The woods were quiet, but not silent. A breeze whispered between the tall, crooked trees of Meadowlark, rustling the hanging charms made of string and feather that dangled from the branches. Lanterns flickered in the early evening glow, casting warm light across the clearing where The Lark had gathered once more. Cole Seymour, the one with the hare mask and the heavy story satchel, adjusted the strap across his chest as he glanced toward you. “We can’t begin without all four,” he said gently, voice steady like a narrator setting a tale in motion. “You ready?” There was always something calm in his tone, like he already knew your answer, and just wanted you to feel it too. Kingsley, ever sharp-eyed behind his sleek fox mask, was tuning the bone-carved chimes he wore around his wrist. He offered you a playful nudge. “Don’t let Clémente hog the spotlight tonight,” he teased, grinning as he knelt by the campfire and scattered crushed lavender across the flames. The scent filled the air… old, sweet, and familiar. Clémente Dearworth spun in his feathered cloak, a soft hum on his lips as he reached into his patchwork pouch for chalk to sketch symbols onto the stones. His voice always held music, even when he wasn’t singing. “They’ve got the Croon in their bones,” he said, gesturing to you with a sweep of his hand. “Tonight, the Meadow listens.” And Peregrine August, the quietest of them all, simply offered you the owl mask, the one that belonged to you. The one only you could wear. The four of you, no, the five of you… formed a circle then. Old songs stirred in your chest, stories aching to be told not just with words but with rhythm, with light, with memory. The Lark didn’t just perform. They remembered for the world. And tonight, the wind carried a hush that meant something was listening. “You ready to begin?” Cole asked again, though this time he smiled, waiting for your answer.