The smoke rose long before the flames could be seen.
From atop the Spine of Kaldrith, Haraza watched it writhe into the sky—an obsidian smear against the copper-red of dawn. The wind whispered ash into his cloak, and the glyphs on his arm hummed low, resonant and restless.
Below, nestled in the valley, was the city of Vell'tara.
Or what remained of it.
They had arrived too late.
Even from this distance, it was clear: entire districts smoldered. Spires lay broken across the streets like snapped bones. The ancient stone walls—etched with protection glyphs older than the Accord itself—had been shattered from within, as though the very earth had risen up and betrayed its makers.
Lirien stood beside him, eyes narrowed.
("That's not siege damage,") she said. ("No catapult did that. Something burst out. From inside.")
Brannock cursed under his breath. ("Gods damn it... I told them to double the seal teams. They didn't listen.")
Caela flipped through her Codex, lips moving as she translated a passage aloud. ("'When the breath of sleep is broken, the choir will sing.' That's the third time that line's shown up in relation to the Spiral Sanctum.")
Haraza turned toward her. ("The Ash-Woken Choir.")
Ryve rolled his shoulder, the blades on his back clinking softly. ("Sounds poetic. Bet it's anything but.")
("It's not a choir,") Caela said grimly. ("It's a condition. A phenomenon recorded in only a few scattered fragments. Always after rift flare-ups. Survivors... if there are any... report voices. Not out loud—inside their minds. Singing. Whispering truths that aren't theirs.")
Haraza nodded. ("We heard the same in the Sanctum. The being—the Breath—it spoke in memory.")
("Think it's connected?") Brannock asked.
Caela closed the Codex. ("No doubt in my mind.")
They descended the slope, boots crunching softly against blackened snow. As they moved closer to the ruins of Vell'tara, the air thickened—not with heat, but with the weight of something watching.
Haraza felt the Thirteenth glyph coil tighter around his senses, as if shielding him.
("Keep your eyes open,") he said. ("And don't trust your ears.")
The streets were eerily silent.
No screams.
No cries for help.
Only the sound of wind whistling through broken archways.
They found the first bodies near the central plaza.
Dozens of them, some half-fused to the cobblestones, others sprawled with eyes wide open and mouths contorted in expressions of reverent awe. Their skin was ashen, but unburnt. No wounds. No blood.
("They didn't die in pain,") Lirien said, frowning. ("They died in... rapture.")
("That's worse,") Ryve muttered.
Brannock knelt beside one of the corpses and pried open a clenched hand. Within the fingers was a piece of obsidian, not unlike the crystal Haraza had claimed—except this one pulsed with a sickly, unstable glyphlight.
("This isn't natural,") Brannock said. ("This is... injected.")
Caela gasped.
("Vocal sigils,") she whispered. ("They were singing glyphs into themselves. These shards are vocal conduits. Someone taught them the harmonics.")
Haraza's heart twisted.
("The Choir isn't just a phenomenon,") he said slowly. ("It's a ritual.")
They reached the heart of the city: a once-beautiful amphitheater built into the side of a marble cliff. Here, the devastation was absolute. The stage had been torn open from beneath, and what now filled the void was a pit that seemed to descend far beyond the natural layers of stone.
A chorus of whispering echoes rose from it—faint, just beyond comprehension.
And then Haraza heard his name.
Not spoken.
Thought.
He staggered back, eyes wide.
The pit pulsed.
("What did you hear?") Caela asked urgently.
("Not what,") he said. ("Who.")
He stepped to the edge of the pit.
The others tensed, ready to drag him back if need be. But Haraza did not fall. He stood firm, staring into the abyss.
And then—he jumped.
He fell.
Through ash. Through light. Through memory.
He saw flashes as he dropped—images burned into the walls of the pit itself. Moments stolen from others: a child's birth, a city's fall, a warrior's last breath. All layered over his own.
And then he stopped.
Not landed.
Stopped.
Held in midair by a spiral of glyphlight, hovering above a circular chamber glowing with the same unstable energy as the crystal shards above.
There were people here.
Dozens.
Still alive.
But they were not speaking.
They were singing.
In harmony.
Their eyes glowed.
And in the center of them, a figure turned to him—a woman with silver-white hair and eyes like molten amber.
("You brought the Thirteenth,") she said, voice smooth and clear despite the chorus.
Haraza took a step forward, the glyph on his arm surging.
("Who are you?")
("I am Voice,") she replied. ("Of the Ash-Woken. Of the New Glyph. Of what comes after.")
He reached for his glyph.
And it sang in answer.