The road south was dead.
Not in the way a forest path might seem abandoned—but in the sense that life itself had withdrawn. The air hung heavy, thick with unseen weight. The trees here bent unnaturally, their branches twisting in the same direction—as if bowing to something long buried.
Valen and Lyra moved without speaking. The silence between them was no longer awkward, but sharpened—honed like a blade's edge. Windhollow was behind them. What remained of it could no longer be called a village.
The attack had left only six survivors.
They didn't look back.
They traveled by dusk and slept in daylight, setting up sigil circles Valen carved from salt, silver dust, and dried crow's tongues. Lyra was no longer frightened of what he did, though she still didn't understand half of it.
Their path took them through Deadbriar Fen—a swamp said to weep blood during the winter moons.
On the second night, as fog crawled through the branches like white serpents, Lyra asked, "Who trained you?"
Valen didn't stop walking. "A knight."
"From Sanctum?"
"No," he said. "From before Sanctum."
Lyra raised a brow. "How far back do you go?"
He glanced at her, a smirk barely tugging at his lips. "Farther than you'd guess."
By the third night, they reached the broken watchtower that marked the border of Caer Sorrow. The stone was blackened by time, its once-golden banners rotted away to strands. Strange writing marked its base—letters shaped like claws and knives.
Lyra crouched to trace one. "This isn't Old Tongue."
"No," Valen said. "It's Deep Glyph. Pre-Hollow."
She looked up. "You mean before the Hollow Choir?"
Valen's face darkened. "They didn't always sing."
She felt it then—that cold shiver behind her eyes. As if the world had narrowed to a single breath. A prelude.
"They're coming, aren't they?"
He nodded.
The Hollow Choir did not walk.
They did not ride.
They arrived like mist—silent, faceless, and humming a lullaby older than any language. No mouths moved. Yet the sound crawled through the trees, coiling inside skulls like a mother's whisper twisted by grief.
The first of them appeared just past midnight.
Valen stood atop the tower, sword in hand. Lyra crouched behind the remnants of a battlement, a crossbow loaded with silver-bone bolts on her lap.
They watched as figures emerged from the fog—tall, cloaked in shadows. Their limbs too long, heads bowed as if weeping. No eyes. No mouths.
Just voices.
They sang.
A soft, warbling tune that made Lyra's stomach churn.
She tried to block it out. She pressed her hands to her ears.
But it didn't stop. The song was inside her. Inside her memories. She could feel her thoughts unraveling—memories folding in on themselves.
She was seven again. Her father screaming.
Then fourteen. Her mother's corpse, cold in the bathtub.
Then—
A slap across her face. Hard.
She blinked. Gasped.
Valen knelt in front of her. "Stay awake. Stay here."
She looked past him. "You can't fight that alone—"
"I have to."
"Then I'm coming too."
"No."
"I'm not a child!"
"No. You're worse," he said, rising. "You're marked."
Then he dropped off the tower.
Valen hit the ground in silence.
He rolled and came up with sword drawn, cutting through one of the Choir in a single motion. Its body collapsed into a pool of black petals that hissed and rotted the stone.
Another advanced. He ducked its swipe—no, its song. The sound grew sharper as the thing neared, like a scream trapped in a bell jar.
He stabbed upward.
The Choir fell apart.
But more came.
Dozens.
Their voices harmonized into something that bled into the air. Reality itself trembled. Trees withered. The tower cracked. Lyra screamed as her ears began to bleed.
She raised her crossbow and fired. One bolt struck true.
The figure crumpled—but another appeared in its place.
Valen fought like a memory of war. His coat flowed with each slash. His sword gleamed with runes that changed color each time he spoke a name.
"Altherion."
"Raviel."
"Serka'mar."
The blade obeyed.
But he was slowing.
The Choir pressed in.
Then Lyra jumped.
She landed hard, rolled, came up swinging with a salvaged blade she had stolen from a fallen attacker. It wasn't blessed. It wasn't silver. But it was sharp.
Valen turned toward her, fury in his eyes. "I told you—"
"And I disobeyed," she snapped. "Get over it!"
Another Choir lunged. She ducked, stabbed it in the spine. It shrieked—and this time, the song faltered.
Valen blinked.
"You hurt it."
"Accident," she said. "But I'll take it."
He glanced at her palm. The rune had returned. Glowing faintly.
"You're resonating with them," he said.
"No time to explain!"
Together, they fought.
Not side by side—but in sync. Each step she took matched a breath of his. His blade struck where her distractions left openings. Her scream drew their song toward her—giving him the moment he needed to strike.
It wasn't enough.
The Choir began to fuse.
Their forms merged into one—an avatar of voice and sorrow. A towering shape with dozens of faces, all turned inward.
It opened no mouth.
But the song it sang broke the sky.
Clouds split. Wind reversed. The ground cracked.
Lyra collapsed, clutching her head. Blood dripped from her nose. Her vision swam.
Valen stood still, the blade trembling in his hand.
"Can't kill that," she whispered.
"No," he said.
"But I can bind it."
He turned toward her. "What?"
She stood—legs shaking—and extended her marked hand.
"Draw the glyph," she said.
"Lyra—"
"Draw. The glyph. Use me."
He hesitated.
Then traced a symbol in the air.
It burned.
It burned so brightly that the world around them dimmed. The sky went black. The Choir screamed—not in melody, but pain.
The mark on Lyra's hand flared white.
She stepped forward.
One pace.
Two.
The Choir reached for her—but her mark pushed it back. She was the key. The lock. The door.
She whispered a single word.
It was not of this world.
The Choir shattered.
Not just in body—but in sound.
The song stopped.
And the forest sighed.
Morning came slow.
Valen sat at the tower's base, cleaning his sword.
Lyra knelt beside the ashes of what had once been the Hollow Choir. Nothing remained but a bone flute, cracked down the middle.
She picked it up.
"Do you think they were people once?"
Valen nodded. "A long time ago."
"What changed them?"
He looked at the sky. "They listened too long."
"To what?"
"The world before the world."
That night, they made camp at the edge of Caer Sorrow. The ruined city lay ahead, half-buried in roots and time.
Lyra watched the stars.
"Why me?" she asked.
Valen said nothing for a long time.
Then, finally: "Because someone has to survive the story."
She frowned. "That's not an answer."
He didn't look at her. "It's the only one I have."
And the stars—cold, distant—offered no reply.