It began with a tremble—an almost-sound, a not-quite-moan, rising from the soul's marrow. The realm of the Echo-Silts, once ringing with voiceless harmonics, now pulsed with hesitation. A choir, once endless in its hunger to scream without words, had faltered.
Because something had been spoken without sound.
Because Nyx had remembered herself.
Because Kaela had bared a truth through touch, not tale.
Because Darius had listened—not with ears, but with the myth-born stillness between names.
The Unnamed Choir shuddered.
Its thousands of fragmented voices turned inward, howling with contradictions. Their melodies—crafted from every word denied, every confession swallowed, every desire choked back in shame—no longer aligned. Their dissonance was no longer powerful. It was unbearable.
One by one, their shapes broke.
