Chapter Four: Waterfall of the Unspoken
Part Six – Why Bubbalor Waited
Location: Pulsefall Glade – High Perch Above the Vault
Time: Still Unmeasured. Still Breathing.
Not everything in the world speaks with a mouth.
Some things sing through silence.
And Bubbalor had always been one of them.
—
He sat high above the Pulsefall again, wings half-flared like weather vanes reading shifts not in wind, but emotion. His eyes—glasslike at first glance—reflected glyphlight differently now. Not with mimicry.
With recognition.
Below him, Zephryn and Selka walked out of the Vault without speaking.
They didn't need to.
Because Bubbalor already knew what they had seen.
He remembered the last time the Vault opened.
He remembered the one who sealed it.
—
It had been Solara, of course.
She hadn't cast a lock glyph. She hadn't summoned any Choir trap. She had whispered into the water.
And Bubbalor—perched as he was then—had listened.
Because she'd told him to guard the Vault not from people, but from timing.
"Let it open only when he doesn't fear it."
That's why Bubbalor never dove into the Pulsefall.
Why he never pecked at the glyphs.
Why he waited.
—
He chirped now.
But not his usual broken-tone squawk.
This one was melodic.
Not sharp.
Not mocking.
Almost… maternal.
A hum layered with three notes—one Solara had sung once before casting Zephryn into the Veilstream.
And when he sang it now—
Zephryn looked up.
Eyes wide.
"That tone…"
Selka turned too.
"Bubbalor?"
The creature chirped again.
Then descended.
But not with speed.
With ritual.
—
He landed on Zephryn's shoulder.
Pressed his forehead gently against Zephryn's cheek.
Then blinked slowly, and released a pulse from his wings.
It wasn't wind.
It wasn't cast.
It was glyph-thread.
Blue. Violet. Silver.
A braid of colors wrapping slowly around Zephryn's forearm, not binding—but marking.
Selka gasped.
"That's not your glyph."
Zephryn nodded.
"No. It's hers."
And on his skin, the first true Solara signature etched itself in full for the first time since the Choir erased her name.
Not infinity.
Not flame.
But a crescent.
An arc of unspoken memory, stitched between Veil and blood.
—
Bubbalor sang once more.
Then flew back into the glade.
And the glyph faded.
Not away.
Into Zephryn.
Selka stared at his arm.
"That… that's her sync glyph."
He looked down at the mark.
No hum followed.
No flash.
Just a calm warmth—like a mother's last breath placed in your palm and told to grow wings.
"She gave it to me," he said softly.
Selka blinked. "Before?"
"No," Zephryn said.
"Now."
—
Bubbalor vanished into the trees.
He did not watch the Pulsefall this time.
He didn't need to.
Because his wait was over.
And what came next?
Was never meant for guardians.
Only for those willing to hum without being remembered.