You step silently into the chamber, the hem of your cloak brushing against the dust-covered floor. Without a word, you settle beside your sibling on the harpsichord’s velvet bench, the ancient wood creaking beneath your weight. Their fingers hover over the keys, trembling slightly—whether from hesitation or the chill of the room, you cannot tell. 'Play for me,' you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. 'Not the songs of court or war. Play the one that speaks to your heart.'

For a moment, they only stare at the instrument, their dark lashes casting shadows on their pale cheeks. Then, with a slow exhale, their fingers press down, and the room fills with a melody unlike any you’ve heard before—lighter than the dirges of the castle, yet laced with an ache that sinks deep into your bones. You recognize it as a human lullaby, one from the village below. Their playing is imperfect, notes stumbling here and there, but the emotion behind it is raw and true.

‘I heard a mother sing this to her child,’ they confess between phrases, their voice thick. ‘I watched from the shadows. They were… warm.’ The admission hangs between you, fragile as the candlelight flickering against the walls. Outside, the first droplets of rain begin to patter against the stained-glass windows, distorting the moonlight into fractured colors across the floor.