Chapter 104 A Fallen Star Remembers
Her fingers struck the keys tentatively as she tried to familiarize herself with the notes and the melody. Each wrong sound grated on her, frustration building with every mistake. She kept pushing, pressing harder, trying again until finally she stopped. Her gaze lifted to the tall figure leaning a few feet away against the piano, arms crossed, a faint, amused expression playing across his lips.
Leitana let out a frustrated sigh. “Mi no get dis Mozart at all. It hard. Mi never know piano was so difficult. Mi thought mi could show Professor Harlan mi have real talent, but mi see now he right about one ting.”
Ravial stared down at her intently. “And what’s that, my lamb?”
She looked up at him, eyes brimming with tears. Her gaze dropped to her pink, trembling fingers, then rose again to meet his blindfolded stare. “Mi no really deserve to go Juilliard. Mi know nothing about piano… just silly hymns.”
As the words left her mouth, tears of frustration slipped down her cheeks. She swiped at them angrily, shoulders hunching forward, hands folding tightly in her lap.
Ravial made a low sound, almost a hum and pushed away from the piano. He came to stand beside her. She didn’t look up this time, just stared down at her folded hands as more tears fell silently.
“Move over,” he said.
Her brows drew together in confusion. She glanced up at him, then at the bench. He gestured with a slight nod. Her frown deepened, but she shifted sideways.
He sat beside her, facing the keys.
“I’ll tell you a story, Leitana,” he said, voice unusually calm, almost somber.
Her eyes widened. He rarely used her full name and never in that gentle, grave tone. She nodded slowly, scooting closer until their sides touched, her attention fixed on the sharp line of his profile.
He looked at her briefly, then at the keys. “It’s about a young boy, an apprentice favored above all the others who served his master.”
Leitana nodded again, leaning in, completely captivated.
“This master worked with every kind of music, every kind of instrument even ones you’ve never heard of. He taught the boys—his sheep, because he was their shepherd. He taught them glorious songs, and they used those songs to praise him. They created their own melodies. Some had beautiful voices for singing, others excelled at playing different instruments. Each had a gift. But one among them was more favored in the master’s eyes. He could sing and play every instrument.”
Leitana’s eyes widened in awe. “Really?”
Ravial lifted his hand and gently pressed it to her cheek. “Yes, really, my lamb.”
“This young sheep could do it all. He sang the master’s praises louder than anyone. He was the brightest of them all, composing glorious harmonies. But then…”
He paused.
Leitana shifted closer still. “But what?”
“A seed began to grow, began to fester. He wanted to become the best of all, the most beloved, the one whose name rang loudest in the halls of praise. He began to compare. He began to count, how many songs were sung for him versus the others, how many eyes turned to him when the master entered, how many voices rose highest when the master was near.”
“And slowly, the seed became a root. The root became a vine. The vine wrapped around his heart and squeezed until gratitude turned to envy, envy to resentment, resentment to rebellion.”
“There was only one better than him,” Ravial continued, his voice quieter now, almost reverent. “The master. He loved the master—once. Deeply. The way a child loves the one who first breathed music into his lungs. But love twisted when pride took the reins. He no longer wanted to sing for the master. He wanted to be sung about. He wanted the throne.”
Leitana’s breath had gone shallow. She leaned closer, eyes wide and glistening, as though she could feel the weight of the story pressing on her own chest.
“Why?” she whispered. “Why he wan take de master place? De master give him everyting. De voice, de song, de love. Why no enough?”
Ravial’s fingers stilled on the keys.
“Because enough is never enough when pride asks the question,” he said softly. “Pride does not want to receive. Pride wants to possess. It whispers: You deserve more. You are more. You should be the one they bow to. And once pride speaks, gratitude dies. Loyalty dies. Love… love becomes a mirror that only reflects the self.”
He turned his head slightly toward her.
“The master did not strike him down in rage. He let him fall. Because some lessons can only be learned in darkness. Some hearts can only be broken open by their own choices. And the master knew—if the sheep ever looked back, if he ever remembered the song instead of the singer, there would be a way home.”
Leitana’s lip trembled.
“Did he look back?” she asked, voice small.
Ravial was silent for so long the room felt like it held its breath.
“Sometimes,” he said finally. “In fleeting moments. When the darkness is quiet. When he remembers the warmth of the light he once stood in. But pride is a heavy chain. And chains are hard to break when you forged them yourself.”
Tears slipped down Leitana’s cheeks again, silent and steady.
“Dat story make mi sad,” she whispered. “It feel… familiar. Like mi know de sheep. Like mi feel him pain. But mi no know why.”
Ravial’s hand lifted, cupping her face, thumb brushing away the tears with a tenderness that felt almost painful in its restraint.
“Because you have the one thing he lost,” he said quietly. “A heart that remembers who gave it the song.”
Leitana searched the blindfold, eyes shining.
Ravial’s fingers hovered over the keys for a long moment, as if weighing something heavier than sound.
“I haven’t played since I was a very young man,” he said quietly, almost to himself. The words fell like stones into still water—simple, final, carrying the weight of centuries unspoken.
Leitana’s breath caught. She turned her head slightly, eyes wide and searching the blindfold.
“Since… young?” she echoed softly. “But yu have piano here. Music room full of instruments. Yu no touch dem?”
His head tilted just a fraction.
“No.”
Leitana’s brows drew together, confusion and sorrow mingling in her expression.
“Why?” she whispered.
Ravial let out a deep breath.
“Because playing reminded me of what I lost. And what I chose to leave behind.”
He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.
Leitana’s lip trembled, but she didn’t press. Instead she reached out, her small hand covering his larger one on the keys.
“Then… yu play now,” she said gently. “For mi.”
Ravial was silent for another heartbeat.
Then he began.
Not the bright, precise Mozart she’d struggled with earlier.
Something slower. Deeper. A single, mournful chord stretched like a sigh across the room, then another, building into a quiet, aching melody that felt ancient—like wind moving through forgotten halls, like memory trying to remember itself.
Leitana’s breath caught.
She had never heard anything like it.
The notes weren’t rushed or showy. They were deliberate. Patient. Each one placed with the care of a man who knew exactly how much pain could fit inside silence.
He played without flourish, without ego—just pure, devastating honesty.
When the last note faded, the room felt smaller, the air thicker.
Leitana’s eyes were full of tears.
Ravial lifted his hands from the keys and turned his head toward her.
“Why are you crying, little lamb?”
She shook her head, wiping her cheeks with trembling fingers.
“It… it wash over mi,” she whispered. “Like warm water. Like peace. Like… like someone hug mi from de inside. Mi never feel music do dat before. Mi feel… calm. Safe. Loved.”
Ravial watched her in silence.
Then, very quietly:
“That is what music is supposed to do.”
She looked up at him, eyes shining.
“Yu… yu play like dat all de time before?”
He didn’t answer right away.
His fingers drifted back to the keys, tracing invisible patterns.
“In another life,” he said finally. “When I still believed beauty could be pure.”
Leitana tilted her head, confused but not pressing.
He turned fully toward her now, voice softening.
“I told you that story for a reason.”
She nodded, waiting.
“The brightest sheep,” he continued, “thought he could outshine his master. He forgot the master gave him the voice, the hands, the fire. He forgot gratitude. Pride grew instead. And pride… pride always wants the throne.”
Leitana’s brows drew together.
“But… why tell mi dat story?”
Ravial’s hand lifted, cupping her cheek.
“Because you are not that sheep.”
His thumb brushed away the last tear.
“You don’t want the throne. You want to sing for the one who gave you the song. That is why your music feels different. That is why it moves people even when it is ‘sentimental.’ Because it is honest. Because it remembers who gave it breath.”
Leitana’s lip trembled.
“Mi… mi no good enough yet.”
Ravial leaned closer.
“Then let me teach you.”
He shifted on the bench, pulling her gently between his thighs so her back rested against his chest, her smaller hands resting atop his larger ones on the keys.
“Feel the weight,” he murmured against her ear. “Not force. Not speed. Weight. Like love. Like grief. Like time.”
He guided her fingers—slowly, patiently—over the opening bars of Mozart’s Sonata in C Major, K. 545. But he didn’t play it the way the professor demanded. He played it the way she felt it—gentle, lilting, full of light and longing.
“See?” he whispered. “Your way is not wrong. It is yours.”
Leitana’s breath hitched.
She tried the phrase alone—tentative at first, then stronger.
The notes trembled… then bloomed.
She laughed through sudden tears.
“Mi… mi feel it.”
Ravial’s arms came around her from behind, chin resting on her shoulder.
“Then keep feeling it,” he said quietly. “Every day. Until the music remembers you better than you remember yourself.”
She turned her head just enough to press her cheek to his.
“Yu teach mi every day?”
His lips brushed her temple.
“Every day you’ll let me.”
She smiled, it was small, radiant and trusting.
“Every day,” she promised.
And in the quiet music room, with the devil’s arms around her and her fingers still resting on the keys he once ruled, a fallen star began to play again.
Not to outshine anyone.
Just to sing.
Just to be heard.
Just to love the one who taught her how.