For the first ti in his life, Dorian was woken up by the sun. Not the artificial, tid glow of Nexus Pri, but real, warm sunrays streaming through the vast window of his room on Sela, painting golden stripes across the floor. He yawned, a deep, satisfying stretch, feeling more rested than he had in years.
As was his new daily ritual, he thought, System. Before he could even initiate his Gacha roll, he noticed a new entry in his Songs tab. [Small Fragile Hearts]. A new, small trickle of Resonance. It was not yielding much, since it was not on his Stellarcast or Echoflow, but the ssage was clear: more players were getting married in Stardew Valley. He just smiled.
He opened the Stardew banner and initiated two one-hundred pulls, a routine expenditure of 2000 Resonance. As the chaotic explosion of icons began to sort itself on the panel, he walked to the bathroom. At this point, the initial thrill of the Gacha was gone, replaced by a quiet, productive routine. He brushed his teeth and stepped into the shower.
When he ca out, drying himself off, he glanced at the results. Among the usual materials and food items were three new, glowing skill icons. [Farming Skill Book], [Mining Skill Book], [Fishing Skill Book]. He extracted them all without a second thought. He put on a fresh set of clothes, then checked his Farr of the Past profile. The skills now read: Farming LVL 6, Mining LVL 3, Foraging LVL 1, Fishing LVL 2, Combat LVL 1.
"Obelia II is looking more and more attractive every day," he murmured to himself, looking at the profile.
He went out for breakfast. The morning was filled with Lyra teasing him relentlessly for coming back so late the night before. He just took it with a smile. In the end, Ratik appeared, her presence as calm and professional as ever, to lead him to the practice hall.
A sleek, black hovering car was waiting at the front gate. As Dorian got in, Ratik handed him a datapad. "The charts for the orchestra mbers and their assigned instrunts, Composer."
"Oh, by the way," Dorian said, looking up from the list. "I want Juno to be the singer."
Ratik, who was about to close the door, was taken aback. "Composer, with all due respect, we have already contracted a professional vocalist."
"It is her song, in the first place," Dorian stated, his tone polite but firm. "I recorded the original demo with her voice. So I want her voice in the final piece. The arrangent requires another specific instrunt, and that instrunt is her."
Ratik held his gaze for a long mont, then gave a slight, deferential bow. "We can discuss it further with Maestro Gil."
They arrived at the grand opera house. As they walked through the magnificent, empty halls, they began to hear voices, a heated but controlled debate echoing from the main practice room. They entered to find Gil and Rita standing over the Savarius, a holographic score floating between them.
"...it should be this way, to emphasize the strings' counter-lody," Rita was insisting.
"And I am saying," Gil countered, "that if you play it with that much force, the woodwinds will be completely overshadowed in the second movent."
Gil then saw Dorian arrive. "Ah! Here he is," the old maestro bood, a relieved smile on his face. "Let the one who wrote it decide."
Rita turned, her cold, silver eyes landing on Dorian. She looked him up and down, her expression one of pure, unadulterated incredulity. "He is really... young."
"And you do not believe I am the one who wrote that," Dorian finished for her, a small, challenging smile on his face.
"I am not saying anything," Rita replied, her voice like ice. "People say art cos from every nook of the galaxy. Perhaps you just heard the whispers from the heavens."
Dorian held out his hand. "Percival."
She took it, her grip surprisingly firm. "Rita Bralare."
"We need your thoughts on the piano arrangent," Gil said, getting straight to the point and tapping the holographic score between them.
Ti passed. One by one, the mbers of Gil's legendary orchestra, veterans of the galactic stage, filed into the practice hall. Gil introduced Dorian simply as "Percival, the composer of Skyfall." Dorian saw the looks on their faces, the polite but unmistakable disbelief that this kid could have written the score they had been sent. But Gil's words held a weight that silenced any open skepticism.
As the last of the musicians took their seats, a gnawing anxiety returned to Dorian. He had to settle this now. He walked over to the old maestro. "Maestro Gil," he said, his voice low but firm. "Can we talk in private?"
Gil looked at him, his silver eyes sharp, and then nodded. "Follow ."
He led Dorian out into the grand, empty hallway. "Is there sothing you want to tell ?"
"As a matter of fact, I do," Dorian said, taking a deep breath to steady his nerves. "I need Juno to be the singer."
Gil's expression did not change. "Are you insisting on this?"
"I am sorry to spring this on you," Dorian said, the words tumbling out. "But I was also uninford that this would be a solo concert piece. This changes things."
Gil let out a long, weary sigh. "Briane is a perfect fit for the song. She has the voice, and she has the fa."
"Is it the voice first, or the fa?" Dorian countered, his own voice hardening. "Because I wrote this song in the voice of Juno. She is the instrunt it was composed for."
"Can you hear Briane out, at the very least?" Gil asked, his patience wearing thin.
Dorian sighed, feeling cornered. "When will I hear her?"
Gil looked over Dorian's shoulder, towards the entrance of the hall. "Right now."
Dorian turned. He saw a woman of breathtaking, almost otherworldly beauty walking towards them. Her skin was a rich, dark chocolate, a stunning contrast to her hair, which looked like it was spun from crystalline threads of white and pale blue. Her eyelashes were white, framing eyes the color of a clear sumr sky. She wore a simple, casual dress, but on her, it looked like a gown worthy of a princess.
"Percival," Gil said, his voice now a smooth, professional baritone. "Let introduce you to Briane Taleini."
She gracefully held out her hand. Dorian took it, the touch of her skin cool and smooth. "Percival," he said. "The composer."
"Am I late?" Briane asked, her voice a lody in itself.
"Not really," Gil said. "Co in."
Briane glided past them and into the practice hall. Before Gil could follow, Dorian gently held his arm. "I will be honest after I hear her voice with the orchestra," he said, his voice low and intense. "If I say I do not like it... what will you do?"
Gil stopped, his cold, professional deanor faltering as he considered the boy's ultimatum. "Then," he said slowly, "we will see how Juno fares."
"Can I take your word on that?" Dorian pressed.
"What else can you do?" Gil asked, a hint of his old, aristocratic arrogance returning.
"I can pull the plug on my song," Dorian stated, his voice quiet but absolute.
Gil looked at the determination in Dorian's eyes, the unshakeable conviction of an artist who knew his own work. And in that mont, he saw him. Not the boy from the lower levels of Nexus Pri that he was trying to help. He saw a composer who knew what he wanted, who knew his instrunts. He realized, with a jolt, that his intention of helping this boy onto the big stage was never needed in the first place. This boy, Percival, would be on the big stage with or without him.
Gil's expression softened into one of genuine, professional respect. "Then I will follow the composer's wishes," he said.
They both walked back inside.
Gil took his place on the conductor's podium. He clapped his hands once, a sharp, authoritative sound that cut through the low murmur of the tuning orchestra. Instantly, every musician went silent, their holographic score sheets glowing in the ambient light, their eyes fixed on him.
"Today's practice," Gil began, his voice a low, commanding rumble, "will be joined by the composer himself."
Dorian stood from his seat in the front row, gave a respectful bow to the sea of professional faces, and said, "I do hope my basent song can be elevated to the sky. I am here to witness the take-off." He then sat back down, his heart thrumming with a nervous, electric energy.
Gil nodded, a flicker of approval in his eyes. He raised his baton. "We are not an accompanint," he stated, his traditional opening line. "We are the landscape. We are the storm, and the silence that follows."
His baton ca down. The two-chord piano motif began, Rita's fingers dancing over the keys of the Savarius with a cold, flawless precision. The low strings crept in, a dark, powerful current of sound. A shiver of validation ran down Dorian's spine. This was it. This was the sound he had only ever heard in his head, now made real by a hundred master musicians.
Then, the voice ca in.
Briane began to sing. "This is the end..."
Dorian leaned forward, intrigued. Her interpretation was a world away from Juno's. Where Juno's voice held a quiet, defiant resolve, Briane's was a confession of fear. It was intimate, conspiratorial, as if she were whispering a terrible secret. It was not what he had written, but it was haunting. It was effective. He found himself drawn into this new, psychological version of his own song.
As the orchestra swelled to that iconic, thunderous mont before the chorus, Dorian held his breath, waiting for the explosion of power he had designed. Briane did what her incredible artistry and training dictated: she ascended not into a powerful, full-throated belt, but into her light, airy, straight-toned falsetto.
She sang, "Let the sky fall..."
It was a gasp. A sound of surrender.
Dorian's heart sank. He watched, horrified, as the beautiful, intimate voice he had just been admiring was utterly, completely swallowed by the orchestral wave. The fortress wall did not just crumble; it was revealed to have been made of glass all along. His song's central mont of defiance had been transford into its mont of utter defeat. The word "Skyfall" sounded not like a battle cry, but like the title of a eulogy.
He understood now. He had been listening to her as a singer, but he had not been listening to her as an instrunt. Her strength was not in power, but in vulnerability. He had written a song for a war horn, and he had given it to a glass flute.
The rest of the performance beca an exercise in listening to a ghost inhabit a giant's armor. The climactic monts, where the choir and orchestra were at full cry, beca sonically overwhelming. Briane's vocal, instead of soaring over the top as the defiant protagonist, was a fragile, spectral presence, a beautiful whisper lost within the storm.
The final piano note faded into silence. The orchestra mbers all looked to Dorian, their expressions expectant. He was still leaning forward in his seat, his head bowed, his face hidden from view.
"What is your judgnt, Composer?" Gil's voice was a low, careful rumble.
Dorian did not look up. "No," he said, his voice quiet but absolute. "I do not want this vocal."
The room, which had just been filled with a colossal sound, beca as silent as a haunted house.
Briane, to her credit, did not look offended, only professionally curious. "Is there a specific way Mr. Composer would like to sing it?"
"There is," Percival said, finally looking up, his eyes holding a strange, new clarity. "But to do that would be to strip away what is rightfully your voice."
He stood. "Move the concert date back one more month."
"What?" Gil was taken aback. "Elaborate, Composer."
"Is there a recording studio on this planet?" Dorian asked, his mind already racing, a new lody, a new story, beginning to form. "I need to write a new, whole song. For her."
He looked at Briane, not with disappointnt, but with the sudden, profound realization of a master craftsman who has been handed a new, incredible instrunt. He saw that Briane had her own voice, a unique, beautiful instrunt that needed to be played in a different way. She did not need Skyfall. She needed her own.
Dorian stord out of the practice hall, a whirlwind of frustration and creative revelation. Gil placed his baton down on the podium and hurriedly chased after him. He found Dorian already talking to Ratik in the grand, empty hallway.
"Ratik, do you know of a recording studio I can use?" Dorian was saying, his voice a low, urgent murmur. "Or any producer's desk available on this planet?"
Ratik saw Gil approaching and gave a small, respectful bow as the old maestro ca to a halt.
"Dorian," Gil said, his voice a low growl. "What was that?"
"Percival," Dorian corrected him without missing a beat.
Gil let out a long, weary sigh. "Percival. I understand you are mad at for inviting her to be the singer, but you cannot just demand that the concert be pushed back another month."
"I will make your one-piece concert into a two-piece," Percival stated, his tone leaving no room for argunt.
"It is not you need to convince," Gil countered. "It is the rest of the players. They are not amateurs you can just order around."
"Well," Percival said, a sharp, calculating look in his eyes, "then we have arrived at an adjacent where we need each other, have we not?"
Gil stared at the boy, at the unshakeable, almost arrogant confidence, and found himself, against his better judgnt, impressed. "Alright," he said, a slow, grudging smile spreading across his face. "I will revise the contracts."
"Great," Dorian said, his focus imdiately shifting. "Now, direct to a studio I can use."
Gil turned to his assistant. "Use mine. On Polaris Road. Can you take him there?"
Ratik nodded, then led a now very focused Dorian towards the hover car waiting outside.
…
Ti beca a compressed blur. The following week, Dorian lived in Gil's private studio, a state-of-the-art facility that made his own desk look like a child's toy. Leo was there, docked with the studio's main console, helping and accompanying him. Dorian fell into a new, relentless rhythm. Every morning, he would spend a few precious hours with his family in the mansion. Then, from noon until the early hours of the next day, he would work.
John, his face a mask of quiet sadness and paternal pride, eventually had to return to his job at the mines. With him gone, Lyra and Marcus spent most of their days inside the vast, empty mansion, their only companions the silent butlers and the pixelated world of Stardew Valley on their heliopads.
One evening, a week into his creative hermitage, Dorian stretched, the joints in his back popping loudly. "Finally," he whispered to the empty studio. "Leo, call Maestro Gil."
The Compadre's optical sensor flashed, and a mont later, a hologram of Gil's stern, Gunnossian face appeared in the air.
"Can you call Briane to the studio tomorrow?" Dorian asked, getting straight to the point. "I have the song I promised her."
Gil let out a long-suffering sigh. "Are you not even going to ask how I am doing? Do you have any idea how many strings I had to pull to coax my orchestra and the venue to agree to a second piece on such short notice?"
"Oh, I heard," Dorian said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "But believe , it will be worth it. And you have to believe in , just like I am believing in you to be in charge of the orchestra."
Gil stared at the boy's tired but utterly confident face. He just sighed. "Fine."
…
One month later, the entire planet of Sela was buzzing with an electric, palpable energy. Hover-cars and private cruisers created a glittering river of light in the night sky, all flowing towards one destination: the grand opera house.
The news was on every channel, on every feed. Maestro Gil Nothos, the legendary White Beast, and Rita Bralare, the mythical Ice Queen, were coming out of retirent for a one-night-only, joint project. It was the single biggest cultural event of the decade.
A reporter with a dazzling smile and a microphone stood in front of the opera house, a chaotic but glamorous scene unfolding behind her. "The atmosphere here is absolutely electric, Lia. We are live from the red carpet of what is being called the 'Concert of the Century.' I have never seen so many high-profile figures in one place. Ships belonging to Guild Masters, high-level Accord Viziers, and corporate magnates from across the mid-rim are all arriving as we speak."
The cara panned across the crowd, lingering on the arrival of a massive, opulent black cruiser.
"And there he is now, the Guild Master of the Apex Solars himself, Alexei Park, is just arriving with his daughter, Juno Park." The cara zood in as Alexei, looking every bit the powerful, respected leader in his formal attire, helped Juno out of the vehicle. She was wearing a stunning, simple but elegant dark blue gown that perfectly complented her platinum hair.
A second reporter intercepted them on the red carpet. "Guild Master Park! A mont of your ti! Rumors are swirling that your daughter, a newly Awakened Nullbreaker, is one of the featured vocalists tonight. Can you confirm?"
Alexei's usually stern, serious face broke into a wide, proud, and completely disarming fatherly smile. "You will have to wait and see," he said, his voice a low, happy rumble. "But I will say this: my daughter has worked incredibly hard. No matter what happens tonight, I could not be prouder of her." He placed a large, gentle hand on Juno's shoulder, and the image was broadcast across the galaxy.
…
Two fashion critics were providing comntary over the live feed. "And there is Briane Taleini, the 'Crystal Canary' herself, looking absolutely breathtaking in a gown that looks like it was woven from starlight. She is, of course, the other rumored vocalist for tonight's performance."
"An absolute vision, Kex. And look who is just arriving, the Neman industrialist, Grokk Stonebeard. I have never seen him at a cultural event before. And is that... yes, it is! Ryusan Rhee, the head of Rhee Robotics, with his son, Cassian Rhee. It seems everyone who is anyone is here tonight. But the real question on everyone's mind is, who is 'Percival'? No one has ever heard of this composer. To co out of nowhere and not only get Gil Nothos and Rita Bralare to co out of retirent, but to get them to perform together... it is simply unprecedented."
…
Dorian, dressed in a simple but well-tailored black suit Ratik had provided, watched the news feed on a small monitor, his heart hamring against his ribs. He felt completely and utterly out of place. He looked at his hands. They were shaking. In his hand, he held a simple, elegant tal mask, polished to a mirror shine, with no features save for two dark, anonymous eye slits.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Juno, her usual playful energy replaced by a quiet, supportive calm. "Are you sure you want to hide your persona from the public?" she asked, her voice a soft murmur just for him.
He looked from the mask to his own reflection in its polished surface. "The whole orchestra knows who I am," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "That is enough."
Ratik, who had been standing silently by the door, stepped forward. "None of the orchestra mbers know your real na, and we will not divulge it to anyone."
He took a deep breath. He was not just Dorian Kepler, the boy from the lower levels. He was Percival. And tonight, the galaxy would hear his piece, even if they never saw his face.
**A/N**
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~🧣KujoW
**A/N**
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