In the narrow heart of the old artisan quarter where buildings leaned like tired drunkards and alleyways formed a maze of forgotten paths there stood a shop with no signboard. Its windows were always closed its door always locked except for one hour at dusk. Locals called it the Luthier's Tomb. But the boy knew it by another name
The House of Echo
He stepped through its door quietly a bell chimed with a tone so pure it silenced even the wind outside. The scent of old wood varnish and rosin filled the air. Instruments of every kind hung from the walls violins cellos harps and even instruments no longer played in the empire. In the center of the room stood an old man blind in both eyes yet sharpening a bridge for a viola as if he could see its soul
You came earlier than I expected the old man said not looking up
The boy removed the falcon mask and placed it beside a small case of glass
The city is talking louder than usual the boy replied his voice calm and barely above a whisper
The old man chuckled softly so it has begun again
From a drawer beneath the counter the old man pulled a new mask one carved from walnut wood shaped like a crescent moon with a narrow eye slit and a pattern of faded musical notations burned into its surface
For strings only the old man said placing it gently in the boy's hands
The boy bowed without words and turned to leave but paused at the door
They are starting to call me Nocturne he said
A fitting name the old man replied names like music choose their own time to return
Outside night was falling like ink over a map. The boy donned the new mask and vanished into the alleys
At the royal palace the corridors were still awake with the light of candles and the click of armored boots. Princess Seraphina sat in the Grand Archive where ancient scrolls and forbidden books were sealed away behind enchanted locks. She had bribed a court mage to open them and spent hours searching through forgotten songs and bardic legends
She froze when she found it
A page torn from an imperial ballad dating back three hundred years. It spoke of a masked musician who ended a civil war with a single song. He wore a different mask for every instrument and never spoke. They called him the Musebound One
Her heart raced
Was this Nocturne
Or had the legend been reborn
That night as Seraphina watched the moonlight pool across the marble floors she whispered to herself again
I will find you
Not because I must
But because your music is the only truth left in this world of lies