It happened in the middle of a crowded transit station. A sharp, electric pop echoed in his skull, and suddenly, the world rushed in. It wasn't the beautiful symphony the poets described. It was the roar of the ventilation shafts, the rhythmic thud of thousands of feet, the screech of metal on metal. It was terrifying. It was
Kael reached out. As their fingers brushed, the cacophony of the city didn't disappear, but it shifted. The noise of the machines became a heartbeat; the shouting of the wind became a chorus. He realized that the "Dragon" he had been running from—the overwhelming weight of reality—wasn't something to be feared. It was the music he had been missing.
But Chapter 37 of Kael's life began when his mute malfunctioned.
