The Vault of Stars was gone.
Not destroyed—absorbed. Its power now lived within Kairo, flowing through the twin marks on his skin, pulsing with every heartbeat. As they fled Virelai's shattered bones, he could still feel its rhythm—quiet, steady, guiding.
They moved fast.
By dusk, the dead city was a silhouette on the horizon, swallowed by stormclouds. Choir patrols had begun to swarm the ruins, drawn by the Cantor's death and the sudden, jarring loss of a song long buried. Kairo, Yui, and Aeska moved through the broken wilderness westward, following a route only Kairo could see.
The Song was pulling him.
They didn't sleep that night.
Not really.
Every time they closed their eyes, they heard it—drums in the distance. Marching. Cold, metallic rhythms that felt more like gears grinding than music. The Silent Choir had unleashed their soldiers.
Not beasts. Not wraiths.
Silencers.
"Tell me that's just wind," Aeska whispered as they crouched beneath a half-collapsed bridge the next morning, watching something massive move across the ridgeline above.
It was ten feet tall, metal-wrapped and rune-bound. Its chest glowed with inverted sigils, and its steps sang no sound. Where a face should have been, there was only a mouth—wide, jagged, stitched shut. Around its head floated three hovering rings of broken scripture, slowly rotating in perfect silence.
Kairo's breath caught. "A First Choir relic. A pre-Sundering Silencer."
"They haven't used those in centuries," Aeska hissed. "They're soul-caged weapons. Designed to erase not just memory—but names."
Yui held tightly to Kairo's arm. "They're looking for you."
"No," he said. "They're looking for the others."
He looked toward the west—toward the echoes of the song still calling to him.
"They know we've started the Ash March."
They reached a high ridge by nightfall. From there, they could see the outline of the Wyrmspine Valley—a fractured land of buried bones, black glass, and ancient battlefields where sky-ships once burned. Somewhere below, Kairo knew, one of the seven fragments—another Ashborn—was stirring.
But so were the Choir.
Below, a company of Silencers had already begun to move in formation, flanking the valley's mouth. With them were Choirbinders—cloaked war-scribes who carried books chained to their flesh, their mouths stitched with inked thread, their hands inked with living spells.
"We're too late," Aeska whispered. "They're setting a trap."
Kairo shook his head. "They think they're setting a trap."
He looked to Yui. "Do you trust me?"
Her smile was weary, but unwavering. "Always."
He reached into his pouch and pulled out the ash-sigil from the Vault—a concentrated note from the heart-crystal. He placed it on the ground and whispered an incantation only his marks could unlock.
The sigil expanded—glowing outward like wildfire across the stone, drawing new runes and stringing chords through the air.
"What are you doing?" Aeska asked.
"Announcing us."
The sigil sang.
A low, deep tone rolled across the valley like thunder. It wasn't just a note—it was a name.
Kairo of the Ashborn
Bearer of the Flame Sigil
Heir to the Forgotten Song
Down in the valley, the Choir froze.
Even the Silencers faltered.
The world held its breath.
Then a light ignited in the far side of the valley—blue and gold, wild and uneven.
Another song.
Another Ashborn.
"They heard me," Kairo whispered.
A voice echoed back, carried on a burst of wind:
"Come, brother. Let's break the silence."
Kairo smiled.
Then drew his weapon.