Kaelen and the Voices in the Harpwood

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The dawn dawned leadenly as Kaelen and Varaan descended the hill. Behind them lay the Tree of Promise, yet its echo still hung in the air. Kaelen had rejected the voices that sought to bind her. Now it was as if the world were listening, whether it trusted its own footsteps. A forest spread out before them, ancient and peculiar. Even from a distance, Kaelen saw that the trees bore strings. Their branches were taut like bows, and between the bark, threads shone, thin as spiderwebs, yet shimmering metallically. The wind blew through them—and music rose, not wild, but orderly, like the soft playing of an invisible harp. Varaan stopped, his horns tilted suspiciously. His lizard eyes reflected the silver shimmer. "I know," Kaelen murmured, "but the path leads in there." She tightened her backpack and stepped between the first trunks. Immediately, the strings responded. A sound vibrated, warm and sweet, echoing in Kaelen's chest. "Kaelen..." it whispered, barely more than a note. She held her breath. Was that really her name—or just her ear putting it there? The deeper they went, the thicker the music became. The trunks stood like organ pipes, and each gust of wind brought a different theme. Kaelen heard songs she knew well: the melody her mother hummed when she drew maps; the hard crack of her father's blacksmith's hammer. She heard herself laughing—and suddenly crying. "This is a trap," she whispered. Varaan snorted in agreement, but his eyes also gleamed, as if listening to voices that belonged only to him. Soon, Kaelen saw figures among the trunks. Not people, but shapes of sound. They seemed like images of the melodies: a girl offering her hand; an old man nodding his head. Every note was an image, every sound a step into another past. The temptation was great. A part of her wanted to stay, to listen, to hold the voices until they told everything. But her heart beat restlessly, and she remembered: those who lingered here forgot the way. "Enough," Kaelen cried, reaching for one of the strings. She cut herself on it, the blood running warm over her fingers. But the sound that emerged was different—not a sweet whisper, but a tear, a scream. The shapes flinched, some dissolved. The forest began to rustle, restlessly, as if it had felt pain. Varaan roared, a dull sound that ran through the trunks like a second string. Combined with Kaelen's tear, it became an echo, strong and clear. "I am not your melody," Kaelen said aloud, "and my path is not a song you can play." The voices cried out, some pleading, others angry. But they faded as Kaelen moved on. With each step, her boots cut the invisible threads, and Varaan stamped down the last notes.