The chains around Veyzrik's fingers tightened, whispering. They always whispered—snatches of the last soul they had consumed, fragments of half-remembered wills. Tonight, the voices were louder. Hungrier.
He paused in the mist, tilting his head, listening.
Feed us.
Burn them.
Take what they hoard.
He flexed his hand, and the whispers cut into silence. A man didn't control souls by listening. He controlled them by drowning them.
From the far corridor of the Temple, the Choir's hum carried even here, faint but gnawing. Veyzrik's lips parted in a grin. He hadn't expected the trial to awaken something that old. The others thought it was just another brand-test. Fools. This wasn't a test. It was a signal.
Someone—or something—was calling.
And Veyzrik intended to be the one who answered.
He drew a shard of black glass from his cloak, its surface shifting like oil. Within it, faint images flickered—shadows of Jacob's group, Aria trembling with soul bleed, Ramsey's fists twitching for release, Connor clutching a memory too fragile to let go.
His pale rings spun faster."Good… break a little more. Just a little. I'll be there when you fall."
The shard dimmed. Veyzrik slipped it away.
Then, above him, the Choir's hum spiked—turning sharp. A warning.
For the first time, Veyzrik froze.
Something else was moving in the Temple.
Not branded. Not Choir. Not even Genevo's puppets.
A presence vast and steady as stone, older than every lie Veyzrik had spun.
It brushed against his soul like a mountain exhaling.
His shadow chains shivered. Ruvane's ghost flickered, its outline warping.
For a heartbeat, Veyzrik saw it—an outline carved in light at the Temple's heart.A throne. Empty. Waiting.
And in the emptiness… horns.
Not the Prophet's. Not Genevo's. Something worse.
The image vanished.
Veyzrik staggered, pressing a hand to his temple, the pale rings in his eyes spinning so fast they blurred into white discs. His breathing hitched.
He'd stared too long. He'd been noticed.
The chains around his hands hissed, unraveling into frantic spirals before snapping tight again. Ruvane's specter crumpled to its knees, silent scream locked in its half-face.
Veyzrik steadied himself.
"…So it wasn't just a trial."His grin returned—sharper, hungrier than before."It's an invitation."
He straightened his hood, shadows folding over his face once more. And then he walked deeper, following the hum that promised ruin.
The Choir digs into trauma and regret. Everyone suffers. But Jubilarch… reacts differently:
⸻
The Roots Stirred Again.
Another whisper tore through the chamber, that bone-rattling hum shaking hidden grief loose from the marrow. Connor's eyes watered, Lyle trembled, Aria nearly broke.
And Jacob?
He started… humming back.
Off-key. Loud. Annoyingly cheerful.
"♪ Laa-laa-laa, you can't have my brain, Choir, it's already rented out to nonsense! ♪"
Ramsey shot him a look. "Are you insane?"
"Probably," jacob grinned, nose bleeding but smiling anyway. "But insanity's cheaper than therapy. Besides—if they're singing, why can't we sing too?!"
The Choir pressed harder, pain spiraling through everyone's chest. Jacob wobbled on his feet, clutched his stomach like a drunk bard, and then pointed at a vine twisting toward Aria.
"You think you're scary? Ha! My grandma's sour soup had more bite than you!"
The vine hesitated.
The group blinked.
And for the briefest, strangest moment—the unbearable weight lightened.
The Choir's hum pressed deeper. Not into the body. Into the marrow. Into memory.
Rowan tried to hold steady, but the sound slipped between his ribs and into the scar he never spoke of.
And suddenly—he was there again.
The battlefield. Smoke choking the air. His father's hand gripping his shoulder, rough but steady.
"Rowan. Drift. Now."
"No, I can fight, I—"
"Rowan—listen to me! Drift!"
The horn sounded.
It wasn't a battle cry. It wasn't even rage.
It was grief, stretched until it shattered.
It was a boy's voice, trapped inside brass, screaming so hard the world mistook it for war.
Rowan froze. His father shoved him—hard—and soulflame surged. The world fractured, space tearing open. He tumbled through light and was gone, dragged far, far from the fight.
But the horn followed him.
The Choir dragged the note forward, deeper, until Rowan saw flashes—
Not his memories. The Horned Man's.
A boy, barefoot in mud, too thin to hold the spear shoved into his hands.
Older men's laughter. Restraint. Touch. Shame.
A voice: "Blow, boy. Make them fight."
The horn pressed against his mouth.
He blew. Not because he wanted to—but because it was the only way anyone heard him.
Years passed.
The sound hollowed him out. His voice became the war. And when they no longer needed the boy, only the horn remained.
The same horn that killed Rowan's father.
Rowan's chest heaved. The sound dug into him, ripping open every wound—his father's blood, his own helplessness.
He wanted to scream.
He wanted to tear the memory away.
But the Choir wouldn't let go.
Jacob felt the spike through the link and staggered. Connor gasped, clutching at his chest. Aria bled harder, the illusion flickering. Markus shut his eyes, jaw clenched against old ghosts. Lyle hissed between his teeth, his logic useless here. Ramsey's fists shook, desperate to hit something he couldn't touch.
Rowan whispered, his voice breaking:
"He… wasn't just a monster."
And the memory of his father's last words burned through the noise—
"Drift, Rowan. Live. Even if it hurts—live."
The horn's scream cracked. For a heartbeat, Rowan felt the boy inside the man—alone, exploited, hollow.
And then he felt his father's hand again. Not pushing him away this time—holding him steady.
Rowan's soulflame flared.
He didn't run.
He didn't drift.
He stood.
And through the link, his pain spread—sharply, but not to crush. To share.
Jacob felt a piece of it. Connor. Markus. Aria. Ramsey. Lyle.
Together, the weight grew lighter.
The Choir faltered. The vine that had been watching recoiled, as if the sound of shared pain was something it couldn't consume.
Rowan's lips trembled. He whispered into the silence:
"I'm not alone anymore."