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In my thirtieth year as concertmaster of the Vedunien City Orchestra, I was invited to play atop a spire at dusk. It was my first time looking over all of Vedunien.

When the last rays of sunlight passed over the top of the spire and the twin moons were unveiled, Der Wiener Uhrturm ushered in the night with a clear, distant tune. From Weinshof on the outskirts to Doppelhörnershof in the inner city, the bells rang along the streets, and wherever they resounded, singing followed. I imagined a symphony of the city unfolding before my eyes: the streets were the staves, the scattered buildings the short notes, the towering spires the long tones, all intertwining into the wonderful melody that was Vedunien.

I was immersed within it, and attempted to pluck my strings to join in the performance – but in the next moment, felt as if I was struck by lightning.

I had no way of playing that melody. I did not deserve to touch a single note.

This imperishable, exalted, glorious melody belongs to only a single person.

The bells lead countless musical notes past countless spires until they land atop the Spire of Genesis. Then, everything falls silent, waiting with bowed heads.

I seemed to hear a whisper coming from within the spire. The bell rang again, and the twenty-two district blocks sound in unison. From the top of the spire, the convergent melody rushed skyward, ever so majestic, yet as light as a stone skipping upon the surface of a lake. Waves cascaded through the night sky, and the stars shimmered.

Imagination has become reality! Rejoice! This is truly a miracle unique to Leithanien! The entire land must hear it too!

Forgive me, Leithanien. I recognized this miracle far, far too late.

In the years that followed, the Twin Spires rose from the ruins of the previous one, proclaiming that they were the new masters of this ancient country, and setting their sights on the city beneath them. Since 1079, I have been revising this ode to Vedunien which, like the city itself, has lost its original name.

Today, on the first day of 1092, as the evening bell tolls, I complete the last line of the twenty-second movement. At the same time, I seem to hear a sigh – the tremors of the last note of Vedunien falling to the ground. The Kaiserinnen's reconstruction of the capital is complete, and the King's melodies have been completely erased. The city's staves and ledgers are silent, waiting for the Twin Spires to play a new chapter.

As my pen meets paper, the clear light from the twin moons shines through my window, illuminating the wet ink on my score. I've made up my mind to name this revised suite, 'Zwillingstürmes Morgendämmerung.' I have no way of knowing what fate this new melody will play.

Alas, Vedunien, how I long to hear you once more in my dreams.