The first sign came in song.
Not one sung aloud—but carried through dreams, a chorus made of voices that had never belonged to the living.
It came from every shadow, every ripple in the veil. And though the rest of Kadven slept unaware, I knew the tune.
I had heard it before.
In the silence between Azraleth's words.
In the breath between memories.
In the heartbeat of the throne.
The Chorus of the Unseen was awakening.
It started with a tremor beneath the academy. A long, low hum that shook the foundations but left no cracks—just a strange echo that lingered in the minds of those who listened too long.
One instructor screamed during a lesson. Another walked straight off the eastern tower, smiling.
Each one heard the song before they fell.
The headmasters summoned me.
Their council chamber was dim, even at midday—shutters drawn, protective glyphs glowing faintly at the corners.
Twelve seats were filled. Mine, the Thirteenth, had remained empty since my return from the Throne.
I stood instead.
"You feel it," said Headmaster Orien, a man whose skin was inked with living runes.
I nodded. "The veil sings."
Another leaned forward, eyes bloodshot. "Then you know what's coming."
I looked around the circle. Their faces were proud—but tired. Even the strongest feared what I now carried.
"No," I said. "I don't know. But I remember."
They wanted to seal the academy. Block the old paths. Lock down the crypts.
But this wasn't something that could be locked away.
Because it wasn't coming from outside.
It was within us all.
The memory wound had opened. And the Chorus was its voice.
I left the council chamber in silence.
Outside, the skies bled color. Not red. Not gold. Something in between, like bruised starlight.
And beneath the marble pathways of Kadven, something stirred.
Not a creature.
A presence.
I descended alone—back into the hollowed places no map ever showed.
Past the Mirror Abyss. Past the Bone Halls.
Down to the Silent Crypt—a chamber even I had never entered.
Its doors had no handle, only smooth obsidian stone. But when I touched it with my bare hand, it dissolved into mist.
Inside, twelve monoliths floated above a pool of ink. No runes. No light. Just shadows with memory.
And at the center, a broken harp.
Strings of hair. Wood of bone.
It played itself.
The song was unbearable—too many voices, too many truths.
I fell to my knees as the visions began.
A kingdom burning, not from fire, but from remembrance.
A gate that screamed when opened.
A child—me—standing in a field of stars, holding nothing but silence.
Then the voices changed.
They were clearer now.
Familiar.
My other selves.
The ones I'd seen in the throne room—the boy, the monster, the warrior, the one who died too soon.
They surrounded me now, flickering like candle flames.
"You sat the throne," one whispered.
"But you haven't accepted the cost," said another.
"Until you sing," the final one murmured, "you are not yet whole."
I stood.
The harp still played.
But now, it waited for me.
Not to destroy it. Not to seal it.
To join it.
I reached out, and the moment my hand touched a string, the ink pool below lit up with flame.
The memories came crashing in.
Not just mine.
Everyone's.
Every forgotten soul that had brushed the veil. Every whisper that died before it reached a tongue. Every truth burned before it could become history.
They sang through me.
I didn't scream.
I didn't weep.
I listened.
And when the song ended, I knew what I had to do.
The Chorus of the Unseen wasn't a curse.
It was a warning.
A last message sent from the other side—before the next Gate opens.
Before something worse than Azraleth steps through.
I emerged from the crypt hours—or days—later.
My eyes no longer reflected the academy.
They reflected the truth.
The headmasters saw it.
And they bowed.
Not to power.
To remembrance.
Now, Kadven prepares—not for war, but for reckoning.
Because the final veil is thinning.
And this time, it won't break in silence.