The city of Concordia sprawled beneath a sky painted with the fading hues of sunset. Unlike the pristine order of the Academy grounds, the capital of the Concordant Alliance was a chaotic tapestry of architectural styles, each district reflecting the dominant harmonic influence of its inhabitants. From the living towers of the Vital Quarter, where buildings seemed to grow rather than stand, to the constantly shifting facades of the Temporal District, where structures appeared to age and rejuvenate in cycles, Concordia embodied the diverse applications of harmonic power.
Percival Sinclair moved through the crowded streets of the Mercantile District with purposeful strides, his Academy trunk floating a few inches above the cobblestones behind him. He had maintained the Spatial harmony manipulation despite Thorne's warning, partly out of practicality and partly out of defiance. Let the Academy send someone to reprimand him—it would be an interesting test of their actual authority beyond their hallowed walls.
The district bustled with evening activity as shopkeepers closed their businesses and taverns opened their doors. Merchants haggled over final sales, street performers demonstrated minor harmonic tricks for copper coins, and the aroma of food from a dozen different cultures filled the air. None of it interested Percival. His mind was focused on more immediate concerns: lodging, resources, and connections.
He had anticipated the possibility of expulsion, of course—though he had calculated the probability at only seventeen percent. Still, contingency planning was second nature to him. He had funds secured in a merchant bank under a different name, contacts outside the Academy's sphere of influence, and several potential paths forward already mapped out in his mind.
What he hadn't anticipated was the hollow feeling in his chest as he walked away from the only home he had known for the past thirteen years.
"Not regret," he murmured to himself, analyzing the sensation with clinical detachment. "Merely adjustment to altered circumstances."
A group of children ran past him, chasing a small glowing orb—a simple Elemental harmony toy. One of them, a girl no more than seven, stopped abruptly when she saw Percival's floating trunk.
"Are you from the Academy?" she asked, eyes wide with wonder.
Percival regarded her impassively. "No."
"But you're doing magic," she insisted, pointing at the trunk.
"It's not magic," he corrected automatically. "It's harmonic manipulation. Specifically, a reduction of gravitational influence through Spatial harmony attunement."
The girl blinked, clearly not understanding, but fascinated nonetheless.
"Sera!" A woman called, hurrying over to collect the child. She glanced at Percival, noting his gray robes, then at the floating trunk. Her expression shifted from curiosity to wariness. "Come along, don't bother the Resonator."
She pulled the girl away, casting another suspicious glance over her shoulder.
Percival watched them go with mild interest. The woman's reaction was telling—respect for his apparent status, but caution as well. Outside the Academy, Resonators were both valued and feared, their abilities setting them apart from ordinary citizens.
He continued toward his destination: The Harmonic Compass, an establishment that catered to independent Resonators and those seeking their services. It wasn't the most reputable venue in Concordia, but it was known for its discretion and its diverse clientele.
The tavern occupied the ground floor of a sturdy stone building at the intersection of the Mercantile and Artisan districts. A sign bearing a seven-pointed compass rose hung above the door, each point glowing with a different colored light representing the seven harmonies.
Percival entered, immediately assessing the room with a practiced eye. The tavern was moderately crowded, with patrons clustered around wooden tables or seated at the long bar. The air was thick with conversation, pipe smoke, and the subtle vibrations of harmonic energies—some patrons were clearly Resonators of varying skill levels.
He approached the bar, where a broad-shouldered man with intricate Elemental harmony tattoos covering his forearms was serving drinks.
"What'll it be?" the bartender asked, his eyes flicking to Percival's Academy robes with interest.
"Information," Percival replied. "And a room, if available."
The bartender raised an eyebrow. "Information isn't on the menu. Rooms are five silver crescents per night."
Percival placed a gold resonance coin on the counter—worth ten silver crescents and considerably more than a simple room should cost. "I'm looking for Cassius Ironheart."
The coin disappeared into the bartender's hand with practiced speed. His expression remained neutral, but Percival noted the slight tension in his shoulders.
"Don't know anyone by that name," he said, though his harmonic aura flickered with deception—a tell that any moderately skilled Ethereal Resonator could detect.
"That's disappointing," Percival said calmly. "I was told he frequents this establishment. Perhaps I was misinformed."
He made no move to leave, instead maintaining steady eye contact with the bartender, who eventually sighed.
"Look, even if I did know someone by that name—which I'm not saying I do—why would I tell you? You're clearly Academy, and that man... that theoretical man... might not be on the best terms with your kind."
"I'm no longer affiliated with the Academy," Percival stated. "As of today."
The bartender studied him more carefully. "Expelled or quit?"
"Does it matter?"
"In this place? Yeah, it matters a great deal."
Percival considered his options. The truth would likely serve him better here than deception. "Expelled. For pursuing research the Council deemed too dangerous."
A slow smile spread across the bartender's face. "Now that's interesting. Wait here."
He disappeared through a door behind the bar. Percival took the opportunity to observe the tavern's other patrons more closely. At a corner table, a woman with the pale complexion and slightly translucent skin of an Ethereal specialist was playing cards with a merchant whose fine clothes suggested wealth. Near the window, a group of what appeared to be mercenaries were engaged in a heated discussion over a map. And at the far end of the bar, a hooded figure sat alone, seemingly uninterested in the surroundings but—Percival noted—positioned to observe the entire room.
The bartender returned after a few minutes. "Second floor, last door on the left. You can leave your trunk in room three—it's yours for the night."
Percival nodded. "And Ironheart?"
"If I knew such a person," the bartender said carefully, "I might suggest you enjoy a drink and a meal. The venison stew is particularly good tonight."
Message received. Percival ordered the stew and a glass of wine, then took his trunk upstairs to the indicated room. It was small but clean, with a narrow bed, a desk, and a window overlooking a side street. He secured his belongings, placing subtle Void harmony wards on his trunk—not enough to harm anyone, but sufficient to alert him to tampering.
When he returned downstairs, the tavern had grown more crowded. He found an empty table near the center of the room and sat with his back to the wall, a position that afforded him a view of both the main entrance and the stairs.
The stew arrived promptly, along with a glass of surprisingly good red wine. Percival ate methodically, his mind cataloging possible approaches for his meeting with Ironheart, assuming the man actually appeared.
Cassius Ironheart was something of a legend in certain circles—a former commander from the Entropic Hegemony who had either defected or been exiled, depending on which rumors one believed. What was known with certainty was that he possessed exceptional skill with Entropic harmony and had extensive knowledge of military applications for harmonic techniques. More importantly for Percival's purposes, Ironheart was said to have traveled widely in the borderlands between nations, where ancient ruins and forgotten knowledge could sometimes be found.
Percival was halfway through his meal when the tavern's atmosphere subtly shifted. Conversations quieted momentarily as the door opened, admitting a tall, broad-shouldered man with a weathered face and close-cropped gray hair. A jagged scar ran from his right temple to his jaw, and his left hand was encased in what appeared to be a metal gauntlet inscribed with Entropic harmony notations.
Several patrons nodded respectfully as the man made his way to the bar. The bartender greeted him with familiar ease, sliding a tankard of dark ale across the counter without being asked. They exchanged a few words, and the bartender gestured toward Percival's table.
The scarred man turned, fixing Percival with a penetrating gaze. His eyes were an unusual amber color that seemed to glow faintly in the tavern's dim light—a common side effect of long-term Entropic harmony attunement.
He approached Percival's table with the measured stride of a soldier, his movements economical and precise despite his imposing frame.
"You're looking for me," he stated rather than asked, his voice a deep rumble with the faint accent of the western provinces.
Percival inclined his head slightly. "If you're Cassius Ironheart."
The man's mouth twitched in what might have been amusement. "I've used that name, among others." He gestured to the empty chair across from Percival. "Mind if I join you?"
"Please."
Ironheart sat, placing his tankard on the table. Up close, Percival could see that the man was older than he had first appeared—perhaps in his early forties—but carried himself with the vitality of someone much younger. The metal gauntlet on his left hand made a soft clicking sound as he drummed his fingers on the table.
"So," Ironheart said after taking a long drink of his ale, "an Academy researcher wants to find me badly enough to ask questions in a place like this. Either you're desperate or foolish. Possibly both."
"Former Academy researcher," Percival corrected. "And I prefer to think of myself as resourceful."
"Former, eh?" Ironheart's amber eyes narrowed slightly. "What did you do to earn expulsion? It takes something special to get thrown out of that place."
"I pursued knowledge the Council deemed too dangerous. Specifically, research into the integration of Void and Entropic harmonies, and the controlled study of Dissonance."
Ironheart went very still. "That's not just dangerous, boy. That's suicidal."
"Only if done improperly," Percival countered. "My methods were sound. The Council's reaction was based on fear, not reason."
"Fear serves a purpose," Ironheart said, his voice dropping lower. "I've seen what happens when Dissonance gets loose. Entire villages wiped out. Landscapes warped beyond recognition. People... changed." His metal-encased hand clenched involuntarily.
Percival's gaze flicked to the gauntlet. "Your injury. Dissonance corruption?"
Ironheart's expression hardened. "You're observant. Yes, this is what happens when Entropic harmony meets Dissonance. The flesh began to decay and transform. The gauntlet contains it." He leaned forward. "So you'll understand why I'm not particularly impressed by academic assurances of 'proper methods.'"
"I understand your caution," Percival said carefully. "But consider this: if we never study Dissonance, how can we ever truly protect against it? The Academy's approach has been to forbid and avoid rather than understand and control."
"Some things aren't meant to be controlled."
"Everything can be controlled with sufficient knowledge and preparation."
Ironheart studied him for a long moment, then let out a short, harsh laugh. "You remind me of myself at your age. Convinced of my own brilliance. Certain that I could master forces others merely feared." He shook his head. "It didn't end well for me."
"Yet here you are," Percival observed. "With knowledge and experiences the Academy would never provide."
"At a cost," Ironheart tapped his gauntlet against the table. "Always at a cost."
Percival leaned forward slightly. "I'm willing to pay costs for knowledge. What I seek goes beyond Academy restrictions. I need access to places and information they've deemed forbidden."
"And what exactly are you seeking?" Ironheart asked, his tone cautious.
"Have you heard of the Great Symphony?"
The change in Ironheart's demeanor was subtle but unmistakable—a slight widening of the eyes, a momentary stillness. "That's a myth. A theoretical construct from ancient texts."
"That's what my mentor said," Percival replied. "Yet the Academy has restricted every text that mentions it. And you..." he paused, noting Ironheart's reaction, "...you recognize the term."
Ironheart took another drink, longer this time. When he set his tankard down, his expression had closed off. "What exactly do you want from me, Academy boy?"
"Information, initially. You've traveled in the borderlands, visited ruins and places of power. You've seen things the Academy pretends don't exist. I want to know what you know."
"And why would I share that with you?"
"Because I can offer something in return." Percival reached into his robe and carefully withdrew a small leather-bound book. "This is my research on the integration of Void and Entropic harmonies. It includes techniques that might help stabilize your condition."
Ironheart's eyes fixed on the book, a flicker of something—hope, perhaps—crossing his features before being quickly suppressed.
"You're offering to help with this?" He raised his gauntleted hand. "In exchange for information?"
"To start with," Percival confirmed. "I believe our arrangement could be mutually beneficial beyond this initial exchange."
Ironheart fell silent, considering. The tavern's noise seemed to fade into the background as the two men regarded each other across the table—one young and untested but brilliant and ambitious, the other weathered by experience and carrying the physical marks of dangerous knowledge.
Finally, Ironheart spoke. "I don't know much about the Great Symphony. Just fragments, rumors, things I've pieced together over the years. But I do know someone who might know more—a woman who specializes in ancient harmonic notations. Lives in the Ethereal Quarter."
"Her name?"
"Elara Nightsong. She's not easy to find, and she doesn't trust easily. Especially not Academy types."
"Former Academy," Percival reminded him.
"That distinction won't matter much to her. She has... history with the institution." Ironheart nodded toward the book in Percival's hand. "May I?"
Percival hesitated only briefly before sliding the book across the table. "The relevant sections on stabilizing Entropic corruption begin on page forty-three."
Ironheart opened the book carefully with his right hand, his amber eyes scanning the precise notations and diagrams. His expression revealed nothing, but Percival noted the slight change in his harmonic aura—a flicker of interest, perhaps even excitement.
"Your work?" he asked without looking up.
"Yes."
"Impressive. Dangerous, but impressive." He closed the book and looked up at Percival. "I'll need time to study this properly. If it contains what you claim, I might be willing to help you further."
"How do I find this Elara Nightsong?"
Ironheart smiled thinly. "You don't. She finds you, if she's interested." He pocketed the book and stood. "Stay here tonight. Word will reach her that someone is asking questions about the Great Symphony. If she's curious, she'll make contact."
"And if she's not?"
"Then you'll need to find another path." Ironheart's expression softened slightly. "A word of advice, young Resonator. The path you're on—seeking knowledge regardless of consequences—I've walked it. The discoveries can be... intoxicating. But remember that some prices are too high, even for the greatest knowledge."
With that, he turned and walked away, nodding to the bartender as he exited the tavern.
Percival remained at his table, contemplating this first step on his journey outside the Academy's walls. The exchange had gone largely as he had anticipated—information traded for information, with the potential for a useful alliance. Ironheart was clearly knowledgeable, and his caution regarding Dissonance was understandable given his injury.
But caution could become paralysis. The Academy's fear of Dissonance had stifled research for generations. Percival was convinced that true understanding required exploration of all aspects of harmonic theory, including those deemed dangerous.
As for this Elara Nightsong... an Ethereal specialist with knowledge of ancient notations could indeed be valuable. The Ethereal harmony governed dreams, perceptions, and mental connections—areas that might provide insights into the theoretical framework of the Great Symphony.
Percival finished his wine, his mind already mapping out contingencies and possibilities. If Nightsong didn't make contact, he would need alternative sources of information. The Restricted Archives at the Academy weren't the only repositories of ancient knowledge in Concordia. The Symphony Faith maintained extensive libraries, though access was limited to the faithful. The Merchant Guilds collected information as avidly as they collected wealth, particularly the Harmonic Artificers who crafted instruments and tools.
And then there were less reputable sources—collectors of forbidden artifacts, scholars who operated outside official sanction, even the rumored Discordant Cells that deliberately cultivated Dissonance for their own purposes.
All paths worth exploring, all with their own risks and potential rewards.
Percival paid for his meal and returned to his room, securing the door with both physical and harmonic means. He sat at the small desk and opened his journal, recording the day's events and his observations of Ironheart with meticulous precision. The expulsion from the Academy, while inconvenient, had opened new avenues of research that would have remained closed to him otherwise.
"Adaptation to changing circumstances," he murmured as he wrote. "The fundamental principle of harmonic manipulation."
Outside his window, the lights of Concordia glittered in the darkness, each representing lives and stories unfolding in countless directions. Percival had little interest in most of them, but he recognized that his path would inevitably intersect with others as he pursued his goal.
The Great Symphony waited to be discovered, its patterns hidden in ancient texts, forgotten ruins, and perhaps in the very fabric of reality itself. Percival Sinclair intended to be the one who finally unraveled its secrets, regardless of what—or who—stood in his way.
As he completed his journal entry, a subtle shift in the air caught his attention—a faint harmonic resonance that hadn't been present before. He looked up sharply, scanning the room.
Nothing seemed out of place, yet the sensation persisted—a whisper of Ethereal harmony, so subtle that most Resonators would have missed it entirely.
Percival closed his journal slowly, his senses extending to probe the harmonic disturbance. It wasn't a direct manipulation, more like an echo or impression—as if someone had recently used Ethereal harmony in or near his room.
"Interesting," he murmured, rising from the desk.
Perhaps Elara Nightsong wouldn't wait until morning to make her presence known after all.