Chapter One: Change

"Do you feel a change coming on?

Rolling out of the blue like a storm

And it's throwing your dollhouse world in disarray

So you can rebuild or conform…"

He was fairly certain he was dreaming, and in his dream, there was only chaos.

He was standing in the center of a weathered cobblestone lane, still clad in the simple trousers and roomy white undershirt he had fallen asleep in; his feet were bare, and the uneven cobblestones were warm beneath his soles. His own appearance made him wrinkle his nose in distaste: his imagination needed work, if he couldn't at least envision himself a touch more refined in his own dreams. He was just thinking to himself that he needed to find a shop someplace close by, if only to make a few improvements to his wardrobe, when suddenly the world was ablaze.

The flames appeared so quickly and spread so rapidly that he couldn't even pinpoint just where the fire had started; he stood rooted to the spot, his mouth agape with shock and terror, as his mind worked sluggishly to work out a solution as to what to do next. All at once, it seemed, the streets were choked with people rushing away from their burning homes – they jostled him on all sides in their haste to escape the growing blaze, and in his confusion he collapsed to the ground. Dimly he perceived that he was grateful for this, because the cobblestones had soaked up all the warmth of the sun and his skin was suddenly pale and cold –

Something brushed against his outstretched hand, and he turned his head to investigate it; what he saw made his eyes widen with awe. Nestled against his fingertips was an expertly-crafted conductor's baton, its shaft hewn from some exotic wood that he had no name for; it was much longer than the traditional baton, perhaps as long as thirty inches, but he had always been partial to batons with a little more length to them than was natural and did not see this as a shortcoming. Reflexively, it seemed, his fingers sought the finely-chiseled handle and wrapped themselves almost lovingly around it. The handle fit so snugly in his palm that he would have sworn it had been custom made just for him. Certain that this was no ornamental showpiece but a powerful weapon he lifted his head to take stock of his surroundings, to find that the scene had changed yet again.

The modest wooden houses were still ablaze, but most of the structures were little more than charred husks of buildings now; all of the civilians had fled the immediate area and he was alone in the street. The stench of smoke filled his nostrils and unwillingly he inhaled the stuff into his lungs, which resulted in a great coughing fit – for the first time he wondered if he was truly dreaming, because the odor was so real that he was certain he couldn't be imagining it. Through his streaming eyes he squinted through the black veil of smoke that hung over the street, and through the acrid curtain he could just make out the blurry forms of people moving.

He recognized right away that these were not the terrified civilians that had fled for their lives just minutes past; each and every one of them wore suits of armor or mail, a few of them sported bucklers on their arms, and there wasn't an individual among them who wasn't armed for battle. Hazily he perceived that fighting had broken out all up and down the street in one-on-one skirmishes, and the sound of steel clashing against steel resonated in his ears, only slightly muffled by the cloak of smog from the blaze.

There issued a mild explosion from a house only fifty feet away; he threw his arms up over his head to shield his eyes from the sputtering flames and the charred debris, coughing anew, and when he next managed to squint through the fallout it was to find someone was stepping out of the inferno.

He did not recognize the figure standing above him. It was a man, lithely muscled with a shock of tidy black hair and a meticulously-trimmed goatee to match; in his hand he held a thinblade, and when he brandished it before him the flames danced across the engravings of a royal household that the man who had been thrown upon the cobblestones was loathe to name. His face was fierce with triumph at the dark deed that had been committed, and when another figure moved in the smokescreen across from him his amusement turned into blatant, mirthless laughter.

He turned his head to the other side and felt, rather than saw, the figure moving to accost the black-haired man. This would reflect later how curious of a thing this was, for he could see as plainly as daylight that there was someone moving, but he felt, in the depths of his heart, the person's presence. Never before had he felt so connected to someone that he didn't know, and more than terrifying him, this thrilled him to the tips of his toes. Here, surely, was the reason he had found himself in this strange place. Here at last was his reason for dreaming at all.

A forlorn breeze kicked up then, just enough to scatter the gloom into harmless wisps of smoke, and the sight of the striking woman standing near him was enough to pierce through his heart like an arrow. She was tall and straight, willowy but not fragile, with eyes the shade of palest emeralds and a just, kind, heart-shaped face. The thing that struck him most, though, was her hair – a fine sheet of shimmering gold, so fine that he was certain that if he could only run his fingers through it, it would feel something akin to the finest thread from the loom. She reached for the weapon sheathed upon her slender hip and brandished a longsword of exquisite import, and perhaps it was his ears playing tricks on him but in that moment he would have sworn that he heard a voice singing joyously from on high.

The black-haired man sized up the green-eyed woman, and the expression shared between them was nothing short of absolute hatred. At last, he condescended to address her. "Have you need of any further display of our supremacy? Look around you! The city you have worked so tirelessly to protect is in shambles. What reason do you have to continue opposing us?"

The golden-haired woman's eyes veritably blazed with emerald fire, and she lifted the longsword into a ready position as though she were prepared to attack at any moment. "Andantino will continue to wave its banner proudly for as long as Forte City insists upon tyrannizing the public."

A harsh, cold laugh was the dark-haired man's only response, and he crooked his finger as if to suggest that she should attack him with all the strength she could muster; she lurched one step forward, preparing to accept the challenge, and then her eyes strayed downward and to the right, to the place where he still lay collapsed upon the sun-baked cobblestones. Her eyes widened a little with surprise, but this made little sense to him – they did not know one another. Why should she be at all shocked to see him there? Then her eyes flitted back to the man whose thinblade she faced, and what little color had risen to her cheeks from being in such close proximity to the flames drained away to find that his eyes had locked with those of the man watching their exchange from the ground.

There was a single frozen moment in which he perceived that he was in very grave danger.

Those black-void eyes narrowed with realization and clarity and he lunged forward, the cruel metallic point of his elegant thinblade leading, and scrambling backward upon the cobblestones he opened his mouth to scream but no sound escaped his lips. With no other option left to him he squeezed his eyes shut tight and braced himself for the inevitable agony.

Please… let me wake up!

It was many long minutes before he realized he was not in pain, as he had expected to be, and even longer before he became dimly aware of the fact that there was no longer warm cobblestone beneath his hands, or the heat of the fire on his face, or the dying sunlight shining on the backs of his eyelids. When he became aware of the fact that the crackle of flames and the soft, ethereal song of the golden-haired woman's longsword no longer filled his ears, Frederic Francois Chopin dared to open his eyes. The sight that awaited him was both comforting and disconcerting – he was sitting bolt-upright in his bed in the dingy, mostly-darkened room he was currently renting. This was comforting because he knew beyond the shadow of any doubt that he was safe from any harm; it was disconcerting because his dream had seemed so very real that he found himself genuinely concerned for the woman with the valiant green eyes, and couldn't help but wonder what had become of her.

It was almost enough for him to wish he hadn't awoken. Almost.

Sitting there, Chopin used every ounce of his focus to memorize each seemingly insignificant detail about the dream, but it was no use. The more he concentrated on all that he had seen, the more each grain of information slipped through his fingers like fine sand, until even the things that had struck him the most were little more than hazy, half-formed images. Frustrated at his inability to remember something that had seemed of vital importance Chopin flung the bed sheets away from his legs and shifted until he was sitting on the edge of the moth-eaten mattress, his bare feet cold upon the bare floorboards underfoot.

Chopin's head fell forward into his hands, and he laced his fingers through his disheveled hair. What was that place? Why was it burning? Who was the man with the black hair, and who was the golden-haired woman? Ignoring the fatigue that lingered still despite the hours of uninterrupted sleep he had found Chopin stood up and crossed the empty room to the single moldy window that faced west; impatiently he shoved the shade aside, an off-white curtain that was actually an extra bed sheet he had hung upon moving in just to gain some meager measure of privacy.

The dreary city of Vienna spread out before him, made all the more gloomy by the light drizzle of rain that now pelted the quaint Austrian city. He could feel a chill emanating from the windowpane and knew that the temperature had dropped yet again; he found himself dreading the next outing away from his cozy, if yet dingy, apartment, and cursed himself when he remembered that he had yet to invest in an umbrella.

Though Vienna was widely regarded as a safe haven for aspiring artists and musicians across the globe and the affectionately-named "poet of the piano" had been welcomed into Austria with open arms and joyous hearts, Chopin was far from happy. He had arrived safely in Vienna on the twenty-third of November and settled into the fabled city with excitement, for surely here his muse would visit him and he would grace the world with a long line of masterpieces for the piano. Unfortunately disaster had struck his beloved home of Poland just six days later when Warsaw, capitol city and crown jewel of Poland, declared insurrection against its usurpers – the Imperial Russian Army.

Tensions had been high in Warsaw for months preceding the insurrection, so much so that many of Chopin's closest relations had urged the young composer and pianist to leave the country before that tension could escalate to all-out war. Chopin rested his forehead against the window, feeling suddenly feverish and grateful for the cool panes, remembering well the day he had decided to leave his homeland and further realize his talents playing the piano – it had been the second of November, and riots were breaking out in Warsaw every other day.

Granted – he was safe where he now lived, in the boundaries of a friendly country where his work was well known and his mild demeanor was well loved. It was true that he could probably live out the rest of his days right here in this dreary little apartment, weaving intricate melodies that spoke of his loneliness and the despair of a man who was cut off from the land that he loved. But all Chopin really wanted was to return to Warsaw, to use his skills at the piano in the war against the Imperial Russian Army and help Poland win its independence once and for all.

Perhaps his unease was the reason he had been having so many strange dreams lately.

Chopin turned away from the window and set his eyes upon the elegant grand piano that sat in a place of honor in the center of his apartment, feeling slightly calmer as his eyes caressed the ivory keys and pieced together a basic melody in his mind. As if drawn by some stronger force Chopin crossed the room and took his seat upon the well-worm bench, setting his fingertips to the appropriate keys and feeling a familiar sense of peace as he prepared to make music. Just as he was about to strike the first chord of a tune that was as-yet unfamiliar to him, he was blindsided by the sudden recollection of the woman with the golden hair, and he hesitated.

Strangely enough, in that moment, Chopin recalled a few choice words of wisdom that his dear friend, Franz Liszt, had said to him not so long ago: "It doesn't matter what great tragedy befalls you in your lifetime, or what supreme victories you may celebrate. Regardless of where you go or what you do, when you return to the piano… you will be home."

With these words in mind Chopin re-focused on the great instrument at his fingertips and began to play, leaving all thought of that unsettling dream behind.

Vivace, second-in-command to Andantino's elite third unit, knew their regiment was outmatched long before they set foot on the cobblestones of the main street of A Cappella City. It was far too quiet in the tiny island town; the birds didn't sing, the late afternoon crowds were nowhere to be found, and even the tide seemed to lap at the shore in a more subdued manner than usual. None of it bode well for Vivace, who had been against this operation from the very start.

She turned her pale green eyes upon Timpani, who was crouched in the shadows of the A Cappella bakery just behind her. "Something is wrong."

"Of course something is wrong," Timpani whispered back, running a hand through his bouncy brown curls and heaving a quiet sigh. "It never ends well when we express our displeasure with Sostenuto's choices. We're always right about these things, as I'm sure you've noticed."

Vivace's eyes darted all about; she watched protectively as, across the way, twin magic users Bolero and Gigue moved into position and prepared their opening spells. "We shouldn't be here."

The moment the words had left her lips Vivace sniffed at the air confusedly, wondering why the smell of smoke was suddenly permeating her nostrils.

That was when all hell broke loose.

The straw roofs of all the houses lining the main street were aflame; all around them windows were exploding under the heat of the flames, pouring forth great gouts of smoke that blotted out the late-afternoon sunlight. Vivace's lungs burned in protest and she coughed once before she could manage to batter the reflex into submissive, but by then it was too late – even the most insignificant sound was more than their enemies needed to pinpoint their positions. Timpani's hand darted out, striking Vivace hard enough in the shoulder to throw her off balance and send her swooning for the ground. This effectively saved her life; a single shadowy figure descended from the roof of the bakery and stabbed a broadsword into the cobblestones upon which Vivace had been standing barely a second before.

Timpani jerked his katana from its well-oiled sheath and took up a defensive stance over Vivace as she scrambled back to her feet; with an unattractive sneer, the assassin Bellicoso straightened and tugged his broadsword free of the crack he had made in the cobblestones.

"You lot have grown careless," observed Bellicoso with a snicker, swinging the broadsword up to balance upon his left shoulder. "If this keeps up, Staccato will have little trouble dispatching Andantino!"

With a growl Timpani leapt forward to engage Bellicoso in one-on-one combat, but before their battle was joined he managed to growl at Vivace, "Go and warn Sostenuto! Staccato is here, and they were waiting for us!"

Vivace turned and dashed away, weaving in between the terrified droves of townsfolk now flooding the streets in a frantic attempt to escape the growing blaze, and as she ran Vivace assessed the damage to the city. It looked bad at first glance – nearly every building on the central highroad was now licked with flames, many of them personal abodes – but the majority of the damage seemed to be contained to that area so the number of casualties would not be high, if any at all. Unfortunately, Vivace had no time to feel any sense of relief at this knowledge – rounding a corner heading east she came face-to-face with two more of the assassins of Staccato, Antiphon and Feroce.

Fortunately, the loyal members of Andantino's third unit were always ready to offer her their aid – which Gigue was only too happy to deliver in the form of a bolt of freezing lightning. As Feroce and Antiphon recovered from a momentary blindness and struggled to free their feet from the layer of ice that kept them rooted to the spot, Bolero and Gigue ran up to flank Vivace on either side.

"Leave these two to us!" Bolero bade her, a miniscule bead of crimson flame dancing upon the tip of his index finger as he prepared to unleash his first spell. "Sostenuto battles Gavotte just down the street. You must go to him!"

Vivace knew better than to question the magic-wielding twins; the youngest members of Andantino they may be, but inexperienced they were not. She turned her back on them and fled, as all around her the city of A Cappella burned and the sounds of fighting broke out in half a dozen locations.

She found Sostenuto, the leader of the third unit of Andantino, locked in a heated battle with Gavotte, one of the only female members of assassin organization Staccato and easily one of the most ruthless. Her twin kukris slashed through the air as she pressed Sostenuto's defenses for even the smallest opening, and the large, out-of-shape Andantino lieutenant already appeared to be winded from the exertions. It weighed heavily upon Vivace's conscience to know that, not only was she duty bound to serve Sostenuto, but she had no power to change his ill-informed decisions or his self-centered attitude. She cast her practiced eye up and down the main street, trying to keep a level head as she assessed the situation; Andantino appeared to be holding their own against Staccato, but even as she looked on more and more of Forte City's assassins appeared from the curtains of smoke that now lay thickly upon the city of A Cappella. There really was no other choice.

Though it pained her to do so, Vivace raised her usually soft-spoken voice in a compelling order: "Retreat! Fall back to the boats!"

Sostenuto broke away from Gavotte just long enough to cast a venomous glare in Vivace's direction, followed by the bellowed words "No! Belay that! Stand and fight! We may yet make this day ours!"

Vivace could only gape at her lieutenant in dismay, certain that his order would be the death of them all. Just as she was assessing where best she might fit into the battle the building on her immediate right exploded, showering her with bits of flaming debris and stinging her eyes with yet another gout of smoke, and feeling compelled to investigate she waded through the ruins of the home that had just gone up in flames and emerged on the other side.

To find that Toccata was already waiting for her.

At the sight of Vivace stepping out of the veil of thickening smoke, her golden hair whipping about her fair face like a shower of molten gold, Toccata threw his head back and laughed at the sky. His master had promised him sport in reward for his acceptance of this mission, and his patience had been rewarded – now, at last, he would have the opportunity to end Vivace's life, and strike a blow to Andantino that the cursed rebel organization wouldn't soon recover from! They faced one another from opposite sides of the cobblestoned lane, drawing weapons in the same instant that their eyes met.

"Have you need of any further display of our supremacy? Look around you!" Toccata gestured wildly with his finely-crafted thinblade, indicating the burning wreckage up and down the avenue. "The city you have worked so tirelessly to protect is in shambles. What reason do you have to continue opposing us?"

Vivace squared her shoulders and her jaw, feeling no fear. An unfamiliar sense of pride surged deep within her, prompting her to lift her longsword into a ready position and say, "Andantino will continue to wave its banner proudly for as long as Forte City insists upon tyrannizing the public."

The sound of Toccata's answering laugh was enough to spark rage within mild-mannered Vivace's heart, and when he mockingly gestured for her to take the opening strike she tightened her grip around the hilt of the Crystal Echoblade and stalked one step toward her adversary –

For no reason that she could comprehend, Vivace felt her focus fracture in the instant before she engaged Toccata in battle; her keen eyes flitted to one side and landed upon the frightened eyes of a man she did not recognize. Though her attentions were elsewhere, Vivace was certain that the man she now looked upon would prove to be someone of great importance in the days to come; that impulsive sense of kinship frightened Vivace, for she had never been one to invest her trust in someone blindly and scarcely trusted those that had been around her for many of the longest, most difficult years of her life. He stared, terrified, back into her eyes, his mouth partially agape as though he wanted desperately to say something but couldn't make his lips form the words.

In that instant the truth struck Vivace as surely as if Toccata's sword had punctured her skin – this man was not from A Cappella, wasn't from their world at all. He was surely one of the drifters, one of the "gateways to the other world" that the tyrannical Count Waltz sought to expand his diabolical empire… and Vivace's knowing gaze had surely just ended the young man's life.

She snapped her eyes back upon Toccata's piercing black pupils, but it was far too late – Toccata was now also gazing at the handsome man with the dark cobalt locks and the eyes the color of molten chocolate as though he was the key to the promised land.

The moment that Toccata lunged forward, the tip of his blade leading, Vivace dashed in between the assassin's weapon and the man with the terrified eyes. She glanced back, hoping to look into those lovely eyes one last time before the sword found its mark and stole her life from her –

To find that the man had vanished. Had he ever really been there at all…?

Behind her, Toccata howled in rage and agony; the cry prompted Vivace to turn back, and what she saw nearly stole the breath from her lungs. Little Duolo, the navigator for the Andantino-owned vessel Rubato, had intercepted Toccata at the last moment and struck at the assassin in order to keep him from skewering Vivace's on the end of his blade. A single stroke from Duolo's precious warhammer had clearly wounded Toccata – he now clearly favored one knee over the other and seemed to be having difficulty keeping himself upright – but in the next instant he made Duolo pay the ultimate price for crossing him. Toccata swung the thinblade, striking the fingers Duolo used to cling to his warhammer and sending the weapon spinning from the young renegade's hand, and the moment poor Duolo was unarmed Toccata impaled him with a single brutal thrust.

Vivace could only watch, helpless, as the light left Duolo's eyes.

A single muscular arm wound itself around her slender waist, dragging her backward, even as she glared at Toccata with unmistakable hatred and raised her longsword as though to strike him, but Timpani was not daunted by her struggles and succeeded in hauling her away from the gleeful assassin. Through tear-filled eyes, Vivace could just dimly perceive yet another building crumbling down to its very foundation as the flames consumed everything until there was nothing left to burn.

"Retreat!" came Sostenuto's voice from somewhere very far away, but Vivace was hardly listening at that point.

On the other end of the city, A Cappella's emergency sirens at last began to peal.