A melody glitters in the air, soft as the morning's light, calm as a cloudless day.

I drag my fingers across the harp strings, and a cascade of placid notes drift upward, dispersing into the furthest corners of the hall. The sound vibrates for several seconds before I pluck two more mellifluous chords. The former notes still sparkle, even when I continue with the ballad. I take in every part of the music, my fingers pressing just right on the strings. I need to feel the press of the strings right in the center of my fingertips, exert the exact force each time I tug and release a note.

My arms hover in the air just so, not an inch higher, not an inch lower, my legs tucked under each other with my ankles pressing into my legs the same way they do every time I play. My eyes are lightly closed, and I feel just how perfect the moment is. Everything in right balance. Everything perfect.

A knock sounds at the door. I jolt to attention, my eyes snapping to the door. Panic rises inside me, a tidal wave that starts in my chest and sweeps through my veins, sending anxiety tingling all the way to my fingertips.

I need to practice the ending. I need to ensure I can finish playing the song correctly.

Perfectly.

My gaze shifts to the maid standing in the doorway of the practice hall. As the senior windweaver, I get to practice here in the grandiose hall all on my own, without the raucous of students just learning how to pluck the correct strings, nor the distraction from other lower-tier windweavers. Or even more distracting, the windweavers who aren't lower-tier, who play just as well as I do. Those are the ones I keep an ear out for, as they are the ones who could displace me from my position. Windweaving is a beautiful trade, an artform, yet in the face of the daily demands on average citizens, it is reduced to a useless skill outside of the palace walls.

"Yes?" I say, hoping whatever she is here for isn't too important. It's a futile wish, however, because the maids know not to disturb me over trivial matters.

The maid knots her fingers together in front of her black, button-down dress. "The king requires your presence. The King and Queen of Mervil have arrived."

My brow creases. Already?

"Very well," I say, rising from the wooden floor. The pale purple skirt of my satin dress pools at my feet and swishes around my ankles as I follow the maid into the hall. My eyes fall on a clock hanging on the wall outside, and my jaw nearly drops. I could've sworn I was only in there for an hour, give or take fifteen minutes.

It's been three hours.

That's how my days have gone recently. Longer and longer, I spend inside that room, drilling the notes, the patterns, into my fingertips. I must ensure that whenever I play for the wind spirits, not a single mistake mars the mystical tunes, that placate the spirits into bringing blessings to our Kingdom of Foreau. Such spirits bring balance to our world, balance out the tyrannical spirits that on occasion pop up in our realm, wreaking havoc on anyone and anything it comes in contact with. Sometimes it's just mischief, flour spilled in bakeries, scratches in the wood in workshops, items missing from people's homes. Other times, they are deadly.

My job is crucial for the stability of our realm, but it also carries a terrible burden. For one wrong note played for the spirits might, at best, make them turn away from us for a period of time. At worst, it could bring chaos to the realm. The senior windweaver has the greatest burden, playing for them once in the morning, once in the evening, at which time, the spirits are lending their most attentive ear to the serenade. The lower tier musicians fill in the gaps, give the wind something pleasant to listen as a token of our appreciation for all their blessings. Only the senior musician, the best of them all, is selected for the most demanding task.

For some reason, the person they chose is me.

As I weave through the halls, I barely process the many doors I pass. My eyes stay trained on the maid, who guides me to the throne room, while my head disappears back into the music, fingering the patterns on the harp, rehearsing the part I never finished over and over and over until we finally reach the heart of the palace. Two wooden doors are flung open, and I blink against the stream of golden light that blinds my eyes. I start down an aisle in the throne room, with court members on either side of me.

My vision clears so I can see King Tolvius of Foreau, directly in front of me, seated in one of two maple-wood thrones that are adorned with gold and gemstones and lined with green velvet cushions. Draped around him is a golden robe and cloak, and it is almost as blinding as the light streaming in from the windows at the top of the room. His clothes mirror the golden crown shining from atop his short, red hair. Queen Adrianna sits beside him on an equally luxurious throne, a gold and emerald crown decorating her light brown hair. In keeping with royal colors, she wears a floor-length forest green gown, with intricate laurel embroidery on the bodice, sleeves, and along the sides of the puffed skirt.

To the King's left is the Prince Mathias, a green uniform with gold on his jacket, and on the right, three new faces watch me. I presume it's King Wilhelm, Queen Seraphina, and Princess Sienna, who has probably come to meet Prince Mathias. Whispers have been circulating the castle that they may be arranging a marriage for him and coordinating an alliance between our kingdom and the sea kingdom.

"Welcome, Lady Celia," King Tolvius booms. His dark green irises watch me with unwavering, commanding intensity. "Please take your seat at the imperial harp."

I swallow, then turn to the instrument on the ground. It's a massive harp, reaching nearly to the ceiling. In order to pluck the very bottom of its elongated strings, I need to stand on a stool, opposed to sitting which I'm used to. Nevertheless, the king demands show, the more ostentatious, the better. So I stand on the wooden stool set up at the base of the instrument. At one point, they wanted to cover the stool with a velvet cushion to make it more presentable to onlookers, but I told them I would not be able to concentrate on playing if I were wobbling the whole time.

The crowd grows quiet. In the silence, I rehearse the first measures of the piece in my head. Then, I place my fingers on the strings and pluck the first line. I pause, and the music rings through the room, followed by a breath of pause. I pluck the next measure, slowly, tentatively, then play more and more, the notes unraveling from within my core. The tune takes on a persistent edge, with a cascade of sound swirling through the air. My fingers move faster and faster, pull at the strings harder, a dramatic crescendo vibrating beneath my feet and saturating my ears with sound until two emphatic chords pull sorrow from the instrument. And then the tune falls back in repose, a string of mourning turning to quiet murmurs. A single quiet dissonance sends the song to sleep.

The crowd applauds before my fingers have even left the string. Frustration twinges inside me. I've tried many times to convey how disrespectful it is to clap before the music has been allowed to evaporate into the air. It's not just the music people experience during a performance, it's the vibrations in the walls and floor, the charge in the air. All of that has the power to shift the heart of an audience, make them feel emotions they can't describe, or may never feel again.

I step down from the stool and bow to the crowd. The King lifts a hand in my direction in acknowledgement and nods in approval. A small smile presses on my lips, though dread starts to curl in my stomach. Will I be able to pull off such a performance this evening?

Soon, I'm allowed to sit down on a wooden bench in the front row of the throne room. The lords and ladies on either side of me smile and give me nods of appreciation. My fingers itch to practice, and I long for the solitude of the practice hall. Though perhaps it is slightly selfish of me to utilize the space all day long.

Anxiety wells in my chest. Every second that passes is like a tangible piece of myself dispersing into the throne room. Another moment I could've been practicing. Another moment wasted.

Finally, the court is dismissed, and I leap to my feet, poised to bolt from the room. To my surprise, Prince Mathias approaches me, his hazel eyes solemn, like his father's, though they slope upward the slightest bit at the outer edges, which somehow makes him seem less harsh. I will myself to not fidget in his presence, though I long to disappear back into my music. He stops in front of me, towering over me. The wind spirits truly have blessed our kingdom. It's evident in the muscular, yet lean and athletic physique the prince has, the defined features of his chin, nose, and cheekbones. It will certainly be advantageous to the king and queen, as they seek a marriage alliance with other kingdoms.

"You play very well," he says.

I nod, wishing he would get to the point.

His voice lowers. "I have a favor to request of you. I need you to find out if my union with Princess Sienna will be blessed by the wind spirits."

My eyes widen. "Oh, I... I typically don't communicate with them." As a matter of fact, I never communicate with them. That requires a song far more complex than I normally play for them, and while I have every variation memorized, I never want to chance making a mistake.

"But I need you to find out. You have to." The prince stares at me, his face set in determination. I don't think this is a simple request. This is a command from a future king.

Words refuse to release from my throat. Not in affirmation, not in negation.

"Tomorrow," he says after several beats. "I need an answer tomorrow. Otherwise..." He trails off. My brow twitches in confusion before I can stop it.

"Otherwise what?"

The prince gives a small shake of his head. "Never mind. I just need to know if I should begin the process of courting her."

I crane my neck to the sight, catching a glimpse of Princess Sienna. Her full lips are drawn back in a brilliant smile as she speaks with Queen Adrianna. Her hands are folded daintily in front of her blue dress, the same color as her sparkling eyes. At first glance, not a single flaw could be pointed out: from her tanned skin to her blond hair to the charming optimism radiating from her.

But appearances only show so much.

I nod, though deep down, we both know that's not the reason. A reason, yes. The true reason, no. And though I feel uncomfortable with attempting such an intricate song, what am I supposed to do? How can one say no to the prince? He could displace me from my position with a single word to his father.

Evrin would accept, a voice crows in my head. You've heard him practicing all the songs before. He'd get the job done. And if you can't, for some reason, then perhaps you shouldn't be a windweaver in the first place. This is your job, your duty.

Just don't mess up. Then you'll be the kingdom's undoing.

I swallow. Evrin, the single person who can displace me from my position. Evrin, the boy who probably deserves my position more than I do. If he succeeds when I decline, then he may be promoted to my position. What would become of me, the former windweaver, the failure who couldn't even get a word of blessing for the future princess — not a word for the future of the kingdom?

"Tomorrow," I repeat. It's going to be a long night.