WHEN THE BLADE LEARNS TO SING

We did not speak of the leaving,

not with words, nor with warhorns.

There was no whistle, no rusted gate,

no barracks door flung wide in fate.

Rin did not walk away —

he drifted,

a leaf in a wind no drum could chart.

He stepped between the silences,

where rhythms fracture,

and reality forgets its part.

The North Barrack remained,

but the boy had already gone,

pulled by a deeper chord —

one not meant to be sung aloud

until now.

So if you missed the moment,

you were meant to.

For in this tale, time hums crooked,

and departures are not always seen.

Now, as war crescendos

and the old rhythms crack,

Rin stands not where he began —

but where his blade begins

to sing back.

— The Chronicler Beneath the Silence