The memories stored within are too dangerous to be released."

"Then I'll find another way," Sona said.

"There is no other way." Nemorin stood, his hands braced on the desk. "And if you attempt to disrupt the peace of this city, I will have you exiled again. Permanently, this time. Beyond the borders, where even the memory of you will fade."

Sona met his gaze without flinching. "You can try."

She turned and walked to the door, her hand already on the handle, when Nemorin spoke again.

"Sona."

She paused but did not turn around.

"I know you carry something," Nemorin said quietly. "Something that whispers. Something that should not exist." His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "If you release it, you will destroy everything I have built. And I cannot allow that."

Sona's fingers tightened on the locket. Inside, Emberlain's laughter rang like broken bells.

"Then you'd better stop me," Sona said, and walked out into the corridor.

Behind her, she heard Nemorin's voice, calm and inexorable: "I intend to."

Chapter 3: The Broker's Warning

The city's underbelly existed in the spaces between official buildings, in the narrow alleys that the wardens' patrols rarely bothered to illuminate. Sona knew these passages well — she had spent the last three years learning the geography of exile, the places where those who refused the Unthreading gathered to remember.

She found Kellis in his usual spot, a cramped room above a shuttered apothecary. The broker was a thin man with clever eyes and fingers that never stopped moving, sorting through his collection of forbidden objects — letters, tokens, small vials of emotion that had been smuggled out before the wardens could claim them.

"You're causing quite a stir," Kellis said without looking up as Sona entered. "The wardens are talking. They know you're back, and they know you're trouble."

"I met with Nemorin," Sona said, closing the door behind her. "He threatened exile."

"Of course he did." Kellis finally looked at her, his expression wry. "What did you expect? You walked into the Hall of Soft Light and rang their precious bell. That's not just defiance, Sona. That's declaration of war."

"Good," Emberlain whispered from the locket. "Let them know we're coming."

Sona ignored the voice and sat down across from Kellis. "I need to get into the Archive."

"Impossible," Kellis said flatly. "The Archive is sealed. Only the High Warden and his inner circle have access, and they guard it like their lives depend on it. Which, in a sense, they do."

"There has to be a way."

Kellis leant back in his chair, studying her. "Why? What do you think you'll find there?"

"Everything they've taken," Sona said. "Every memory, every grief, every bit of love they've erased. If I can release them—"

"You'll tear the city apart," Kellis interrupted. "You understand that, don't you? Those emotions weren't just stored away, Sona. They were stored raw. Unprocessed. If you release them all at once, people will be overwhelmed. Some of them might not survive it."

"Better to feel something than to feel nothing at all."

"Is it?" Kellis leant forwards, his voice dropping. "I've seen what happens when people get their memories back too quickly. I've watched them collapse, screaming, unable to handle the flood. Some go mad. Some simply... break." He paused. "Are you prepared to be responsible for that?"

Sona's hand moved to the locket. Inside, she felt Emberlain stirring, restless and hungry.

"I have to try," she said quietly. "This city is dying, Kellis. Slowly, quietly, but dying all the same. If I don't do something, there'll be nothing left to save."

Kellis sighed. "You always were stubborn." He stood and moved to a locked cabinet in the corner, pulling out a rolled parchment. "There's a servant. Works in the Warden's Hall, cleaning the upper floors. Her name is Thessa. She lost her daughter five years ago, gave up the grief to the wardens." He handed the parchment to Sona. "But she kept something back. A lock of hair, a single memory. She's been protecting it ever since."

"You think she'll help me?"

"I think she'll understand why you're doing this," Kellis said. "Whether that translates to help is up to you." He paused. "But Sona — be careful. Nemorin isn't just protecting the Archive. He's protecting his entire philosophy. If you threaten that, he won't just exile you. He'll unmake you entirely."

Sona tucked the parchment into her coat. "Then I'll have to move quickly."

She stood to leave, but Kellis caught her arm.

"One more thing," he said, his eyes serious. "That thing you're carrying. The one that whispers. Don't trust it, Sona. Whatever it's promised you, whatever it says it can do — it has its own agenda."

Inside the locket, Emberlain laughed softly. "He fears me. How delicious."

"I know what I'm doing," Sona said.

"Do you?" Kellis released her arm. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're dancing with something far older and far more dangerous than you realise."

Sona didn't answer. She simply turned and walked out into the night, the locket warm against her skin, Emberlain's voice curling like smoke through her thoughts.

Behind her, Kellis watched her go, his expression troubled.

"Gods help us all," he murmured, and returned to his collection of forbidden memories.

Chapter 4: The Servant's Secret

Thessa's quarters were tucked in the eastern wing of the Warden's Hall, a narrow room with a single window overlooking the silent gardens below. Sona found her there just after midnight, when the hall's corridors were empty and the wardens had retired to their private chambers.

The woman who opened the door was older than Sona had expected, her face lined with the kind of weariness that came not from age but from carrying a burden too long. Her eyes were grey and watchful, and when she saw Sona, something flickered in them — recognition, perhaps, or fear.

"You're the one who rang the bell," Thessa said quietly. It wasn't a question.

"I am," Sona replied. "Kellis sent me. He said you might understand what I'm trying to do."

Thessa was silent for a long moment, her hand still on the door frame. Then she stepped aside, gesturing Sona in.

The room was sparse — a narrow bed, a single chair, a washbasin in the corner. But on the windowsill sat a small wooden box, carved with intricate patterns that seemed to shift in the lamplight.

Thessa closed the door and locked it. "You want to get into the Archive."

"Yes."

"Why?" Thessa moved to the window, her back to Sona. "What do you think releasing all those memories will accomplish?"

"It will give people back what was taken from them," Sona said. "Their pain, yes. But also their love, their connections, their selves. This city has been hollowed out, Thessa. We're all just going through the motions, pretending to live whilst feeling nothing at all."

Thessa turned, and in the lamplight, Sona saw tears glistening on her cheeks. "My daughter's name was Lira. She was eight years old when she drowned in the river."

Sona said nothing, letting the woman speak.

"I gave them my grief," Thessa continued. "All of it. The wardens promised me peace, and for a time, I had it. But peace isn't the same as healing, is it? It's just... absence." She picked up the wooden box, cradling it gently. "I kept this. One memory. The last time I braided her hair before she left for the river. I can't access it — the wardens would know if I tried — but I know it's there. And sometimes, that's enough."

"How touching," Emberlain murmured. "But we don't have time for sentiment. Make her help us."

Sona ignored the voice. "I'm not asking you to give up that memory, Thessa. I'm asking you to help me give everyone the choice you made. To keep something, even if it hurts."

Thessa studied her for a long moment. "You don't understand what you're dealing with. The Archive isn't just a room full of stored emotions. It's a living thing. The memories in there... they've grown wild, twisted. Some of them have merged, creating things that never existed. Hybrid griefs, phantom loves, emotions that belong to no one." She paused. "If you open it, you won't be able to control what comes out."

"Then I'll have to be ready for that."

"Will you?" Thessa's voice hardened. "Or will you unleash something you can't contain and call it liberation?"

Sona met her gaze steadily. "I won't know until I try. But doing nothing — letting this city continue to fade — that's not an option."

Thessa was silent for a long time. Then she set the box down and moved to her bed, kneeling beside it. She pulled up a loose floorboard and retrieved a small iron key.

"This opens the service entrance to the Archive level," she said, holding it out. "It's used by cleaners and maintenance workers. The wardens rarely check it — they're too focused on the main doors." She paused. "But once you're inside, you're on your own. I can't help you beyond this."

Sona took the key, feeling its weight in her palm. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," Thessa said. "If you succeed, this city will tear itself apart. And if you fail, Nemorin will make sure no one remembers you existed at all." She looked at Sona with something like pity. "Either way, you'll lose."

"Maybe," Sona said. "But at least I'll have tried."

She turned to leave, but Thessa spoke again, her voice barely above a whisper.

"When you get inside... if you find a memory of a little girl with dark hair, laughing by the river..." She paused, her voice breaking. "Tell her I never forgot. Not truly."

Sona nodded, unable to speak past the tightness in her throat. Then she slipped out into the corridor, the key heavy in her pocket, Emberlain's voice singing triumph in her ears.

Behind her, Thessa stood by the window, clutching the wooden box, and wept silently into the darkness.

Chapter 5: The Archive's Threshold

The service entrance was exactly where Thessa had said it would be — a narrow door at the end of a forgotten corridor, half-hidden behind a tapestry depicting the founding of Caer Selenis. Sona pressed the iron key into the lock, feeling the mechanism turn with a soft click that seemed too loud in the silence.

The door opened onto a steep stairway descending into darkness. Cool air rushed up to meet her, carrying with it a strange scent — not decay, but something older. The smell of locked-away things, of emotions preserved beyond their natural life.

"Finally," Emberlain breathed. "Can you feel it, Sona? All that raw emotion, just waiting. It's intoxicating."

"Stay quiet," Sona whispered, one hand on the locket. "I need to concentrate."

"Oh, but I'm part of you now, aren't I? Where you go, I go. What you feel, I feast upon." A pause. "Don't worry. I'll behave. For now."

Sona descended the stairs, each step taking her deeper beneath the Warden's Hall. The walls here were older than the building above, carved from living rock and inscribed with sigils she didn't recognise. Protection wards, perhaps, or containment spells designed to keep what was stored below from seeping upwards into the world of the living.

At the bottom of the stairs, she found herself in a long corridor lined with doors. Each door bore a nameplate — not names of people, but categories of emotion. Grief: Parental Loss. Joy: First Love. Rage: Betrayal. Sorrow: Abandonment.

The Archive wasn't a single room. It was a labyrinth.

"Gods," Sona whispered, turning slowly to take it all in. "How many are there?"

"Hundreds," Emberlain said, and for once there was no mockery in the voice. "Thousands, perhaps. Every emotional surrender made in this city for the past century, all catalogued and stored like specimens in jars."

Sona moved to the nearest door — Grief: Child Loss — and pressed her palm against it. The wood was cold, but beneath the surface she felt something else. A pulse. A heartbeat. As if whatever was stored behind that door was still alive, still waiting.

She pulled her hand back quickly.

"I can't release them all at once," she murmured. "Thessa was right. It would be too much."

"Then start small," Emberlain suggested. "Choose one door. See what happens. Test the waters before you dive in."

It was practical advice, which made Sona deeply suspicious. But she couldn't deny the logic of it.

She walked slowly down the corridor, reading the nameplates, until she found one that made her pause: Connection: Familial Bonds.

"This one," she said quietly. "Memories of family. Love that's been taken away. If I release these, people might remember what they've lost. Might remember why they should feel something."

"A sentimental choice," Emberlain purred. "But acceptable. Open it."

Sona placed her hand on the door handle. It was locked, but when she focused — when she let just a thread of Emberlain's power flow through her — she felt the mechanism give way. The lock clicked open.

She pushed the door inwards.

Inside was a circular chamber, and suspended in the air at its centre was a sphere of crystallised light. Within it, images flickered — faces, moments, fragments of memory. A mother braiding her daughter's hair. A father teaching his son to fish. Siblings laughing by firelight. An elderly woman holding a newborn grandchild.

All of it frozen. Preserved. Waiting.

"How do I release them?" Sona asked.

"Touch the sphere," Emberlain said. "Channel my power through it. The memories will find their way back to their owners. That's what they want — to return home."

Sona approached the sphere slowly, her heart pounding. This was it. The moment of commitment. Once she did this, there would be no going back.

She reached out and pressed both palms against the crystallised light.

The reaction was immediate. The sphere burst, not with sound but with sensation. Memories flooded outwards in a wave of light and emotion, rushing past Sona like a river breaking through a dam. She gasped, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of it — love and longing and connection, all the bonds that had been severed, now seeking their way back to the people who had surrendered them.

For a moment, she saw through a hundred eyes at once. A woman waking in her bed, suddenly remembering her sister's face. A man in the market square, dropping his basket as memories of his son crashed over him. A child in the gardens, crying not from sadness but from the sudden, overwhelming knowledge that she had once had a mother who loved her.

Then the vision faded, and Sona was alone in the empty chamber, gasping for breath.

"Well done," Emberlain whispered, and Sona could hear the satisfaction in the voice. "One door down. Only a few hundred more to go."

Sona leant against the wall, her hands shaking. Already she could feel it — the city shifting above her. People waking to emotions they hadn't felt in years. Some would weep. Some would rejoice. And some... some would break under the weight of what they'd lost.

But it was done. The first step had been taken.

She straightened, wiping her eyes, and turned back towards the corridor.

And froze.

Standing in the doorway, backlit by the pale glow of the Archive's sigils, was High Warden Nemorin.

"Did you truly think," he said quietly, his voice echoing in the empty chamber, "that we would leave the Archive unguarded?"

Sona's hand moved to the locket, but Nemorin raised one hand, and suddenly she couldn't move. Couldn't speak. The air around her had solidified, holding her in place like invisible chains.

"You've made your choice," Nemorin continued, stepping into the chamber. "And now you will face the consequences."

Behind him, two wardens appeared, their faces blank and expressionless. They moved towards Sona, their hands outstretched, and she realised with dawning horror what they intended to do.

They were going to take her memories. All of them. Wipe her clean, unmake her completely, just as Kellis had warned.

"Fight," Emberlain hissed. "Use me. Or die forgotten."

Sona closed her eyes, feeling the locket burn against her skin, and made her choice.

She let Emberlain in.

Chapter 6: The Locket's Price

Power flooded through Sona like liquid fire.

Emberlain's essence surged from the locket, not gradually but all at once, filling every corner of her being. For a heartbeat, she felt herself dissolving — her thoughts, her memories, her very sense of self scattering like leaves in a storm. Then something inside her held, some core of identity that refused to be swept away, and suddenly she and Emberlain were no longer separate entities but something new. Something merged.

The invisible chains holding her shattered.

Sona's eyes snapped open, and they burned with crimson light.

Nemorin took a step backwards, his composure cracking for the first time. "Impossible. The locket should have—"

"Should have consumed me?" Sona's voice was her own, but layered with something else — Emberlain's ancient hunger given voice. "Perhaps it has. Or perhaps I've consumed it. Does it matter?"

She raised one hand, and emotion flowed from her like a visible force. Not her own emotion, but his — Nemorin's carefully suppressed fears and doubts, pulled to the surface and amplified a thousandfold. He gasped, staggering, one hand clutching at his chest.

"Stop," he choked out. "You don't understand what you're doing. The locket—"

"I understand perfectly," Sona said, advancing towards him. The two wardens moved to intercept her, but she gestured and they froze, suddenly overwhelmed by memories of their own — emotions they'd thought long surrendered, now crashing back into them with devastating force. One collapsed to his knees, sobbing. The other simply stood, tears streaming down his face, unable to move.

"You built this city on a lie," Sona continued, her voice echoing through the Archive. "You promised peace through surrender, but all you've created is a prison. A place where people are so afraid of pain that they've forgotten how to live."

Nemorin straightened, fighting against the weight of his own emotions. "And what will you create instead? Chaos? Suffering? Do you think people want to feel what you're unleashing?"

"Some won't," Sona admitted. "Some will curse me for it. But at least they'll feel something. At least they'll be alive."

She turned away from him, moving back towards the corridor of doors. Behind her, she heard Nemorin trying to speak, trying to summon the authority to stop her, but his voice was broken, choked with emotions he'd suppressed for decades.

"More," Emberlain whispered from within her, and Sona couldn't tell if it was a separate voice or simply her own desire given form. "Open more doors. Let them all out. Let this city remember what it means to feel."

"Not all at once," Sona murmured. "That would destroy them."

"Some destruction is necessary for rebirth."

Sona paused at the next door — Joy: Childhood Wonder — and placed her hand against it. She could feel the memories inside, bright and effervescent, the pure delight of discovery that children possessed before the world taught them fear.

She opened it.

Light burst forth, golden and warm, and she felt it scatter across the city like seeds on the wind. In homes and streets and market squares, people would suddenly remember what it felt like to laugh without reservation, to marvel at simple beauty, to find joy in the smallest things.

But joy alone wasn't enough. Not if she wanted to wake this city truly.

She moved to the next door. Anger: Righteous Fury.

Her hand hesitated on the handle.

"This one could be dangerous," she said aloud.

"All emotion is dangerous," Emberlain replied. "That's what makes it powerful. Open it."

Sona opened it.

The anger that burst forth was different from the others — sharper, hotter, more focused. It was the anger of those who had been wronged, who had surrendered their rage in the name of peace and then watched as injustices continued unchallenged. It was the fury of the powerless given voice.

As the memories scattered, Sona felt a tremor run through the Archive. Above her, in the city proper, people were waking not just to memory but to emotion's full spectrum. Some would rejoice. Others would weep. And some — those who remembered what had been taken from them — would rage.

"What have you done?" Nemorin's voice came from behind her, steadier now but filled with a new kind of fear. Not for himself, but for the city. "You've given them back their pain. Their fury. Do you understand what will happen when they realise what we've taken from them?"

Sona turned to face him. "They'll demand answers. They'll demand change. Isn't that what should have happened long ago?"

"They'll tear the city apart," Nemorin said quietly. "The Wardens, the Council, everyone who participated in the Surrendering — they'll be targets. There will be violence. Blood."

"Then perhaps you should have built your peace on something other than theft," Sona replied.

She moved past him, back towards the stairs. There were more doors to open, but not tonight. Not all at once. She needed to see what she'd already unleashed, needed to understand the consequences of her choice before she went further.

But as she climbed the stairs, the locket burning hot against her chest, she could hear Emberlain's laughter echoing in her mind.

"You've started something you can't stop now," the voice purred. "The city is waking. And when it's fully awake, it will either thank you or destroy you. Perhaps both."

"I know," Sona whispered. "But I had to try."

She emerged from the service entrance into a city that was already changing. Through the windows of nearby buildings, she could see lights burning where there had been only darkness before. She could hear voices raised in confusion, in grief, in anger, in joy — a cacophony of emotion that Caer Selenis hadn't heard in generations.

The Silence was broken.

And Sona walked through the awakening streets, alone but no longer herself, listening to the chaos she'd created and wondering if redemption was ever truly possible for those who unleashed such forces upon the world.

Behind her, in the Archive's depths, Nemorin knelt among the empty chambers and wept for the city he'd tried to save, now coming undone.

Chapter 7: The City Wakes

Dawn came to Caer Selenis, but it was not the quiet, orderly dawn the city had known for generations.

Sona stood on the rooftop of an abandoned watchtower on the city's eastern edge, the locket still warm against her skin, and watched the chaos unfold below. From this vantage point, she could see the entire sprawl of the capital — the white stone buildings gleaming in the early light, the ornate bridges spanning the River Lune, the great dome of the Hall of Soft Light rising above it all like a monument to everything she'd just destroyed.

Except it wasn't destruction she was witnessing. Not exactly.

It was awakening.

In the market district, vendors who had opened their stalls with mechanical precision every morning for years stood frozen, tears streaming down their faces as they remembered loved ones they'd forgotten. Some embraced strangers who suddenly weren't strangers at all, but siblings, parents, friends they'd surrendered to the silence. Others simply wept, overwhelmed by the weight of what they'd lost.

Near the Council chambers, a crowd had begun to gather. Sona could hear their voices even from this distance — not the measured, reasonable tones that characterised all discourse in Caer Selenis, but raw shouts of anger and betrayal. Someone had hung a banner from the chamber's façade, its message visible even at this distance: YOU STOLE OUR SOULS.

"They're going to riot," Sona murmured.

"Good," Emberlain replied, its voice a constant presence now, no longer entirely separate from her own thoughts. "Let them. Rage is honest. Rage is real. Better than the lie they've been living."

"People will be hurt."

"People were already hurt. They just didn't remember it."

Sona couldn't argue with that logic, even as it unsettled her. She climbed down from the watchtower, her body moving with a fluid grace that wasn't entirely her own. Emberlain's influence lingered in her movements, in the way her senses seemed sharper, more attuned to the emotional currents flowing through the city.

She needed to find Kellis. He'd warned her about this, about the consequences of opening the Archive too quickly. Perhaps he would know what to do next — how to guide this awakening before it became a conflagration.

But as she moved through the streets towards the Quarter of Quiet Contemplation, she realised that finding anyone in this chaos would be nearly impossible. The city had transformed overnight. People who had walked these streets in orderly silence now clustered in groups, arguing, weeping, embracing. Some looked lost, as if they'd woken in a foreign land and couldn't remember how they'd got there.

In a small square near the Scribes' Quarter, Sona came upon a scene that made her stop.

An elderly woman sat on a bench, surrounded by a small crowd. Her face was wet with tears, but she was smiling — a genuine, radiant smile that seemed to light her entire being. "I had a daughter," she was saying, her voice trembling with joy and grief intertwined. "Her name was Mirin. She died twenty years ago, and I... I surrendered my grief. I thought it would make the pain stop, but I lost her. I lost all memory of her. And now... now she's back. Not alive, but real again. I can remember her laugh, her stubborn streak, the way she loved strawberries..."

The crowd around her was silent, many of them weeping themselves. One man reached out and took the woman's hand. "I remember her too," he said quietly. "She was my wife's cousin. I'd forgotten her entirely until this morning."

Sona felt something twist in her chest — not Emberlain's hunger, but her own complex tangle of emotions. Relief that something good had come from what she'd done. Guilt for all the pain she'd unleashed alongside the joy. And underneath it all, a growing uncertainty about whether she'd made the right choice.

"Don't doubt yourself now," Emberlain whispered. "You've given them back what was stolen. What they do with it is their choice."

She moved on, leaving the woman to her bittersweet reunion with memory.

The Quarter of Quiet Contemplation, when she finally reached it, was anything but quiet. The meditation gardens where citizens had once sat in peaceful, emotionless contemplation were now filled with people in various states of distress. Some sat alone, rocking back and forth as decades of suppressed feelings crashed over them. Others had gathered in small groups, seeking comfort or simply trying to understand what was happening.

She found Kellis in his study, exactly where she'd left him. But he was not alone.

Archivist Lyren stood by the window, her usually immaculate robes dishevelled, her face pale. When Sona entered, both of them turned, and she saw fear in their eyes.

"You did it," Kellis said. It wasn't a question. "You opened the Archive."

"Some of it," Sona admitted. "Three chambers. Joy, grief, and anger."

"Three," Lyren repeated, her voice hollow. "Do you have any idea what you've done? The balance we've maintained for generations—"

"Was a lie," Sona interrupted. "You stole people's emotions and told them it was for their own good. You created a city of ghosts."

"We created peace," Lyren shot back, but her voice lacked conviction. "We ended the wars, the violence, the—"

"The humanity," Sona finished. "Yes, I know. I've heard the justifications. But I've seen what you've done to people like me, like my mother. We didn't fit into your perfect, emotionless society, so you tried to unmake us."

Lyren's face crumpled. For the first time, Sona saw real emotion there — not the carefully moderated responses of someone who'd learned to live with partial feelings, but raw, overwhelming grief. "My son," Lyren whispered. "I surrendered my memory of my son when he died. He was seven years old. And this morning, I remembered him. All of it. The joy of his birth, the sound of his laughter, and the moment I found him in the river, already gone." She looked at Sona with eyes that held decades of suppressed anguish. "You gave me back the worst moment of my life. Was that mercy?"

Sona felt her certainty waver. "I... I gave you back the truth."

"Truth without context is cruelty," Kellis said quietly. "That's what I tried to tell you. The emotions in the Archive aren't meant to be released all at once. They need to be reintegrated slowly, carefully, or they'll overwhelm the people who surrendered them."

"Then help me," Sona said. "Help me do this right. The doors are open now — I can't close them again. But maybe we can guide what happens next."

Kellis and Lyren exchanged a look. Finally, Lyren nodded. "The Council will want you arrested," she said. "Nemorin is already gathering the Wardens. They'll say you've committed an act of terrorism, that you've endangered the entire city."

"And have I?" Sona asked.

"Yes," Lyren admitted. "But you've also given us a chance to become something better than what we were. If we survive the transition."

"They're going to betray you," Emberlain warned. "The moment they have the chance, they'll try to contain you, control you, put you back in a cell."

Sona ignored the voice and focused on Kellis. "What do we do?"

"We go to the Hall of Soft Light," Kellis said. "The Council is meeting there in an hour. They're going to decide how to respond to what you've done. If we can speak to them, show them that this doesn't have to be a disaster—"

"They won't listen," Lyren interjected. "They're terrified. And terrified people don't make rational choices."

"Then we make them listen," Sona said. The locket pulsed against her chest, and she felt Emberlain's power stirring, ready to be unleashed again. "We show them what the city could be if we embrace emotion instead of fleeing from it."

Kellis looked at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "You've changed," he said finally. "That thing in the locket—"

"Is part of me now," Sona said. "I can't separate us anymore. Maybe I never could."

"Then we'd better hope," Kellis said, rising from his chair, "that what you've become is strong enough to face what's coming. Because the Council won't be the only ones who want to stop you. There are others in this city — old families, ancient powers — who have thrived under the Silence. They won't give up their control without a fight."

Outside the study, a distant sound carried on the wind: the low, ominous toll of the Warning Bell, the bell that hadn't rung in Caer Selenis for over a century.

The city was declaring a state of emergency.

And Sona, carrying the power of a thousand surrendered emotions in a locket against her heart, walked towards the Hall of Soft Light to face whatever judgement awaited her.

The revolution had begun.

Chapter 8: The Hall Divided

The Warning Bell's toll echoed through the streets of Caer Selenis like a death knell, each resonant peal a reminder that the city's carefully maintained order had shattered. Sona walked towards the Hall of Soft Light with Kellis at her side and Lyren trailing a few steps behind, her expression haunted by memories she'd never wanted back.

The streets were emptier now than they had been an hour ago. Most citizens had retreated indoors, seeking shelter from the emotional storm that had engulfed the city. Those who remained moved with purpose — Wardens in their silver-grey uniforms heading towards the Hall, citizens carrying hastily made signs demanding answers, and others simply wandering in a daze, still processing the return of feelings they'd thought lost forever.

"They've closed the bridges," Kellis observed as they approached the River Lune. The elegant span that normally connected the eastern district to the Hall's island stood barricaded, with a line of Wardens blocking access.

"There's another way," Lyren said quietly. "The Archivists' entrance. It leads directly beneath the Hall."

Sona glanced at her. "Why are you helping me? You could have turned me over to Nemorin."

Lyren's eyes were distant. "Because my son deserved to be remembered. Even if the memory breaks me, he deserved that much. And if you're right — if the Silence was a mistake — then perhaps his death can mean something more than just another surrendered grief in a vault."

They circled around to the northern embankment, where a small stone door was set into the riverside wall, nearly invisible unless you knew where to look. Lyren pressed her palm against a worn sigil carved into the stone, and the door swung inward, revealing a narrow passageway lit by phosphorescent moss.

"This is a trap," Emberlain whispered. "She's leading you into the depths. They'll cage you there, separate you from me."

"If this is a trap," Sona said aloud, "it's too late to avoid it now."

Kellis shot her a concerned look but said nothing.

The tunnel was older than the Hall above, its walls bearing marks from a time before the Silence — graffiti in ancient script, carved prayers, and here and there, handprints pressed into the stone in ochre and ash. Sona trailed her fingers along the wall as they walked, feeling the echo of old emotions embedded in the rock itself. Fear. Hope. Defiance.

"These tunnels were built during the Passion Wars," Lyren explained, her voice echoing in the confined space. "Before the Silence, when the city tore itself apart. People hid down here when the emotion-drunk mobs roamed the streets above."

"You mean when people still felt things," Sona corrected.

"I mean when people were consumed by what they felt," Lyren replied sharply. "You weren't there. You didn't see what uncontrolled emotion did to this city. Families murdered over minor slights. Lovers driven to violence by jealousy. Entire neighbourhoods burned because someone's grief or rage spiralled beyond reason." She stopped, turning to face Sona in the dim light. "The Silence wasn't created out of cruelty. It was born from desperation."

"And now we're desperate again," Sona said. "Just in a different way."

They emerged into a vaulted chamber beneath the Hall, its ceiling lost in shadow. A spiral staircase carved from pale stone wound upward, and Sona could hear voices filtering down from above — raised voices, angry and frightened.

"The Council chamber is three levels up," Lyren said. "But we should prepare ourselves. Whatever reception awaits us, it won't be friendly."

As they climbed, the voices grew clearer, resolving into distinct words and phrases:

"—cannot allow this terrorist to dictate—"

"—people are suffering in the streets—"

"—the Archive must be sealed immediately—"

"—she's given them back what we stole, and you call her a terrorist?"

That last voice, raised in defiance, made Sona pause. Someone on the Council was defending what she'd done.

They reached the upper landing and found themselves at a small side entrance to the Council chamber. Through the partially open door, Sona could see the circular room where the city's fate was being decided.

The Council of Moderators sat at a curved table that dominated the chamber — seven figures in the pale grey robes that marked their office. Sona recognised Nemorin immediately, his severe face even more pinched than usual. But it was another Councillor who had her attention: a younger woman with short dark hair and eyes that burned with an intensity Sona had never seen in a Moderator before.

"Councillor Vess," Kellis whispered, following her gaze. "She's new to the Council. Appointed just last year."

"She still has her emotions," Sona realised. "She hasn't surrendered anything."

"Few people do anymore," Lyren admitted. "The practice has been declining for decades. Only the older generation like myself truly believed in it."

Vess was speaking, her voice cutting through the chamber's chaos: "We cannot return to the old ways by pretending this hasn't happened. Three chambers of the Archive are open. Thousands of citizens have been reunited with memories and feelings they surrendered. We can either help them integrate these experiences, or we can crack down and create martyrs. Which do you think will serve the city better?"

"The law is clear," Nemorin replied coldly. "Unauthorised access to the Archive is a capital offence. The girl must be apprehended and the Archive resealed."

"The girl," a new voice interjected, "is standing right here."

Sona stepped through the doorway and into the chamber, Kellis and Lyren following behind her. Every eye in the room turned towards her, and she felt the weight of their gazes — some hostile, some curious, at least one sympathetic.

The chamber fell silent except for the soft rustle of robes as the Councillors rose to their feet.

"Sona Weir," Nemorin said, his voice like ice. "You are under arrest for violation of the Archive Sanctity Act, destruction of public property, and incitement of civil unrest."

"She's also the only person in this city who can navigate the Archive safely," Vess countered. "Arresting her would be catastrophically stupid."

"She opened three chambers without authorisation," another Councillor — an elderly man with watery eyes — said. "Who's to say she won't open more? Who's to say she won't release everything?"

"Maybe I should," Sona said quietly, and felt Emberlain's approval pulse through her. "Maybe this city needs to feel everything it's been hiding from."

The chamber erupted into chaos. Multiple Councillors began speaking at once, their voices overlapping in a cacophony that would have been impossible in the old Caer Selenis. Nemorin was calling for the Wardens. Vess was shouting about due process. Others were simply arguing amongst themselves.

And then, beneath it all, Sona felt something else. A tremor in the emotional fabric of the Hall itself. The locket grew hot against her skin.

"The Archive is calling," Emberlain said, its voice urgent now. "Something's wrong. The doors you opened — they're not stable."

"What do you mean, not stable?" Sona whispered.

"The emotions are bleeding out faster than they should. The chambers are collapsing. If we don't stabilise them—"

The tremor became a shudder. The entire Hall of Soft Light swayed, and several Councillors stumbled. Ancient stone groaned, and dust rained from the ceiling.

"What's happening?" Vess demanded.

Sona met her eyes across the chamber. "The Archive is destabilising. When I opened those doors, I might have... compromised the structure holding everything else back."

"Meaning?" Nemorin's face had gone pale.

"Meaning if we don't fix this," Sona said, "the entire Archive could collapse. And every emotion ever surrendered — centuries worth of rage, grief, terror, joy — will flood back into the city all at once."

Another shudder, stronger this time. Somewhere in the Hall, glass shattered.

"How do we stop it?" Vess asked.

Sona looked down at the locket, feeling its frantic pulse. "I don't know. But I'm going to have to go back into the Archive to find out."

"Then I'm coming with you," Vess said immediately.

"As am I," Kellis added.

Lyren stepped forward. "And me. I know the Archive's structure better than anyone living."

Nemorin looked between them, his expression torn between rage and fear. Finally, he gave a curt nod. "Go. Stabilise the Archive. But this conversation is not over, Sona Weir. When this crisis is resolved, you will answer for what you've done."

"If we're all still alive," Sona replied, "I'll look forward to it."

They ran from the chamber as the Hall shuddered again, racing down corridors that Sona had walked in chains just days before. This time, she wasn't a prisoner being led to judgement. She was the city's only hope of avoiding catastrophe.

And somewhere in the depths below, the Archive of Surrendered Emotions was tearing itself apart.

Chapter 9: The Archive's Heart

The descent into the Archive was nothing like Sona's previous visits. Where before the corridors had been still and silent, now they pulsed with chaotic energy. Emotions leaked from the walls like water from a cracked dam — flashes of terror, bursts of euphoria, waves of grief that left them all gasping.

"Stay close," Sona commanded, holding the locket before her like a talisman. Its light had grown erratic, flickering between colours she'd never seen before.

Vess stumbled as a wave of someone else's rage washed over her. "How do you bear this? It's overwhelming."

"You learn to filter," Sona said, though in truth she was barely managing herself. Emberlain's presence helped, creating a barrier between her and the worst of the emotional storm, but even the spirit seemed strained. "The deeper chambers are failing first. We need to reach the Archive's heart — the original vault where the Silence was first anchored."

"I didn't know there was such a place," Lyren said, her face pale.

"Because it was never meant to be found. The founders built failsafes, layers of protection. But if the structure is collapsing..." Emberlain's voice trailed off ominously.

They passed through the Chamber of Grief, where Sona had first broken through. The crystalline structures she'd shattered were reforming, but wrong — twisted and sharp, pulsing with a sickly light. Somewhere in the shadows, Sona heard weeping.

"Is someone else down here?" Kellis asked nervously.

"No," Sona replied. "It's the emotions themselves. They're becoming... aware."

The corridor narrowed, forcing them to walk single file. The walls here were older, made of a dark stone that seemed to absorb light. Carved into their surface were names — thousands upon thousands of names, stretching back centuries.

"The first surrenderers," Lyren whispered, running her fingers over the inscriptions. "The ones who volunteered to have their emotions taken, believing it would save the city from destroying itself."

"Were they right?" Vess asked.

No one answered. The question hung in the air as they pressed deeper, past chambers Sona had never seen before. Each one held a different category of emotion, meticulously organised and stored. But the organisation was breaking down. Joy bled into sorrow. Love twisted into obsession. Fear merged with excitement until they became indistinguishable.

The passage opened into a vast circular chamber that took Sona's breath away. At its centre stood a pillar of pure white light, reaching from floor to ceiling and beyond. Around it, seven concentric rings of stone were inscribed with sigils that glowed faintly, pulsing in a rhythm like a heartbeat.

"The Anchor," Lyren breathed. "I never thought I'd see it."

But the Anchor was failing. Cracks spider-webbed across its surface, and the light flickering within was growing dimmer. Each pulse sent tremors through the chamber, and Sona could feel the pressure building — centuries of emotion pressing against increasingly fragile bonds.

"We need to reinforce it," Emberlain said urgently. "But I don't have the power alone. The Anchor was created by seven spirits working in concert. I'm only one."

"Then we find the others," Sona said.

"They're dead. They sacrificed themselves to create the Silence."

"Then we do something else." Sona stepped forward, approaching the pillar. Up close, she could see images moving within the light — fragments of the surrendered emotions, glimpses of lives lived and feelings felt. A mother's love for her newborn. A soldier's terror in battle. An artist's joy at creation. All of it trapped, contained, slowly breaking free.

"What are you thinking?" Vess asked, moving to stand beside her.

"That maybe the Silence was never meant to last forever," Sona said slowly. "Maybe it was always supposed to be temporary — a bridge between what we were and what we could become."

"You want to let it collapse?" Nemorin's voice echoed from the chamber entrance. He stood there flanked by Wardens, his face twisted with fury and fear. "You want to destroy everything we've built?"

"I want to transform it," Sona corrected. "The Silence tried to solve our problems by removing feeling. But that just postponed them. What if instead of storing emotions away, we learned to integrate them? To feel them without being consumed?"

"Impossible," Nemorin spat. "You saw what happened during the Passion Wars. Humanity can't be trusted with the full weight of emotion."

"Maybe not alone," Vess said quietly. "But together?" She looked at Lyren, at Kellis, at Sona. "What if the answer isn't suppression or chaos, but community? Supporting each other through the hard feelings instead of hiding from them?"

The Anchor pulsed again, stronger this time. A crack split the pillar's surface, and emotion poured out like water — a wave of pure, undifferentiated feeling that crashed over everyone in the chamber.

Sona gasped as it hit her. Not just one emotion but all of them at once, a lifetime of feeling compressed into a single moment. She felt Emberlain struggling to contain it, to filter it, but it was too much.

And then Kellis was there, taking her hand. And Lyren, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder. And Vess, standing firm beside her.

"Together," Vess said.

Sona understood. She reached for the locket, felt its warmth, and then — carefully, deliberately — she opened herself to the Archive. Not to control it or contain it, but to become part of it. To let it flow through her instead of fighting it.

The others did the same. Even Nemorin, after a long moment of hesitation, stepped forward and joined the circle forming around the Anchor.

Seven people. Seven points of connection. And at the centre, a pillar of light that was no longer trying to contain the city's emotions but to channel them, to let them flow in a way that was sustainable, manageable, human.

The Anchor didn't break. Instead, it transformed. The white light shifted, taking on colour — the full spectrum of human feeling, no longer imprisoned but acknowledged, accepted, integrated.

"This is what we were always meant to become," Emberlain whispered. "Not silent. Not overwhelming. But balanced."

Above them, throughout Caer Selenis, something fundamental shifted. The Silence didn't disappear entirely — some citizens would still choose to surrender particular emotions when the weight became too much. But it was no longer the city's foundation. It was a tool, an option, not a mandate.

And for the first time in centuries, Caer Selenis began to truly feel.

Chapter 10: The New Dawn

The transformation rippled outward from the Archive's heart like rings in still water. Sona felt it pass through her — a wave of possibility, of change, of hope mingled with uncertainty. Above them, the ancient structure of Caer Selenis groaned and shifted, adapting to its new reality.

"We need to get topside," Lyren said, her voice shaking. "We need to see what's happening to the city."

They ran back through corridors that were no longer silent. Whispers echoed from the walls — not threatening, but curious. The emotions stored here for centuries were finding their voice, learning to exist in a new way. Integrated rather than imprisoned.

When they emerged into the Hall of Soft Light, Sona stopped short. The chamber had changed. Where before everything had been bleached white and sterile, now colour bled through the stone itself. Soft blues and gentle golds, warm reds and deep purples. The light no longer felt harsh but welcoming, complex.

And the people gathered there — Councillors and Wardens and citizens who had felt the tremors and come to see what was happening — they were feeling.

Some wept openly. Others laughed with a joy that seemed to surprise them. A few stood frozen, overwhelmed by the sudden weight of emotion after so long in the Silence. But none of them were alone. Those who had kept their emotions reached out to steady those who had just regained them. Hands clasped hands. Arms wrapped around shoulders.

"Look," Vess whispered, pointing.

Through the Hall's great windows, Sona could see the city beyond. And it was alive in a way it hadn't been for three hundred years. Colours bloomed on buildings that had been grey stone. Gardens erupted with flowers. In the streets, people gathered not in orderly silence but in animated conversation, arguing and laughing and crying and living.

"What have we done?" Nemorin breathed, but his voice held wonder rather than horror.

"We've given them a choice," Sona said. "The Silence is still there for those who need it. But it's no longer mandatory. No longer the only way to survive."

"The balance will take time to find," Emberlain cautioned from the locket. "There will be chaos before there is order. Some will struggle with feelings they haven't experienced in decades. Others will need to relearn how to support those who are overwhelmed."

"Then we'll teach them," Kellis said firmly. "We'll build new institutions. Schools of emotional understanding. Support networks for those who struggle. We have the chance to do this right."

Lyren nodded slowly. "The Archive can become a resource rather than a prison. A place where people can learn about emotion, understand it, without being consumed by it."

"And those who need temporary relief?" asked one of the Councillors, a woman Sona recognised from the trial. "What of them?"

"They'll still have access to the Silence," Sona assured her. "But it will be a choice, not a requirement. And it will be temporary — a respite, not a permanent state."

The woman considered this, then nodded. Around her, other Councillors were doing the same. Not all of them — Sona could see resistance on some faces, fear on others. This change would not be universally welcomed. There would be those who clung to the old ways, who believed the Silence was the only thing keeping them safe from themselves.

But that was a problem for tomorrow. Today, the city had been given back its heart.

Sona walked to one of the great windows and looked out over Caer Selenis. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose. And for the first time in her life, she felt the full weight of that beauty without any barrier between her and the experience. Joy and sorrow intertwined. Hope and fear balanced on a knife's edge. The complexity of being fully, completely human.

Vess joined her at the window. "What will you do now?"

"I don't know," Sona admitted. "I never thought past this moment. I never imagined we'd actually succeed."

"We'll need guides," Vess said. "People who understand emotion in all its complexity. People who can help others navigate this new world."

"You're asking me to stay in Caer Selenis?" Sona raised an eyebrow. "The city that tried to execute me?"

"The city that you saved," Vess corrected. "And yes. I'm asking you to stay. To help us build something better."

Sona looked down at the locket, feeling Emberlain's quiet presence. "What do you think?"

"I think," the spirit said slowly, "that for the first time in three hundred years, I'm curious about the future. That seems worth staying for."

"Then I'll stay," Sona said. "For now, at least. Until the city finds its footing."

"Thank you," Vess said quietly.

They stood together in comfortable silence — not the enforced Silence of suppression, but the natural quiet of two people who didn't need words to understand each other. Below them, Caer Selenis continued its transformation. It would be messy. It would be difficult. There would be setbacks and struggles and moments when the old fear returned.

But there would also be joy. Real joy, earned and felt and shared. There would be love and anger and grief and hope, all the complicated emotions that made life worth living.

The Silence had been broken. And in its place, something new was beginning to grow.

Sona smiled, feeling the weight of Emberlain's presence in the locket, the warmth of Vess's friendship beside her, the vast potential of the city spread out below. The future was uncertain. But for the first time in her life, she was eager to face it.

Not in silence. But in song.

Author's Note

I have to confess something: this entire story was born from a single song. I was listening to Shawn Colvin's "Sunny Came Home" on repeat one evening, and something about it just clicked. That haunting melody, those cryptic lyrics about burning down the house and striking a match — it ignited a spark in me (pun absolutely intended) that grew into Songs of Emberlain.

At first glance, a 1990s folk-pop song and a fantasy story about emotional suppression might not seem to have much in common. But the more I wrote, the more I realised how deeply the motifs intertwined.

Both stories are about returning home after a long absence and finding it unrecognisable — or perhaps finding that you're the one who's changed. Sunny comes home to a world that "had such a lonely sound," just as Sona returns to Caer Selenis after years away and finds it hollow, drained of the vitality she remembered. There's this profound sense of displacement, of no longer fitting into the spaces that once defined you.

Then there's the central act of destruction as transformation. When Sunny "struck a match and let it burn," she wasn't just committing arson — she was making space for something new. She was refusing to accept the unbearable situation as permanent. Sona does the same thing with the Silence itself. The system that was supposed to protect people had become a prison, and the only way forward was to burn it down — not with literal fire, but by releasing all those imprisoned emotions and letting them transform the city from within.

Both narratives grapple with the weight of suppressed feeling. Sunny's story hints at deeper pain beneath the surface — "get the kids and bring a sweater, dry is good and wind is better" suggests someone preparing for upheaval, someone who's been holding things together for far too long. Sona and the citizens of Caer Selenis have been doing the same thing on a societal scale, suppressing their emotions for so long that they've forgotten what it means to truly feel.

And finally, both stories end not with easy resolution but with ambiguous hope. We don't know what happens to Sunny after the fire. We don't know if her act of destruction leads to healing or just more chaos. Similarly, Songs of Emberlain ends with Caer Selenis transformed but uncertain. The old order is gone, but the new one is still being born. It's messy and complicated and real — just like the emotions the city is learning to feel again.

"Sunny Came Home" is a three-and-a-half-minute song, and somehow it contained an entire novelette waiting to be written. Thank you, Shawn Colvin, for the spark. I hope I did it justice.