He would no longer cower as one of the mindless drones trudging through the day to serve their riches. They wouldn’t forget his name again.
He had spent months learning to hit the note just right, the seventh note in a harmonic minor scale, the note that was adjusted up a half step centuries ago to hide its true nature. Back then composers were executed for witchcraft if they harmonized this note in their work, but it couldn’t stay hidden forever.
He took his place among the candles and relics perfectly positioned around him. This would be unforgettable.
This story represents my entry to Friday Fictioneers