Corren wasn't looking for answers. He'd already learned that in the Veil, answers came with hooks.
But this one came anyway.
Alsen summoned him to the high chamber under the guise of discussion—"a council of those we trust," he'd said. Corren wasn't sure if it was trust or challenge, but he went. Eryn trailed behind him, unusually quiet. Tomas stood by the brazier, arms folded. Nira clutched the Ledger to her chest like a shield.
The moment he stepped inside, the door shut behind him.
Alsen gestured to a scroll unfurled on the stone table. Threads of light bound the parchment like living veins. It pulsed.
"We've waited long enough," Alsen said. "The nobles think they hold fate because they inherited power. We'll remind them what real inheritance looks like."
He waved his hand. The scroll shimmered—maps, bloodlines, names. One pulsed red.
Maxwell. Merrian.
Corren blinked. "What is this?"
Tomas answered instead. "Targets."
Corren's mouth went dry. "You hired the assassins."
Alsen didn't deny it. "Their deaths were meant to send a message. We won't be hidden anymore. We will strike, cut down their heirs, unravel the line before it tightens further."
"They're children," Corren said, voice low.
Alsen's voice sharpened. "So were we when they started hunting us. So were you when your gift started singing."
Corren looked to Nira. Her knuckles whitened on the Ledger.
"You wrote their names down."
"They were names on a list," she said, voice brittle. "No one said they were yours."
"They're not mine," Corren said. "They were children. Innocents. You thought they were dead, didn't you?"
"We all did," Nira whispered.
"Good," Corren said coldly. "Let's keep it that way."
She looked away, trembling. "I didn't know you'd protect them."
"And that makes it better?"
"Enough," Alsen snapped. "You act like you weren't born into this. Like you didn't already choose."
"I never chose this," Corren said. "You forced it on me. Like you're forcing it on them."
Tomas stepped forward. "You knew this day would come. Fight with us, or be broken by them."
Corren's fists clenched. The Song stirred.
"I didn't come here to be your knife."
He turned to leave.
Tomas blocked him. "Not this time."
Blades flashed. Spells flared. The chamber cracked with sound and motion.
And then—Corren broke.
The Song surged—not a single note, but a choir of layered harmonics, each one piercing deeper than steel. They rippled out like waves. Walls shook. Stone hummed. Note attached to all in the room
And with them came clarity:
Tomas: anger hiding fear of being obsolete.
Nira: grief wrapped in resolve.
Eryn: hope twisted with guilt.
Alsen: certainty masking terror.
Corren didn't speak. He didn't need to. He turned the Song inward, reflected it back.
Alsen staggered, breath caught in his throat. His rhythm fractured—his voice, his strength—unmade by the very fear he used to command. And then—silence. His song, once sharp and burning, cut off mid-note. Gone.
The others backed away.
Then came Eryn's voice, sharp and strange: "Go. Now."
She unleashed a single hum—fractured memory—and the guards around them froze mid-step, blinking as if lost in another year.
They ran.
Through tunnel and root-choked stairs, they fled.
"Why?" Corren asked, breath ragged.
Eryn didn't look back. "Because I remembered what it felt like when someone gave me a choice."
Ahead, the tunnel widened into night.
Behind him, silence returned to the Veil.
He and Eryn had parted ways hours ago—no words, just a nod and the silence of two who understood it was time.
And Corren knew what it meant:
The war hadn't started.
It had simply chosen its tempo.