The wind hit sideways.
Elior stumbled as the Gate slammed shut behind him. A pulse like thunder rolled through his spine—the space sealing itself with a low whum, the sound thick and final, like the last breath of a dying god.
His boots skidded across the slick, glass-like stone, fine red dust grinding beneath his heels. The Sacred Staff buzzed in his hand—awake, tense. Like it knew what came next.
Behind him, Seraphis emerged in a flash of silver and black. The beast's flanks heaved, claws dragging smoke as they touched the ground. The wounds across his side hissed, steam curling like burned incense. Old magic, trying to hold together.
Before them—
A city with no floor.
Just platforms. Floating. Endless.
Above and below, spiraling towers twisted like shattered flutes, their spires stabbing a sky that bled—not water, but threads of crimson silk. Each thread cut the air, slicing wind into harmonics. The whole realm sang. Not with melody. With edge. With intention.
It felt like standing in the throat of something ancient that hadn't finished screaming.
Elior stepped forward.
The platform rippled under his boots, like stepping on something alive that had forgotten how to die.
"What is this place?" he asked, voice low.
Seraphis padded forward beside him. "Kael-Vareth," the beast growled. "The Hollow Choir. Realm of the Unwritten."
"Sounds charming."
"It's not."
Above them—laughter.
Thin. Hollow. Like someone imitating joy and getting it wrong.
Figures drifted down from the sky. Dozens. Maybe hundreds. None of them walked. None of them had legs. Just robes—woven from torn symphonies. Every thread thrummed with unfinished notes. Their faces were mirrors. Silver, shifting.
Each mirror reflected Elior—but not as he was.
As he could've been.
One image showed him seated on a black throne, wearing a crown of collapsing stars. Another, his body wrapped in flame and shadow, staring from behind a mask of bone. A third—peaceful. A face untouched by war. A life never lived.
Elior clenched his jaw. He didn't flinch.
"They're not real," Seraphis warned. "They're echoes. Possibilities. Don't trust what you see."
The floating figures circled them, forming a ring. Their mouths opened—but no lips moved. Instead, music spilled out. And not from one. From all.
Voices layered, hundreds of versions of Elior singing together. Harmonies that didn't belong in this world. One note warm like firelight. The next cold as betrayal. Another cracked, like grief that never got to speak.
It clawed at him. Tried to rewrite his bones.
"Do I fight them?" he asked.
Seraphis growled low. "No. You listen. But not with your ears."
Elior shut his eyes.
The staff trembled in his grip.
The sound wasn't just music. It was offering. Power with no chains. Rest with no regrets. Glory without the cost.
All he had to do… was forget who he was.
And become someone else.
He opened his eyes.
Raised the staff—
And slammed it into the stone.
The sound that erupted wasn't just noise. It was a refusal. A pulse of white-blue light exploded outward in a ring. The music shattered. The mirrors cracked.
The floating choir shrieked—not in pain. In rage.
They'd been denied something they wanted.
They scattered like crows—
And then the floor split.
From the depths below, something rose.
Not a beast. Not a man.
A machine of music.
A Maestralith.
Strings coiled like muscle across a frame of brass and bone. Its limbs moved with rhythm, not motion. Every joint released a tremor of sound. At its center—an obsidian heart, pulsing to a beat only it understood.
The staff lit up in Elior's hands—automatic. Ready.
The Maestralith screamed.
Not a roar. Not a cry.
A sonic blade, carved into the air. The pressure hit them like gravity bending sideways. The sky screamed back. The red threads in the air twisted faster. Platforms cracked.
"Move!" Seraphis barked, already charging forward, claws dragging trails of blue fire.
Elior lunged left. The Maestralith's cords launched—dozens of wire-whips tearing through space. Elior spun the staff, carved a circle in the air—blue fire flared to life, forming a glyph-shield.
The whips hit—
Boom—
Each impact like drums exploding.
Seraphis leapt high, landed on the creature's back, tearing at its coils. Wires snapped. But another whip struck his side, flinging him into a wall of floating stone. Dust flew.
He rose again—shaky, snarling.
"Heart!" he roared. "Strike the heart!"
Elior ran.
The platform twisted under him, gravity bending like rubber. He flipped sideways mid-run, landing on the curve of a floating arch. Ran along it like it was ground. The staff split at the tip—three blades opening like a blooming flame.
The Maestralith struck again, cords arcing at him like lightning.
He ducked, rolled, slid beneath one.
Then—
He planted the staff.
A memory charged in the core. A flicker. Not light. Not fire. Memory.
The final breath of a harpist, long dead. Her fingers broken. Her last song unfinished.
Elior fired it.
The bolt screamed across the air—silent, but felt.
It hit the heart.
The Maestralith faltered.
Elior launched upward, riding the wave of the memory. Strings lashed at him—he spun between them, staff slicing a path through sound. Coils snapped. The sky cracked.
He flipped once, twice—
And drove the staff down.
Straight into the heart.
BOOM.
The runes flared—pure white. The Maestralith released one final burst of sound. A note so perfect it didn't hurt—it healed. One true sound. A memory honored.
The creature froze.
Then unraveled.
Strings dissolved to dust.
Brass folded into itself.
Gone.
The silence that followed wasn't empty.
It was earned.
The city shifted. Towers realigned. Platforms settled.
A doorway appeared—made from hovering instruments, humming with silence. Tuned not to play—but to wait.
Elior stepped toward it.
Paused.
Looked back.
The sky still bled, but slower now. Threads falling gently. The music had gone quiet. Not gone. Just… resting.
"You alive?" he asked.
Seraphis limped over. One eye swelling. Smoke curling from a torn shoulder.
"Mostly."
They walked to the gate together.
And passed through.
The world bent again.
Space folded.
Then—
A new realm.
This one didn't sing.
It howled.
The sky was a permanent twilight, red and gold smashed together like fire behind torn cloth. Mountains rose like broken knives. Between them, chains. Black. Massive. Holding something in place.
Something breathing.
Drums pounded in the distance.
Not music.
Footsteps.
And each one got closer.
Elior narrowed his eyes.
Seraphis growled, low.
The next trial had already seen them.
And it had teeth.