Behind the Crimson Choir, a voice boomed—deep, echoing through stone like a curse crawling up from a grave.
"Who are you?"
The Crimson Choir parted as one—unnaturally fluid, like a living veil of blood-red silk. From within stepped a figure taller than the rest, cloaked in crimson so deep it seemed almost black. Black sigils crawled over his robes, shifting subtly in the torchlight, refusing to stay still. In his hand gleamed a ceremonial dagger, its blade black as guilt.
He didn't need to shout again.
"I am the High Mourner Vaelith," he intoned, his voice raw as bone scraping stone.
I swallowed, raising a hand halfway in greeting. "Louis," I offered.
"Ronette...?" Ronette whimpered, barely peeking from behind my shoulder.
Vaelith's gaze—black, bottomless, unblinking—cut straight through us. "Outsiders," he growled. "Defilers." His hand rose. "Bind them."
The Crimson Choir surged forward—hooded shadows slipping from silence into motion. A tide of dread.
"Ronette! Run!" I shrieked, seizing his wrist like a mother yanking a toddler from a sacrificial altar.
We bolted—limbs flailing, breath tearing at our throats, hearts pounding in wild syncopation. Two desperate fools racing through ancient ruin.
We vaulted altars that creaked under our weight, ducked behind cracked pillars older than memory, dove across shattered pews. Hands reached for us—silent, unhurried, certain.
I kicked over a brazier, sending embers scattering like cursed confetti. Ronette, eyes wild, dug into his inventory and threw items like a panicked squirrel emptying a hoard.
A handful of salt. A pocket watch. Half a sandwich. A suspiciously detailed goat idol. A used spoon.
"A spoon?! Really?!" I barked as it clinked uselessly off a robe.
"It's all I had left!" Ronette wailed, now dual-wielding a jar of jam and a slightly bent fork.
We crashed under a crumbling archway, rolled behind a headless statue. My lungs burned. Once, I yanked Ronette back just in time—a hand swept the space his neck had occupied a breath earlier.
But they regrouped—faster, colder. Their silent advance left nowhere to run. Our backs met a wall, cold and final. Before us, a dozen hooded figures. Unblinking. Unforgiving.
Ronette's breath caught, raw terror sharp in his voice. "L-Louis… what do we do?"
"W-We pose," I blurted, gripping my cloak like some tragic heroine from a dusty playbill.
"Pose?!"
"Ya! If we're going down, we're going down fabulously."
And then—
Dong!
A bell tolled above. Deep. Slow. Resonant.
Ronette flinched. "The chapel bell! It must be Harvest Festival hour!"
"Harvest Festival?" I blinked—then realization struck.
'The townsfolk's song.'
My hand shot under my tattered cloak, closing around something narrow and beloved.
A fiddle.
Ronette's shriek cracked the tension. "I thought your fiddle was destroyed!"
"It was," I said softly. "This is an emergency backup. Or, as I call it—my second heart."
His eyes widened. "Then why the dramatic wailing and soul-rending mourning?!"
I gave him a sidelong glance. "We all have that moment when the heart feels like dust. So I acted it out. Convincing, huh?"
Ronette buried his face in one hand. "I don't know anything anymore…"
I struck a single note.
It echoed like lightning cracking through centuries of silence.
The Crimson Choir flinched.
"No worries, Ronette, my pal." I stepped forward, breath steadying. "This song shall cleanse your mind of all worldly confusion."
At first, the tune stumbled. A half-remembered festival melody, raw and jagged with urgency. Then it caught—took breath, found rhythm. Became something ancient and alive.
I sang the lyrics, voice low at first—then rising, fierce, raw as a heartbeat.
The Crimson Choir reeled. Their robes trembled. Fingers clawed at hoods. Their formation broke.
One by one, they crumpled. Some collapsed, twitching in agony. Others froze mid-motion, statues carved by sound.
The melody surged, richer, wilder, until the final verse blossomed.
Silence fell.
The Crimson Choir lay still. Unmoving. Defeated.
Only the last trembling note lingered, ringing through stone like a challenge answered.
I drew a breath and bowed low, one hand on my chest, the fiddle raised high like a knight's sword.
"Thank you," I murmured, voice smooth with triumph. "The minstrel humbly thanks her audience for witnessing her debut performance."
Ronette, blinking, pulled out waxy earplugs, wincing. Then, with the solemnity of a man clapping at a funeral, he began to applaud.
"There is nothing more deadly in this world than Louis playing an instrument."
I swept dust from my coat, head high. "I take that as a compliment, especially from my first audience."
Ronette giggled. "The only one still alive."
I turned, gaze hardening. "Time to defeat the ruin's boss."
Ronette nodded, breath ragged but resolve shining. "Before he resurrects the Vampire God."
I grinned, pointing toward a corridor draped in shadow. "Go sniff him out, Ronette."
But Ronette didn't move. His body trembled, eyes wide, breath caught halfway to a word.
"I… don't need to…"
"You found the boss?!" I spun, blood rising.
"Nope." His voice cracked, raw with fear. "I think I found the ultimate boss."
He raised a shaking hand.
I turned.
And saw it.
At first, it looked like wreckage—part of the shattered ceiling, half-swallowed by gloom. But it shifted. Slowly. Deliberately.
Suspended from stone by something unseen, hung a shape too long, too thin, twisted in ways the body shouldn't bend. Wings—leathery, membranous, slick with veins—wrapped around it like a funeral shroud.
The head dangled, limp. No eyes. Yet every breath in the ruin seemed to watch us.
The darkness felt alive. Heavy. Waiting.
No sound. No movement. Just the soft, slow drip of something thick onto ancient stone.
Ronette and I began to edge back, careful as prey that knows the predator already smells them.
Then—clang.
A piece of ceiling debris slipped, struck my fiddle.
A single note rang out.
Clear. Sharp. Suspiciously dramatic.
We froze.
Ronette turned to me, face bone-pale. "You don't think it… heard that, right?"
I said nothing.
"Louis?" His voice cracked.
My gaze stayed fixed on the instrument. "…That was a beautiful note."
Ronette stared at me, unamused, unblinking.
Then, cautiously, he glanced back at the ceiling. The nightmare still hung, unmoving. Shadow around its head quivered—but nothing else.
"Looks like it didn't hear us," Ronette whispered. "Let's back out before it does."
He started to move.
But I didn't.
"Louis?!" Panic sharpened his voice.
I stood straighter. Fingers tightened on the fiddle. Breath caught, then released.
Ronette jammed the waxy earplugs back in. Eyes clenched shut, he scrambled to a nearby boulder and dropped to his knees, hands locked in prayer like a dying man.
I drew the bow across the strings.
One note.
Sharp. Defiant. Foolishly brave.
It echoed like a spark flicked into a cellar full of powder.
The shadow moved.
Not just a twitch—but a ripple, a shiver running the length of that twisted, wing-wrapped shape.
I played again—two notes, three—each bolder than the last.
Above, the silhouette unfurled.
Then it let go.
Like a dying flower shedding its last petal, it dropped. But before it struck stone, it transformed.
Wings spread—massive, tattered, graceful and wrong. It spiraled mid-air, fluid as nightmare.
SKREEEEEE!
A shriek cut the ruin in half.
Not a roar. Not a bellow.
A blade of sound. High-pitched. Piercing. Metal screaming on stone. Strings snapping in unison. A scream that ripped thought from bone.
Then—the wings beat. Once. Twice. A flutter jagged as a funeral cloth torn by storm winds.
It came for me.
No hesitation. No warning.
Just raw hunger.
Ronette cracked one eye open—and saw death descending like a nightmare.
"LOUIS!" he screamed, voice raw, desperate.
And moved.
Faster than I'd ever seen him. No thought. Only instinct. He threw himself forward, arms outstretched, ready to shove me aside.
Too late.
The thing struck.
BOOM.
Stone cracked. Dust roared into the air in a choking gray wave. The ground lurched. My vision split.
Ronette's body was flung away—slammed into stone with a crack that tasted like copper and fear. He dropped to the ground in a heap.