The tune that drifted on the desert wind was soft at first, almost a sigh. But the dragon stirred. Its scales, once dull as ash, shimmered faintly in the rising sun. The old man, Lyricon, guardian of forgotten echoes, stood slowly. His bones cracked like old instruments returning to tune.
He leaned on his staff, its top bound in strings of silken metal, and hummed along with the melody.
"They've truly begun," he said to the wind. "At last."
Lyricon turned toward the horizon. His time in the desert was ending. The Choir was not just a memory anymore—it was becoming a current, strong enough to reach even here, where the world bled into the stars. He whistled three notes. The dragon opened one amber eye.
"Let's go."
As they lifted off, the sand below scattered, revealing a sigil etched deep in the earth—an ancient emblem of the Choir, long thought lost. Its center glowed faintly. Somewhere far from the desert, someone else stirred in their sleep, feeling the call.
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