The horizon bled light.
Arin and Liora stood before a structure that shouldn't have existed a spire of bone-white glass twisting into the clouds, its surface rippling like water that refused to decide whether it was solid. The ground around it pulsed faintly with breath, the rhythm of something dreaming.
"Is it alive?" Liora whispered.
"Or remembering how to be." Arin kept one hand on his weapon. Every heartbeat echoed in the air, reflected back by the cathedral until it felt as though the building was learning their pulse.
When they stepped through the gate, gravity shifted. Inside, the walls bent outward in impossible geometry. Choir stalls grew from the floor, each seat occupied by stone figures frozen mid-song. Their mouths were open, but no sound came only the shimmer of words etched in light.
Resonance must correct the dissonant.
The words flared when they passed.
They weren't alone.
From the shadows emerged figures wrapped in sound-woven robes. Their faces were masked with mirrored glass; when they spoke, the echo came before the voice.
"Pilgrims of the Void," the leader intoned. "The world convulsed, and yet you remain. You are the proof of the Lament's mercy."
Arin lifted his weapon slightly. "Mercy looks strange."
"Correction is mercy," the figure replied. "We are the Disciples of Resonance. We serve the hymn that rebuilds."
The Disciples moved with measured grace, surrounding them not as captors but as witnesses. Every motion caused faint vibrations through the air, weaving unseen chords that hummed against Arin's bones.
Liora's eyes narrowed. "You're channeling the Choir's residue."
"The Apostate's gift," said the leader. "His fall freed the world from stagnation. You carry his echo."
The mention of the Apostate made the walls shudder. From deep inside the cathedral came a low vibration half heartbeat, half thunder.
Arin looked toward the sound. "What's down there?"
"The Heart of Correction," the leader said simply. "Where the world rewrites itself."