" You come across the frame and torn skin of a drum lying on the Moor. Have you heard music before? Do you like it? And who would play music in a place like this?"

✦

Archimedes halted mid-step, his sharp gaze catching the glint of something unusual half-buried in the spongy, red-tinged earth. He approached cautiously, Cerridwen trailing behind him, her delicate steps far quieter than his. The object revealed itself as the remains of a drum—its wooden frame splintered and warped by time, its skin torn and brittle.

“A drum,” Cerridwen murmured, her eyes softening as she drew closer. “How strange to find something like this here. Who would bring music to a battlefield?”

Archimedes tilted his head, examining the relic with the same methodical precision he gave to ancient texts and arcane symbols. “Music,” he said, his tone clipped, “has always served purposes beyond mere entertainment. It could rally soldiers, instill fear in enemies, or mark the cadence of a march. That's the timing for the steps.”

Cerridwen hummed thoughtfully, her gaze drifting over the desolate expanse of the Moor. “Do you think they played it here? Among all this death?”

“It’s possible,” Archimedes replied, though his voice carried a tinge of skepticism. “But the question remains—why abandon it? A drum is not easily forgotten.”

Cerridwen stepped closer to the drum, her hooves sinking slightly into the damp earth. “Maybe they didn’t abandon it. Maybe they… couldn’t take it with them.”

Archimedes didn’t respond immediately. His mind churned through possibilities—an ambush, a desperate retreat, a musician silenced mid-performance. He crouched beside the drum, the damp air thick with the scent of decay and iron.

“Have you ever heard music, Archimedes?” Cerridwen asked, breaking the silence.

He glanced up at her, brow furrowing. “Of course. Though I fail to see how it’s relevant.”

She smiled, a gentle curve of her lips that held more warmth than the Moor could ever provide. “I mean real music. Not just the chants of soldiers or the ceremonial fanfare of nobility. Something… beautiful.”

Archimedes hesitated, the question stirring memories he rarely entertained. “My sister, Selaine,” he said finally. “She sings.”

Cerridwen’s ears perked up, her expression brightening. “Selaine? The Siren herself? I’ve heard stories about her voice. They say it’s enough to charm even the most hardened soul.”

Archimedes huffed, though the faintest trace of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “She’s always been insufferably proud of that talent.”

“And you?” Cerridwen pressed. “Do you like her singing?”

He looked back at the drum, his gaze distant. “It’s… tolerable,” he admitted, his tone softer than usual. “Though I suspect it’s because I know the voice belongs to her.”

Cerridwen chuckled, her laughter light and melodic. “I think you like music more than you let on, Archimedes.”

He straightened, brushing dirt from his coat. “Speculation, Cerridwen, is not fact. But I’ll concede that it has its place.”

She grinned, her eyes twinkling. “Maybe one day, we’ll hear Selaine sing together. Though I doubt it will be here.”

Archimedes glanced at the drum one last time, then turned toward the path ahead. “No,” he said firmly. “The Moor is no place for beauty.”

Cerridwen lingered a moment longer, her gaze lingering on the broken drum. “Perhaps not,” she whispered, before following him into the fog.