So, it's been ten freakin' millennia since the stars lined up the way they were supposed to. Ten thousand years of nothing but cosmic static, both up above Aeridor and, honestly, inside the weird, tangled hearts of the seven—yeah, those same nutcases who used to call themselves the Celestial Choir.
But now? They're back. All of 'em. Inside this place called the House Between Stars, where time just sort of spills sideways and the sky is basically a fever dream. The ceiling's doing its best impression of a memory explosion. Very trippy.
Seven voices. Seven powers. United. Or, well… mostly united. There's always one, right?
Maelin goes in first. Boots barely making a sound on this silver, mirror-bright floor. She's got this flame-crystal dangling at her chest, glowing like it's got secrets. It pulses—once, twice, seven times, then again, then picks up speed like a heart that just realized it's in deep trouble.
Kaelen's next, lurking behind her, always on edge, and then the rest of the Choir file in, each one practically glowing with their own star's flavor.
Tharos—big, fiery, a total show-off.
Liora—draped in seafoam, looks like she just swam through a dream.
Serai—the quiet one, eyes like she's seen the end of the world and didn't hate it.
Iravelle—used to be a mess, now she's somehow beautiful and a little dangerous.
The Hollow Wind—doesn't say much, but you always know they're there.
And the Sentinel—tall, unmoving, like someone stuck a mountain inside a person.
They make their way to this so-called throne of dreams, where Nerethiel stands, finally awake. Her wings? Massive. Like, cathedral-ceiling massive.
Except—something's off.
Her eyes, usually soft and a little spacey, are lit up with something new. Not exactly friendly. The mirror-floor under her feet is spider-webbing with cracks every time her heart beats.
"She's not alone," Iravelle whispers, because of course she notices the creepy stuff.
The Sentinel steps up. "Her dream's leaking. Something old's been feeding while she was out."
And then—a voice that isn't Nerethiel's leaks out of her mouth:
> "You summoned harmony… and brought me instead."
Yeah. That's not ominous at all.
The air goes sideways, and out of Nerethiel's own shadow, another figure drags itself up—tall, sharp-edged, made of smoke and broken glass. Its voice is just… nothing. Like, the sound of missing sound.
> "I am the note that was cut. The verse you left behind."
Maelin's face says it all. "You're—"
> "The Forgotten Chord."
No name in any old story. No little doodle on the star map. Never sang with the Choir. But, get this—he's always been there. Lurking in the silence, living between all the things the Choir never dared to sing.
"You shouldn't exist," Serai breathes, backing off.
> "Exactly," the Forgotten Chord spits back, "and yet… you called me with your unity."
Maelin edges forward because of course she does. "You're not a star. You're the nothing between them."
> "And voids get hungry, kid."
Right then, the House shakes like it just remembered it's not actually real estate. Nerethiel screams—not afraid, but fighting. The Forgotten Chord yanks her toward him, like she's a puppet and he's the world's worst ventriloquist.
Kaelen's got his blade out. Tharos is flexing literal fire. But Maelin throws up a hand. "No. Not yet."
She turns to the others. "We came here to sing the world back together, right? So we have to sing even him into place. Even the Forgotten Chord."
> "You'd dare tie me into your little harmony?" it snarls.
"Yep," Maelin says, holding up the flame-crystal. "You were never the villain. You're just the song we never finished."
And then she starts to sing. Just her, at first. But the others fall in, one by one. Seven voices braiding together—shadow, light, fire, storm, sorrow, silence.
Somewhere deep in Nerethiel, a tear slips out. Not from pain. Hope, maybe.
The Forgotten Chord screams as the song wraps around him—not a cage, more like a handshake. An invite.
Come on in. You belong.
And for the very first time, he actually sings back.