In the bustling, cobbled streets of Therolis, the air thrums with rich, powerful notes that make skin tingle and goosebumps rise. These enchanting melodies saunter out from The Golden Lute, a popular tavern. Behind the heavy oak doors, atop an age-worn stage, stands Dorealle. To say Dorealle is singing would be downright injustice - she's captivating her audience, ensnaring senses, putting hearts in throat through her mellifluous notes.

The sapphiric bloom overhead bathes Dorealle in its soft glow as she begins the melodious ballad of her despair and hope. No one, not even the drunkest patrons, look away. Every eye is for the woman on the stage and the raw depths her voice unearths, the pain it registers that seems not of this world.

Unseen by all, a small, sharp pang clenches Dorealle’s heart. Her lips curve, skirting between pleasure and sorrow. The pang works its way deep into her next verse, where a mournful lilt quietly seeps in. Never has her song embodied so many shades —a mere echo of her pure song from the long-gone era, it manages to silence the clamour of the tavern.

Earlier, a lifetime away, Dorealle's song was of feasts laid out on the deadly reefs of outer Etaris. Then, men would abandon the safety of their ships, driven insane by the beautiful, deadly hymnal of sirens. Yet, Dorealle was no mindless killer. She respected her prey, sought their forgiveness in each mournful note. Death was just survival, not malice.

Then, the magic faded. The sirens starved. The strongest tried staying afloat on the mortal hardships, the rest withered away on the shores. Dorealle survived, not through great power or cunning, but through sacrifice. While the others clung to their magic in an increasingly barren seashore, Dorealle ventured inland, into human territory, trading the revered power of her voice for menial labour.

It was in sweltering kitchens and dusty libraries that she discovered her gift anew. Without the deadly lure, her voice was still hypnotic, soothing, a balm to the weary souls. Unnar, the old owner of The Golden Lute, was the first to see a gleam of gold in the rusty coin. He gave Dorealle a stage, a coin for every song, and an offer for every meal.

Time has made the tavern Dorealle's stage, her kingdom. All she had lost, she has regained, not as a predator, but as a bard, an entertainer. She thrives in the pulses of emotion when the room hangs onto her every note, in the tears shed for a lost world, in the applause that taste sweeter than any feast.

The echoes die down, only the lingering vibrations remain on the parted lips of the crowd. Dorealle exits the stage, not with her head held high, but with her heart heavy. After all, the siren-turned-bard has learned that survival requires sacrifice and storytelling is the art of experiencing sadness, a thousand times over, to make others feel just once. Never has she felt more alive, never has it hurt so much.

If Dorealle's voice is the ocean in a tempest, then her silence is the peaceful harbor. It draws people in, invites them to lay their burdens, and listen. Today, the siren is not singing a melody of entrapment, but a song of hope – a haunting, nostalgic lullaby that survives, even as the last echoes of magic fade into nothingness. The survival of the siren is the survival of hope.