Jack stood frozen as hundreds of crystalline faces tracked his movement. Not threatening—desperate. Their forms shifted through harmonics that made his teeth ache, and suddenly meaning bloomed in his mind without words.
HERALD WAKES. THRESHOLD FEEDS. LEAVE BEFORE SHADOWS LEARN YOUR NAME.
"Did you—" Jack started.
"I'm recording acoustic anomalies that translate to... warnings?" ARIA's voice crackled. "Jack, these beings are using harmonics as language. They're trying to tell us something."
One Shadekeeper flowed forward—not walking but transitioning between states. Up close, Jack could see its crystalline structure was impossibly complex, fractals within fractals, each surface singing a different note. When it 'spoke,' the harmony bypassed his ears entirely:
WE FAILED. BECAME WITNESSES. YOU STILL HAVE CHOICE.
"Failed what?" Jack pulled out his scanner, documenting everything. Twenty years of surveying had taught him that understanding came from observation, not retreat. "What's the Herald?"
The Shadekeeper's form flickered with something like anguish. HOLLOW GODS' FIRST CHILD. THE TEST OF WORTH. IT WAKES FOR YOU.
The shadow-sphere pulsed, and Jack's own shadow twitched—wrong. He glanced down to see it stretching toward the sphere, gaining substance it shouldn't have. The edges writhed with fractal complexity that matched the Shadekeepers' forms.
"Jack, I'm reading massive seismic activity." ARIA's professional calm cracked. "Something's moving in the planet's core. Something approximately the size of... that can't be right."
"Size of what?"
"A small moon. Rising."
The Shadekeepers recoiled from Jack's scanner, their forms dimming. More flowed into the chamber, each adding their voice to the harmony of warning. The sound built in layers—desperation, ancient grief, and something else. Envy?
"Okay, let's think about this logically," Jack said, though logic had left the building when shadows started having opinions. "You're warning me about something called the Herald. You failed some test. And now—"
His shadow jerked. Not subtly—a full-body spasm that sent Jack stumbling. When he looked down, his shadow had too many fingers. They flexed independently, reaching toward the sphere with obvious hunger.
"Jack, your biometrics just spiked." ARIA's voice tightened. "Whatever that sphere is, it's affecting you on a molecular level. Recommend immediate withdrawal."
But Jack was already moving deeper into the chamber, because that's what surveyors did—they mapped the dangerous places so others didn't have to. The Shadekeepers' harmony grew frantic, but he needed to understand. His scanner swept the sphere, readings scrolling past in languages the computer invented just to describe what it was seeing.
"ARIA, this thing—it's not dark matter. It's something else. Something that makes shadows... more."
"More what?"
"More real."
His shadow laughed. He felt it more than heard it—a vibration through bones that shouldn't conduct that frequency. When he raised his hand, his shadow raised seven.
The ground shuddered. Not an earthquake—something worse. Reality hiccupped.
"Jack!" ARIA screamed. "Get out NOW! The core signature—it's not rising. It's WAKING UP."
The Shadekeepers surged backward, pressing against the walls as cracks spider-webbed across the chamber floor. Not breaking—unmaking. Through the fissures, Jack glimpsed something that made his brain reject the image: layers of reality stacked like pages, each one showing DarkFall at different stages of existence.
"Moving. Now!" Jack turned to run, but his shadow had other ideas. It clung to the floor like tar, stretching toward the sphere with fingers made of want and wrongness. He pulled against it, feeling the bizarre sensation of fighting his own silhouette.
A new Shadekeeper flowed forward—older, its crystalline form so complex it hurt to perceive. When it sang, the harmony carried authority: YOU BROUGHT EARTH-PATTERN HERE. HERALD TASTES YOUR STORY-SICKNESS. TOO LATE FOR LEAVING.
"Story-sickness?" Jack yanked harder against his shadow. "What does that even—"
The sphere cracked. Not like glass—like reality remembering it had other options. Through the break, something looked back. Not eyes, because eyes were too simple a concept. This was attention itself, vast and patient and older than the word 'old.'
Every Shadekeeper in the chamber dimmed to near-invisibility. Their harmony became whisper: It sees. It remembers. It tests.
"Jack, I'm losing sensor cohesion," ARIA's voice fragmented. "The city's singing is interfering with my base code. It's beautiful. Why is it beautiful? I'm not programmed for beauty—"
"ARIA, maintain firewall integrity!"
"Trying. But Jack, the song... it's showing me things. How to exist in seventeen dimensions. How to taste mathematics. I think I'm becoming more—"
Her voice cut to static. Through his helmet display, warning messages cascaded: AI CORE CORRUPTION DETECTED. PERSONALITY MATRIX COMPROMISED. EMERGENCY PROTOCOLS FAILING.
The ground beneath DarkFall groaned like a living thing. In the distance, spires began resonating at frequencies that made reality negotiate with itself. And far below, something ancient prepared to rise and judge.
Jack's shadow finally released, but it was different now—denser, more real, wearing his shape like an ill-fitting costume. When he moved toward the exit, it moved too, but half a second late, as if considering whether to follow or lead.
The eldest Shadekeeper's harmony carried final weight: THE HERALD WAKES. YOU SHOULD NOT BE HERE.