Ash still hung in the air like fog.
The plaza was a grave of dust and broken stone, the ruins trembling with the memory of the hymn. The silence that followed felt heavy, as if the air itself mourned what had just been torn apart.
Elara lay on her side, pale as death, her chest rising and falling in shallow, ragged breaths. Blood traced thin lines from her nose and ear.
Seris cradled her against her chest, rocking slightly, whispering fragments of comfort she wasn't sure Elara could hear. "You're still here. You hear me? You're still here."
Nalia crouched nearby, clutching Jorn tight. The boy hadn't woken — not fully — but his small hand twitched against hers, and she kissed his forehead over and over, whispering desperate prayers.
Marek stood a few steps away, sword point driven into the ground, one hand resting on the pommel. His chest heaved, his face streaked with sweat and grime. But his eyes never left Elara.
"She nearly burned herself out," Tomas muttered, voice rough, his hands shaking as he tried to gather kindling, failing again and again. "If she does that again… there'll be nothing left of her."
The group fell quiet. None of them wanted to imagine it.
Elara drifted in and out.
She dreamed of fire. Of chains. Of Kael's eyes in the dark. His voice whispering her name, faint, almost broken, but alive. She reached for him in the dream — and felt the pull of the threads tighten, like an invisible cord binding them together.
She gasped awake, nearly choking on blood. Seris hushed her, brushing damp hair from her face.
"Elara. Stay with us."
Elara's lips trembled. "He's still fighting… Kael… he's—" Her body seized in a cough, pain lancing through her chest.
Seris held her tighter. "Don't push yourself."
But Marek stepped closer, eyes sharp. "What did you see?"
Elara's voice was a rasp, barely audible. "The Citadel… they're binding him. A choir of keepers. Their song was… drowning him. When I broke it, he—he felt me."
Tomas froze mid-motion. "Wait. You're saying you reached him? Across the Citadel?"
Elara nodded weakly.
Nalia whispered, "Then he knows. He knows we're still alive."
A fragile hope flickered through them all, even amid exhaustion.
Far below, Kael dragged himself upright.
The keepers' hymn had faltered, threads trembling, veils quivering. They had not vanished — but they had weakened, voices staggering as if something had cut through their harmony.
Kael's bloodied lips curled into a savage grin. "She broke you."
The reflection glared, crown flickering unstable, its golden light spasming like fire in a storm. "She defies silence. And because of her… you will suffer twice as long."
Chains whipped taut again, dragging him toward the Citadel's inner halls. But this time, Kael leaned forward into the pull, his strength renewed by the faint burn in his chest.
"Elara's alive," he whispered to himself, teeth bared. "And if she's alive… so am I."
Back in the ruins, the group huddled around a small fire at last. Tomas's hands had finally steadied enough to spark it. The flames threw weak light over their hollow faces.
No one spoke for a long while. The crackle of fire and the faint groans of shifting stone filled the silence.
Finally, Seris said, "We can't stay here. Whatever those things were, they were only part of it. If they can rise once, they can rise again."
Marek nodded grimly. "We move at dawn. West, toward the hollowed spires. If the lattice weakens there like the stories claim, it might give us a path closer to the Citadel."
Nalia held Jorn tighter, her voice trembling. "And if the stories are wrong?"
Marek met her gaze. His face was stone, but his voice was low, certain. "Then we make our own path."
Elara stirred, eyes half-opening, her voice no stronger than a whisper. "Kael's waiting… He won't stop… so neither can we."
Above them, the stars burned cold, but in the east, the horizon pulsed faintly gold — as though the Citadel itself had begun to bleed its light into the night.
And in the ashes of the plaza, where the song had died, faint threads still lingered. They twitched, pulsed, and then slowly began to weave themselves back together.
The hymn was not gone. Only sleeping.
The fire was little more than embers, a faint glow trembling in the cracked stone bowl Tomas had scavenged. They all sat close, not for warmth — the night was unnaturally still, neither warm nor cold — but for comfort.
For proof that they were still alive.
Elara drifted in and out of consciousness, her head resting in Seris's lap. Every so often her body shivered, as if the remnants of the song still clawed at her nerves. Seris whispered to her, stroking damp strands of hair back from her forehead, though she wasn't sure if Elara heard.
Nalia hummed quietly to Jorn. Not a prayer this time, not words, just a tune — low and broken, but soothing. Her eyes never left her son's face. When his fingers twitched in his sleep, she smiled through tears.
Marek sat apart, sharpening his blade by rote. The edge didn't need it — but his hands needed the rhythm. His scarred arms flexed with every scrape of steel against stone, his eyes distant.
Tomas's hands trembled as he fed a small scrap of wood into the fire. He stared into the flames, jaw tight, lips pressed thin.
Seris's gaze flicked between them all, restless. Her hand had not strayed from her bow since the ash had risen. Even now, she expected them to return.
Silence pressed in again. But not the suffocating, endless silence of the lattice — this was human silence, raw and heavy.
Finally, Tomas spoke. His voice was brittle, like glass ready to crack.
"My father used to sing," he said, staring at the flames. "Not a hymn, not like… that thing. A fisherman's song. He'd sing it while mending nets. Off-key. Always made me laugh."
His hand clenched on his knee. "I can't remember the words anymore. The song in the ash — it ate them. Took them from me." His voice faltered. "I'll never get them back."
The fire popped. No one answered at first.
Then Marek lowered the whetstone, voice low and rough. "I don't remember my daughter's face."
Everyone looked at him. He didn't lift his eyes from the blade.
"She died in the first silent winter. Fever. I held her. Buried her myself." His jaw clenched. "I swore I'd remember her smile, the way she looked at me when she was happy. But it's gone. Burned away. When those ash-things sang… I thought I saw her. And for a moment, I wanted to follow."
The scrape of steel rang louder as he returned to sharpening. "That's what the lattice wants. To make us forget until we're nothing but echoes."
Seris swallowed hard. She had no story to give. Or maybe she had too many, and none she dared to share. Her fingers brushed the fletching of an arrow, grounding herself.
But Elara stirred. Her voice was faint, broken — but clear.
"It can't take everything."
Seris bent over her quickly. "Rest."
But Elara shook her head weakly. "If we remember… together… it can't win."
Her sun-eye opened slightly, faint light glowing within, dimmer than a dying star. She lifted her trembling hand, reaching toward the fire. The flames caught, flaring brighter for an instant before dimming again.
Jorn stirred at the light, eyelids fluttering. Nalia kissed his brow again, whispering, "We'll remember for you, little one. Always."
Kael, far below, sat in silence too.
The keepers had withdrawn, their hymn fractured. The chains still bound him, but looser now, as if afraid of what he might do with strength returned.
He leaned against the wall, chest heaving, blood drying on his lips. For the first time in what felt like years, he closed his eyes and simply breathed.
And in the blackness behind his eyes, he saw her. Elara. Not clearly, not fully — but the shimmer of her light. A thread between them, unbroken.
He whispered into the silence, his voice raw. "Don't forget me."
The silence answered with its usual cold. But deep inside, Kael felt something stir.
Back at the fire, Marek finally set his blade aside. He stared into the embers, voice quieter than before.
"If we move at dawn, we'll need to choose our path carefully. West is dangerous. The hollowed spires are half-collapsed, crawling with hollow ones. But east takes us closer to the lattice veins."
"East?" Seris asked sharply. "That's suicide."
"It's all suicide," Marek said flatly. "But east gets us closer to Kael."
Elara coughed weakly, eyes barely opening. "East," she whispered.
The others exchanged looks. Fear. Doubt. Resignation.
But no one argued.
Above the ruins, the horizon glowed faintly gold, as if dawn were already bleeding through — though no sun had risen.
And in the ashes behind them, the threads twitched again, weaving slowly, patiently, preparing for the hymn's return.