The songs did not stop.
They rose with the morning mist, echoed in market alleys, rang from the rooftops. Disciples of Altharion moved through Duskfall not as warriors, but as stewards of memory. Every whispered name, every carved sigil, every flame-lit vigil became a strike against the Pale Choir.
And for the first time, the erasers stumbled.
Old Theater District - Dawn
Raan crouched behind a rusted curtain rigging, his hands pressed to the floor.
Six Pale Choir members stood onstage below, chanting their silence-spell. At the center lay a captured elder—Lorian, keeper of the Ember Scrolls.
Raan took a breath. "Time to get loud."
He triggered the glyph-net.
Flames burst around the stage, not to harm, but to resonate.
He shouted, "LORIAN OF THE EMBER SCROLLS! SON OF TYNE! FLAME-TELLER OF THE OLD CITY!"
The fire picked up the name and spun it outward, rebroadcasting through every mirrored sigil hidden in the district.
Lorian gasped. The Choir hissed. Their spell shattered.
And in that moment, Selene dropped from the rafters, blade in hand.
The Pale Choir fled.
But not before one of them stumbled—just for a breath.
A crack in their perfect silence.
Forgehouse - War Room
Altharion traced his finger along a map where leyline clusters formed a spiral. The lines pulsed in time with the city's new hum.
Kael stood beside him, quiet.
"You've heard it too?" Altharion asked.
Kael nodded. "The Choir… they're faltering. Not everywhere, but enough. Their magic was never made for resistance. Only obedience."
Altharion looked up. "Then we give them what they've never faced: a living memory."
He turned to the others. "We're activating the Lantern Spire."
Gasps filled the room.
The Lantern Spire had been sealed for centuries. Once, it sang the city's stories into the sky—a beacon of truth, light, and power.
Selene stepped forward. "It's dangerous. If it overloads—"
"Then we remember in fire," Altharion replied.
Lantern Spire - Twilight
The tower loomed over Duskfall's eastern edge, half-consumed by ivy and time. A silver orb sat atop it, dim for centuries.
Disciples formed a ring around the base, chanting in six tongues. Altharion stood at the center, palm pressed to the sigil-lock.
"I was born here," he said quietly. "When I was still mortal. Before the Dome, before the wars. This city was a song. A hard song. But it was ours."
He looked to Selene. "Help me sing it again."
Together, they poured power into the lock.
The tower trembled.
Then bloomed.
Light shot into the sky—no fire, no heat. Just memory.
Faces. Names. Laughter. Sorrow. The truth of Duskfall played across the stars like a filmstrip unspooling.
The Pale Choir, spread across the city, reeled.
Some screamed.
Others crumbled.
One dropped to his knees and removed his mask.
Tears fell from his eyes.
"I remember," he whispered. "I had a brother."
Celestial Dome - Observation Hall
Helios watched in silent fury.
"They've corrupted the weave," his advisors muttered.
"No," Helios said slowly. "They've restored it."
He clenched a fist.
"Then we erase the city. All of it. Call down the Seraphim engines."
Forgehouse - Celebration Turns Cold
The disciples cheered as the Lantern Spire bathed the sky.
Selene smiled.
Altharion didn't.
He felt the shift—the gods had stirred.
And in that ancient pulse, he heard one word:
"Extinction."