The certainty in his voice unsettles me more than doubt ever could.
"Strike it again," he says.
I take the hammer and tap the rim.
The layered sound blooms once more. A low note hums beneath the higher tone, followed by a third thread that settles somewhere between them. The harmonics weave together so naturally that separating them becomes impossible. They should clash. Instead they intertwine like they've always belonged together.
Khaivor inhales slowly. "Most mages train for decades to produce harmonics this stable."
"I trained for decades to avoid ruining scrap metal." I counter, scoffing as the memories flash through my mind. Father's patience wearing thin. My hammer striking metal wrong. Wasted bronze pooling at my feet.
"You trained decades to trust your instincts." he notes quietly.
His words may be true but I know my point. "That is not magic."
"It may be."
He is right. I have always suspected there was more to my craft than meets the eyes. It feels woven to my well being, a spontaneous twirl of inspiration. I can feel my soul reaching for something that can't be explained.
I turn away before he can study my expression too closely. The forge has always obeyed logic. Heat changes metal. Force changes shape. Sound reveals flaws. Every result comes from effort and repetition.
Magic belongs to temples and traveling performers. Magic belongs to people who enjoy complicated explanations for things they don't fully understand.
Not to me.
"I make bells," I say firmly.
"You shape resonance," he replies.
The argument refuses to continue. It settles between us, heavy and immovable, the way certain tones settle in a room and refuse to fade.
I busy my hands with tools that do not need moving. He pretends not to notice.
Only dark elves can manipulate sounds like this. The ability to mimic the power is a phenomenon that can't be explained.
We leavethe forge when the air grows too thick with thoughts neither of us names.
The lake glows beneath the rising moon. Lanterns drift across the water in rehearsal for the festival. Their reflections stretch into long trembling ribbons that blur the boundary between water and sky.
Khaivor walks beside me without speaking. The quiet feels companionable rather than strained. Our footsteps fall into rhythm without discussion.
"You said cities feel like standing inside a ringing cathedral bell," I say.
"Yes," he answers.
"How long has it been like that?" I press.
"Always."
The simplicity of the answer steals the question I planned next.
He stops near the shoreline. The water glides toward the rocks in slow, patient waves. We stand close enough that our shoulders nearly touch.
"My magic was not always used right," he says quietly. "I learned early that resonance can influence crowds. Shape fear. Amplify panic. Silence resistance." His gaze remains fixed on the horizon. "People value abilities that control sound. And I became very good at it."
The admission lands quietly, yet it carries weight that settles into my chest. Wind drifts across the water as he pauses to take a breath.
"We are not defined by our past," I mutter the words of my father. "We are defined by the actions we choose for our future."
