Kael looked up. A woman stood at the mouth of the alley. She wasn't wearing a mute. She held out a hand, and as she stepped closer, Kael realized she wasn't just speaking; she was singing. Not a song with words, but a melody of pure, unfiltered resonance.
In the city of Orizon, everyone wore "mutes"—small, silver discs behind the ear that regulated the volume of the world. Society was a library of whispers. To speak loudly was considered an act of aggression; to cry out was a crime. Kael lived his life at a steady, vibrating hum, translating ancient texts for the Great Archive, his days passing in a blur of grayscale sound. Kael looked up
Kael reached out. As their fingers brushed, the cacophony of the city didn't disappear, but it shifted. The noise of the machines became a heartbeat; the shouting of the wind became a chorus. He realized that the "Dragon" he had been running from—the overwhelming weight of reality—wasn't something to be feared. It was the music he had been missing. She held out a hand, and as she