The air beneath the Great Oak Tree at Windrise was always sweet, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant Cecilia flowers. Dappled sunlight, filtered through a canopy of countless leaves, painted shifting patterns on the grass. And there, nestled against the massive, gnarled trunk, was a bard.

His head was tilted down, eyes closed in concentration. Slender fingers, meticulously cared for, danced across the strings of a wooden lyre with practiced ease. A melody drifted on the breeze — ancient, haunting, and full of a quiet longing that seemed to make the very air still to listen. The breeze itself seemed to hold its breath, not daring to disturb the Archon's private reverie.