The ink-born audience advanced.Each step oozed sound — not footsteps, but chords, warped and discordant.
The nearest one's "mouth" — a trumpet fused into its jaw — blasted a note that hit Silas like a shove. His knees buckled.
"Don't listen," Lyra shouted, raising her violin.She played a sharp counter-note. The sound shimmered in the air, clashing against the creature's music until both dissolved.
Silas straightened. The melody from earlier still pulsed in his mind, coiled tight in his fingers. He didn't know how he knew it, but he sat at the piano.
One note.The sound hit the audience like a ripple, making their forms shiver.
Second note.A few staggered back.
Third—
Pain spiked in his head. A picture flashed: a boy with a paper crown, laughing in sunlight. The image crumbled into nothing. He couldn't remember his face.
The music had taken it.
Lyra's voice cut through his haze. "Silas—!"
Too late. A figure lunged, its violin-spine glowing. The bow drove forward like a spear.
The impact was ice in his chest. His breath caught—Then everything went black.