“Who are you?” he breathed.
But tonight, the fog felt different. Thinner. Almost hopeful. Silent Hope
The first note came out rough, rusty, a key turning in a lock that had seized long ago. The mud tightened. He felt it crawling up his ribs like cold fingers. “Who are you
The king’s throne was a mire of sunken houses and half-eaten faces pressed against the glass of memory. The mud tugged at Kaelen’s ankles, then his knees, whispering in a thousand wet mouths: You are alone. You are forgotten. Make no sound. Almost hopeful
Kaelen kept singing. He sang the lullaby three times, then four. The mud receded from his body. The king’s face shifted—cracks of pale skin appearing through the silt, like a fresco being uncovered. And then, from somewhere behind Kaelen—or perhaps inside him—a second voice joined. High. Clear. A child’s voice, humming the same three notes.