Chapter Seventeen: The Shape of Holding
They worked by lantern light.
Not because the chamber was dark—the stone here glowed faintly on its own, a soft pearlescent sheen—but because the ritual needed hands. Needed people doing things, not just thinking them.
Maelra sketched lines on the floor with chalk and crushed stone, her movements careful, reverent.
"These aren't spells," she said. "They're reminders."
Kerris squinted at the symbols. "Reminder to do what?"
"To listen," Aerin said.
The echo inside them wasn't surging anymore. It settled into something like a steady breath—still heavy, but no longer crushing.
Tamsin sat cross-legged near a pillar, turning a small gear over in her hands. "So let me get this straight. The city was built to share feelings so no one place broke."
"Yes," Aerin said. "Joy moved. Grief moved. Fear too. Everything flowed."
"And the Choir blocked that flow," Kerris added. "Because it's easier to govern calm people."
Maelra nodded. "And now the pressure has nowhere to go."
Kerris looked around the chamber. "So we reopen the channels."
"And we need anchors," Aerin said.
They looked at Kerris.
Kerris froze. "No."
"You talk," Aerin said gently. "You connect. People listen to you without realizing it."
"That is wildly irresponsible," Kerris said. "And deeply flattering."
Maelra placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. "You ground people without stealing from them."
Kerris swallowed. "I preferred it when I was comic relief."
"You still are," Tamsin said. "You're just… structural."
Kerris stared at the floor. "I hate that."
They positioned themselves around the chamber.
Maelra at the stone. Tamsin at the mechanisms hidden in the walls—old switches disguised as ornamentation. Kerris in the center, lantern raised.
Aerin stood at the heart.
The echo stirred, attentive.
"Don't take," Maelra warned. "Invite."
Aerin nodded.
They closed their eyes and opened instead.
They let the echo breathe outward—not pulling emotion in, but letting it pass through, guided, shaped only by intention.
Kerris began to speak.
Not loudly.
"Okay," he said, voice steady. "This is going to sound strange, but if you're scared right now—yeah, you. That's fair."
The words didn't echo through stone.
They echoed through people.
Above them, a woman paused mid-prayer, hand pressed to her chest. A guard leaned against a wall, breath slowing. A child stopped crying.
Kerris continued. "You don't have to be strong alone. You don't have to hand it over to anyone."
The channels opened.
The city sighed.
Emotion flowed—not erased, not sharpened—shared. Pressure eased. Cracks sealed, not perfectly, but honestly.
Aerin trembled, sweat beading at their brow.
"It's working," Tamsin whispered.
Too well.
The Choir felt it instantly.
The Conductor stiffened. "They're restoring circulation."
"That undermines us," a singer hissed.
"It ends us," the Conductor replied.
Her smile vanished.
"Prepare the Binding Hymn."
Back in the chamber, Aerin gasped as resistance slammed into the flow—smooth, practiced, smothering.
"They're pushing back," Aerin cried.
Maelra braced against the pillar, stone grinding. "Hold!"
Kerris's voice wavered—but did not stop.
"We're still here," he said. "You don't need permission to feel."
The echo surged in response.
The city answered.
Somewhere deep beneath the foundations, something ancient and communal leaned forward.
And the Choir began to sing a song meant not to guide—
—but to end the conversation.