The bunker was quiet, only the low hum of the lanterns filling the air. Then Rosario's voice rose gently, carrying a tune that felt like soft rain after a storm.
"Under broken skies, I'll wait,
Even if the stars forget my name.
In the silence, hearts still stay,
Guided home by a fragile flame."
His voice trembled a little, yet it was warm, very comforting chanting.
Vera leaned back on the bench, arms crossed, a faint smile on his lips though his eyes carried worry. Grace sat with her knees pulled up, chin resting lightly on them, swaying to the song.
"It's been…. what, nights?" Vera said, breaking the quiet after a pause.
Grace hugged her knees tighter, her gaze distant. "Feels very long. Elior just.… left without a word. Like always."
Rosario's song trailed off. He placed his hands softly in her lap, whispering, "Maybe they're still fighting or maybe…." He didn't finish.
The three of them sat there, silence stretching again, filled only by the faint drip of water somewhere deep in the bunker.
Vera finally tapped the stone floor with his boot, firm but restless. "They'll come back. They have to, I know they will...."
Grace tilted her head toward him, giving a faint nod, though her eyes still glistened with doubt.
Rosario took out a new, shiny bright wood colour guitar from his long packed luggage. He was hanging towards the crowd as he mounted on a high ground. The cheer of the crowd was loud. They stopped as Rosario started to sing pointing his guitar at the crowd.
His voice was casual, sweet, very manly.
–––
----- Rosario's Song: The Night Hunt -----
"Beneath a red, evil, broken moon,
Where shadows dance and fade too soon,
I'll carry voices through the night,
A song to keep the dark in sight.
Hold the flame, though winds may rise,
Keep your soul where hope still lies.
Even if the stars all die,
We'll sing our names into the sky.
The earth may crack, the seas may dry,
The Overseer will wake and pry,
But in the silence, hearts won't flee,
For what is left still lives in me.
Hold the flame, though winds may rise,
Keep your soul where hope still lies.
Even if the stars all die,
We'll sing our names into the sky.
I've seen the fallen, heard their cries,
The dreamers lost to nameless ties,
Yet every tear that stains the ground,
Is proof a song can still be found.
So if tomorrow never comes,
And all we are turned into crumbs,
Remember this when our voices stayed,
A fragile hymn that won't decay.
Hold the flame, though winds may rise,
Keep your soul where hope still lies.
Even if the stars all die,
We'll sing our names into the sky."
As he finishes, burst of claps came all directions. Rosario bowed in honour and then precisely left the chat.
The bunker had grown quieter after Rosario's song. His voice still lingered in the walls, soft echoes rolling through the dim corridors.
Outside, the wind scraped along the metal like nails, a reminder that the desert above was never truly silent.
Grace had gone to refill her cup of water, Vera leaned back with his boots on a chair, and when they noticed Rosario had stepped out, curiosity pulled them. The two exchanged glances.
"Should we?" Vera asked, smirking faintly, almost daring.
Grace hesitated, rubbing her palms together. "We shouldn't pry…." But her eyes betrayed a flicker of unease. Rosario's songs, his sudden disappearances, the way he sometimes stared too long at the hourglass when it appeared. Something didn't line up.
They walked to his room without anyone noticing their shadows.
The door creaked open with a sound like an old violin string snapping. Inside, Rosario's chamber looked.… ordinary at first glance. A bed neatly made. A violin resting across the sheets. A desk scattered with papers.
Grace stepped lightly, like she was afraid of breaking something invisible. Vera, less cautious, started rifling through. "Guy sings like a saint," he muttered, "but saints don't scribble this much."
Grace's hand froze on the edge of the desk. Her eyes widened. Among the scattered pages were diagrams, circles intertwined with symbols that pulsed faintly in the low light. They weren't just drawings. They were sect papers.
The words leapt out in jagged handwriting:
— Overseer's Gambit.
— Annular Eclipse: Rite of Descent.
— Sacrificial Ratios.
— The Fifth Vessel's name must remain sealed until….
Grace pressed a hand to her mouth. Her heartbeat quickened, loud in her ears. "He…. he's entangled with them."
Vera's brow furrowed. His usual cocky grin was gone. "Dammit. I thought he was just another sad poet." He picked up one sheet, his fingers trembling though he tried to hide it. The symbols crawled across the paper, like they were shifting when seen from the corner of the eye.
On the corner of the desk lay something worse. A folded piece of cloth, blackened and burned at the edges. A sect insignia, barely visible. It was a golden ring split by silver lines.
Grace whispered, almost breathless: "This.… this is connected to the Overseer's descent."
Vera looked at her, and for once, neither of them knew what to say. The air seemed heavier in the room, pressing down on their lungs.
Then the floor creaked. The door opened wider. It was Rosario on the other side of the door.
The soft, calm singer. The man who'd just filled the bunker with warmth. His violin case dangled from one hand. His eyes, however, were sharp.
He looked from Grace's trembling hand on the desk, to Vera clutching the shifting paper, then back to both of them. Silence stretched thin, like a string ready to snap.
Rosario's lips curved into something halfway between a smile and a warning.
"You shouldn't be here," he said quietly and gently.
The air between them thickened like smoke. Grace's hand shook on the edge of the desk, but Vera stepped forward, his shadow spread long across the papers.
"What's your connection," he asked, "with Apollo's Twilight Sect?"
Rosario tilted his head, lips curling in a half-smile, half-grimace. The violin case tapped softly against his leg as if keeping rhythm to some song only he could hear.
"Ah…. straight to the sect," he murmured. "Not even a hello, Vera. You're colder than the desert at night."
Vera didn't blink. "Answer."
Rosario chuckled low, almost musical. "I'd love to say I'm just a wandering minstrel who stumbled into your bunker with a violin and a heart full of songs.… but life doesn't play that tune." His voice lowered, carrying a sly weight. "I'm parasited. A lovely little gift. If I stop working, if I resist, if I even think of cutting the strings…. it will crush my soul instantly. From inside and out. My veins first, then my brain. You'll hear my skull purr like a cracked bell before I drop dead."
Grace's face paled. "Parasited?" she whispered. "By who?"
Rosario tapped the violin case again, one note, like a heartbeat. He didn't answer directly. His eyes glimmered mischievously, as though he enjoyed their fear.
Vera leaned closer, his words slow and deliberate. "Tell me if Azmaik is alive."
Rosario's grin deepened. He raised his free hand and sang, soft and mournful, a few lines,
"The friend is a mask, the mask is a grave, light still breathe in the dark of the cave.…"
The song faded into nothing. Grace's throat tightened, and she glanced at Vera, who stood unflinching.
Finally, Rosario's voice came quiet but cutting: "Azmaik Veyric is the one I work for. That much is true."
Grace gasped, her fingers tightening into fists.
"But," Rosario went on, tilting his head like a marionette tugged by invisible strings, "I don't know what the madman really wants. He speaks in riddles, in promises. He says the sun wants a body, that the moon is cracking too soon, that the vessels will line up like stars across a stage. But what does he want?" Rosario shrugged. "Even I can't read the score."
Vera's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. Grace whispered, trembling, "So it's true…. he's alive."
Rosario's smile was both charming and cruel. "Alive? Alive is such a flexible word, my dear. Azmaik is…. moving."