Page 107 of Discordant Cultivation

The crowd around the small stage had swelled, curiosity and anticipation thickening the air. Word must have spread that something unusual was happening—the mysterious viral sensation Thorn was about to perform with an unknown collaborator in what appeared to be a completely improvised aesthetic presentation.

Kieran paused at the edge of the staging area, fingers working over guitar tunings with nervous precision. The Martin gleamed under stage lights, its rosewood body catching gold and amber from the overhead spots.

Now. One final adjustment to ensure he stays in the right headspace.

Vale leaned close, his lips brushing Kieran’s ear as he whispered, “Don’t look too fuckable up there. I can’t save you from this whole room.”

Kieran’s response was immediate and perfect—tears gathering in those dark eyes, but his jaw set with determination. The glare he shot Vale carried hurt and defiance, but underneath both was the unmistakable look of someone who understood exactly what was expected of him.

The nod he gave was small, barely perceptible, but it confirmed what Vale already knew: his beautiful boy was ready to bleed his fresh wounds into something that would haunt everyone who witnessed it.

Show them, sweetheart. Show them what real authenticity looks like when it stops protecting itself.

Apprehension coiled in Vale’s chest as he watched Kieran approach the microphone, bare feet silent against the small stage’s polished surface. The crowd’s energy shifted, conversations dying as the crowd recognized that something significant was about to happen. Phones appeared throughoutthe audience—producers, artists, executives all positioned to capture whatever came next.

Vale pulled out his own phone, his thumb hovering over the record button. Kieran stood center stage, eyes cast downward, his guitar settling against his hip. Jericho perched on a stool to his left, microphone cradled in her palms, her own gaze fixed on the floor like they were sharing some private moment of preparation.

They look like they’re praying. Or confessing.

The silence stretched, anticipation building until it felt almost unbearable. Then their voices began—not words but pure sound, harmonized humming that rose from their chests like smoke from altar fires. Haunting and mournful, the kind of vocalization that bypassed conscious thought and went straight to something primal.

Jericho’s alto provided the foundation, rich and grounded, while Kieran’s voice floated above it. He was restraining his range, keeping his voice in a register that complemented rather than overshadowed his partner. The generosity of the choice made Vale’s heart flutter with unexpected pride.

The humming lilted higher, both voices finding harmony without visible effort, then settled back into something that sounded like grief given melody. When they finally opened their eyes to find the microphones, the transition was seamless.

Kieran’s fingers found the guitar strings, establishing a simple progression in F# that felt both familiar and entirely new. The sharp intake of breath before he began singing was audible through the microphone—not a mistake but a choice, letting the audience hear the cost of beginning.

"They call him Daedalus, master craftsman of the game,

Says he builds the wings that’ll carry you to fame.

But I seen him push Icarus out that window frame…”

Jericho joined him for the back half of each rhyme, her voice weaving through his with instinctive ease despite having learned the song less than an hour ago. When Kieran continued solo, his enunciation became razor-sharp, cutting through the room and between the crowd like knives thrown at them from the stage:

"He’s a sick, prick,

Cannibal-parasitic, blood compellin’;

Eatin’ first-borns like Kronos full of scorn.

Daedalus in the labyrinth,

Wearin’ minotaur horns...”

Vale’s gaze flicked to Nox, whose face had gone white with recognition. The broken nose only made his expression more grotesque—shock mixing with rage as he understood exactly who the Daedalus references were targeting.

How does it feel to be exposed, you piece of shit? How does it feel to have your methods turned into art that everyone will remember, even if they don’t know who the words are about?

Both performers lifted their eyes to the crowd for the staccato chorus, voices joining in perfect unison:

"Oh, the wax can’t hold when two suns burn so bright,

and he planned it all along—

Daedalus in the labyrinth,

Singing his predator song.”