The capital stirred with unease. Whispers of strange melodies drifted on the wind, threading through the alleys and halls of Alsira like wildfire. At first, only a few claimed to hear it—a faint hum at the edge of perception. But soon even the night watch reported voices singing in tongues not spoken in centuries.
"The Crimson Choir," Liaen said, pale and shaken, holding a scroll inked in blood-red script. "It's real."
They stood in the central chamber of the Soulwarden Citadel, a place once brimming with wisdom and power. Now it felt half-consumed by caution, its light dulled by what lingered beyond its walls. Asher read over Liaen's shoulder, his jaw tight.
"They were the Cult's high priests," Liaen continued. "Not just followers—singers. They awakened the Thrones of Shattered Names through ritual and sacrifice. Wherever they sing, the veil thins."
"And you're saying they're here?" Emilia asked.
"No," Liaen said grimly. "They're coming."
Elira hovered near the chamber's edge, her form visibly fading. Asher had begun to notice it more each day—how her glow faltered, how her voice dimmed unless she concentrated.
"I've heard the Choir before," she said suddenly.
The room fell still.
"In the in-between. When I died. Their voices were pulling me. But something else pulled harder."
Asher's fists clenched. "And now they want to finish the job."
Liaen gestured to the map they had recovered days earlier. "There's a temple buried beneath the western district—forgotten during the rebuilding after the first monster siege. It bears the same sigil we found at Malric's vault."
"A throne?" Emilia asked.
"No," Liaen said. "A choir chamber. A place of preparation."
By nightfall, they descended into the undercity.
The air thickened with the scent of mold and dried blood. Candles refused to hold flame. Emilia's soul energy flared uncomfortably, reacting to the twisted echoes around them.
Eventually, they reached the chamber.
Its walls were etched with weeping angels, their eyes carved to bleed shadows. At the center stood a great stone arch, pulsing faintly with red light. Before it, twelve robed figures formed a semicircle—singing in perfect, unearthly harmony.
Asher didn't wait.
His blade sang forward, slicing down two of the singers in a single motion. But they didn't scream. They didn't resist. They simply kept singing—even as their throats opened, even as their bodies fell.
"Their souls aren't in their bodies!" Elira shouted. "They're anchored to the throne!"
Emilia stepped forward, her hand glowing with focused light. "Then we sever the anchor."
She raised her palm. Soul-light coalesced into a luminous spear. She hurled it at the arch.
The stone pulsed violently.
And the choir screamed—as one.
Their bodies convulsed. The harmony shattered. Silence fell.
But the damage had already been done.
The arch split wide.
And from its depths stepped a figure—tall, cloaked in crimson, face hidden behind a mask made from bone and sorrow.
"The First Singer," Elira whispered.
The figure did not strike. It simply looked at each of them in turn, tilting its head slightly.
"You silence the melody," it said. "But the refrain will return. The soulbound cannot stop the symphony."
Its voice was every scream Asher had ever heard. Every lullaby he had forgotten.
It stepped forward—
And Elira floated into its path.
"You won't take them," she said.
The First Singer reached toward her.
And Elira began to sing.
It was not a spell. Not a weapon. It was a song from their wedding day. From a sunset over the northern cliffs. From the warmth of a life once lived and loved. Her voice shimmered in the air like moonlight on water.
The First Singer recoiled.
It hissed. "What you sing… is not ours."
"No," Elira replied softly. "It's mine."
With a scream of fury, the First Singer disintegrated—shattering into black dust.
But not before whispering:
"The final verse is near."
Back above ground, Asher held Elira's hand in the candlelight. Her glow had faded further. She was barely visible now.
"You gave too much again," he murmured.
"I'll always give," she whispered.
Across the room, Emilia stood clutching a sealed scroll she had taken from the Choir's chamber. Her fingers trembled slightly as she stared at it.
"What is it?" Liaen asked.
"It's not a spell," Emilia said quietly. "It's a name. A true name."
She looked up—eyes wide, voice tight.
"Someone high in Alsira… someone powerful… is part of the Cult."
A long silence followed.
"They're waiting," she said, "for the final throne to awaken."