The commander knelt on the marble floor, blood staining the edge of his cloak. His voice trembled, not from pain, but from the weight of failure.
"They… sang," he said.
The chamber was silent. Dozens of robed figures sat in a circle around him, their faces shadowed by torchlight. At the center of the chamber stood the High Mirror, a polished slab of obsidian that reflected no light. Their god's symbol—the jagged Shard—loomed above like a fractured crown.
The High Priest leaned forward. "Explain."
"They didn't fight like soldiers. They stood behind that veil of light and shadow. And then… they sang. The sound was everywhere. Some of our men dropped their blades. Others ran. We tried to strike—but the sky itself moved."
Murmurs rippled through the council. "A veil?" someone whispered. "A false god?"
The High Priest raised a hand, silencing them. His gaze was cold and sharp. "This Prophet has stirred something. Words can be contained. Swords can be met. But songs…" His lips curled into a snarl. "Songs travel."
In the corner of the chamber, a captured soldier shifted uneasily. He wasn't bound; he didn't try to escape. He simply hummed.
At first, it was soft. Barely audible.
Then the melody wound its way through the silence like smoke.
Two alternating voices—one bright and rising, the other low and steady—twined together.
"Light remembers, night forgives,
Stone will echo, flame will live.
Gaze unbroken, sky untorn,
Through the Veil, our faith is born."
The council froze.
The melody lingered even after the soldier stopped, as though the walls themselves had caught it. A priest covered his ears. Another whispered a prayer to the Shard.
The High Priest's expression hardened. "This is how heresies spread. Not through words, but through the mouth of the commoner. Stamp it out."
Far away, in the valley, I stood atop the temple steps and watched the sun dip behind the ridges.
At dusk, the people gathered again. Torches were lit in pairs, gold and silver, like they had the night after the battle. But tonight was different. Tonight, there was a rhythm to the crowd. A pulse.
A group of travelers from a distant village had arrived at noon. They carried no weapons—only the song. They had learned it from a stonemason who passed through their fields, and now their children sang it while gathering water.
The melody rose as the twin flames touched.
"Light remembers, night forgives…"
It was imperfect. Off-key in places. But faith isn't measured in pitch—it's measured in echoes.
I closed my eyes and listened. In my mind's eye, I saw villages far away. People repeating the tune without knowing its origin. Mothers humming it to children. Workers singing it under their breath. Wanderers carrying it across mountains.
The song was spreading faster than any messenger I could send.
By nightfall, a caravan arrived from a nearby settlement. They carried news of unrest.
"The Shard priests have begun interrogating travelers," one man told me. "They're searching for anyone who sings 'the Veil song.'"
A woman added, "They say it's cursed. But people sing it anyway. It's… stuck in our heads."
Her hands trembled as she spoke, but her eyes shone with something I hadn't seen before.
Not fear.
Defiance.
In the Shard Citadel
The High Priest dismissed the council and walked alone through the torchlit halls. The hymn still echoed faintly from the distant cells. It had wormed its way into his mind, stubborn and soft.
He muttered prayers to the Shard, but the melody threaded itself between his words like silk through stone.
Somewhere deep inside, he felt a tremor—not from his god, but from something older. Something that remembered.
He clenched his fists. "We will burn the song out of their throats," he hissed.
But even as he said it, his lips betrayed him.
He was humming.
Back in the Valley
I stood beneath the stars. The runes carved into the temple walls glimmered faintly. The song had ended, but the valley still pulsed with its memory.
I whispered into the night. "They fear the song."
The air shifted.
A faint, familiar voice—calm, timeless—breathed through the stones.
"Flame spreads fastest when unseen."
A shiver ran down my spine. It wasn't a warning. It was a truth.
The Shard Church could strike down messengers. They could burn temples. But they couldn't cage a melody carried by farmers, whispered by children, echoed by stone.
The faith wasn't waiting anymore.
It was moving.