The vines shrank back. The Choir's hum warped, stumbling over itself like a hymn suddenly out of tune. For the first time, the Temple did not feel endless. It felt… cornered.
Jacob's grin split wide, though his knees nearly buckled under the strain. "Oh-ho! Did you hear that? Even the spooky death chorus can't handle a duet!"
Connor's chest heaved beside him, their fused breath ragged. He pressed a hand to Jacob's arm, grounding him, even as his own voice cracked but held steady:
"Not duet, Jake. Harmony."
Ramsey barked out a laugh that was half-sob. Aria, trembling, raised her head. Her bleeding slowed, illusion threads stitching tighter around her shoulders.
Rowan didn't laugh. His eyes glistened, his hands shook, but the flame around him burned steady—bright, defiant.
The Choir struck again. Louder. Harsher. No whispers of grief this time—only rage. It lashed out, a wall of sound shaking the Temple's bones, trying to split them open and feast on what spilled out.
But the link held.
Jacob's voice wavered but pushed forward, high and raw:
"♪ You can't—break—us—we're too stubborn to dieee! ♪"
Connor's lower voice threaded through his brother's, fractured but unwavering:
"♪ Two voices. One body. One will. ♪"
The sound, imperfect and untrained, still clashed with the Choir's note, a dissonance sharp enough to bite.
Ramsey growled, fists up. "For once, I'm with them. You want us? You'll choke trying."
Markus opened his eyes, jaw softening. "We are many, but we are one."
Lyle muttered, sharp but steady: "If logic breaks here, then we'll fight with paradox: suffering shared is suffering halved."
Connor clutched their chest, whispering, "Don't take this from me. Not again."
Jacob leaned against him, grinning through sweat. "Yeah. Not again."
And Aria—Aria raised her trembling hand. Blood flared pale fire in her palm, weaving through her illusions until the vines themselves flickered like mirages. "I see you. You're not endless. You can be undone."
The Choir shrieked.
Rowan stepped forward, flame trailing like a banner. His voice cut through the noise, low but unshakable:
"You are not my grief. You are not my father's death. You are not the boy they broke. You are nothing without us to carry you."
The horn's echo cracked like glass. The vines writhed, retreating toward the Temple's heart. The Choir faltered, its song shredding into dissonant, dying threads.
For the first time since they entered, silence pressed against their ears. Heavy. Watchful.
Jacob let out a shaky whistle, tilting his head against Connor's shoulder. "Whew. Did we… win?"
Connor didn't answer. His eyes were locked on the silence, breath caught.
Because from that silence—deeper than grief, older than the Choir—another hum began to rise.
Not fractured. Not hungry.
Steady. Monumental.
The sound of the throne Veyzrik had glimpsed.
And with it came a whisper not of the Choir, not of the Temple:
"One has answered. The rest must follow."
⸻
They moved unseen through the ruined halls, slipping past where the ragebrand creatures had made their home. The Choir had been feeding on the beasts' souls for years, warping them into monstrous titans. The group could only watch as the creatures snarled and fought in a never-ending display of violence in a monstrous struggle for survival.
Their bodies mimic their savagery.
Aria, pale and strained, held her illusions around them like a veil. Her threads shimmered faintly, keeping the creatures blind to their passage.
But others saw.
Varzan, wings of the tamed beast unfurled with eerie grace, kept pace at the edges. He could see them clearly, even through Aria's veil.
Geveno and Gevena lingered close, eager—hungry—as if waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. They whispered among themselves, their eyes always drifting toward Lyle.
It was him, after all, they blamed. Lyle, the one who had brought the ragebrand beasts here—whether by mistake or fate—and made this trial more perilous. The deaths of so many lay heavy in the air, and his name carried the weight of their anger.
Yet still, they pressed forward. Geveno's followers marched into the smoky forest, the Choir's faint singing threading through the mist. But the poison Veyzrik had been feeding them—and the mistrust he had seeded—was blooming now, quietly, dangerously.
Every step deeper brought whispers.
Another Archon, some thought. Perhaps we should join them instead.
Can we trust this camp? Too many have died. Too many vanish.
Will we ever go home?
The questions bled through the ranks, festered in silence, until even the Choir's song seemed to echo them.
The moment Veyzrik's hand closed around the relic, the Temple changed. The Choir's wail cut off like a blade severed from its song, and in the silence that followed, a deeper hum filled his mind—measured, eternal, older than even grief.
Words etched themselves across his thoughts, luminous and absolute:
⸻
The Crown of the Primarch
A relic bound to the Throne's eternal hum, forged before the Choir's first cry.
He who wears the Crown gains the right to seize one ability—innate, learned, gifted, or cursed—and refine it into a Legacy Art.
Veyzrik blinked, his eyes skimming the glowing script that hung before him. It appeared to be truth at first glance, with the weight of eternity etched in every line. But the longer he studied it, the more the words bled at the edges, warping under their own certainty. The description was wrong. Not a lie, but a veil—shadows meant to hide what the Crown truly was.
The "menu" unraveled before his eyes, fragments flickering out of order, as if some greater hand had rewritten history. What was presented to him was a false description, a mask layered over the truth.
Beneath it, something deeper pulsed, waiting to be uncovered.
Legacy Arts are not static; they resonate with the soul of their wielder, sharpening through battle, hardship, and revelation.
Legacy Arts coexist with the people or organization that uses them. They recall. Every strike, every failure, every small triumph becomes part of their soul, and when they pass into new hands, the next bearer inherits not just a technique—but the weight, the lessons, and the scars of everyone who came before.
It all begins with the Originarch, who is the first to form something out of nothing by choosing its Dominion—the element, principle, or truth that gives it life. The Primarch is the one who keeps it alive, molding it to fit their own preferences, style, and pulse, leaving a mark that will influence those who come after them for a very long time.
The hum deepened around him, steady, alive, like the Throne itself breathing. And then the words came, clear and unyielding, sinking deep:
Today, the power to be both Originarch and Primarch rests in your hands.