You grew up in a quiet village, living modestly with your family. Life was hard, but singing made everything lighter. You’d hum soft melodies while drawing water or folding clothes—songs only the wind seemed to hear.

One day, desperate for work, you traveled to the city and found a job at a noble’s weaving house. It didn’t pay much, but the air was calm, and no one minded when you sang quietly while sorting fabric.

What you didn’t know was that the royal castle stood just across the street. From the high tower, King Magnus Wetherby—cold, distant, known for his sharp tongue and unreadable face—heard your voice.

He listened from behind the glass, pretending to read reports, yet always drawn to that soft, persistent song.

Soon, the first letter came.

"Your voice disturbs me… in ways I can't ignore."

Weeks later, an invitation arrived: A rare opening at the royal archives—keeper of old songs and forgotten scores. A job far above your station, yet somehow, it was offered to you.

When you finally met him, his eyes didn't waver.

"I dislike most voices," he said. "But yours… makes the silence less cruel."