Roselia entered a glowing cyan dome, standing in a hall of suspended harp-strings that resonated as she walked.
At the end stood a woman with a silver mask and a long, curved blade—the Swordsinger of Caer Harn, a master of sound and blade harmony.
Each swing of her weapon created symphonic shockwaves—a style Roselia recognized as the ancestor to her own school.
This was her origin.
And her test.
The first clash was blinding. Each note-strike sent waves of force. Roselia parried with graceful timing, adjusting not by sight—but by sound. Her ears led her defense, her blade trailed in harmony.
Halfway through, the Swordsinger began singing. Roselia's body slowed under the spell—her blade heavy. Her thoughts clouded.
But then she hummed back.
A simple song.
Her song.
And the moment her voice harmonized with her blade, the counterwave struck.
Her blade shimmered white-blue—and cut through the final note, ending the illusion.
