That Harbinger's warning stuck to Maelin's mind like stubborn smoke—ugh, she could practically taste it, even after the creep vanished. Morning crawled in, painting the ash-dusted trees gold, but everything still felt… off. Like the world was a guitar string about to snap.
Kaelen kept marching them north, toward the Shattered Vale.
"This land once echoed with her voice," he muttered. "Now, even echoes avoid it."
Yeah, Maelin didn't have to ask who "her" was. She knew. Everybody did.
Iravelle. The fourth Choir member. Keeper of Dissonance, back when the Choir was a thing. She was the one who sang the ugly truths, the warnings no one wanted to hear, the pain between the pretty notes. And then the Discord hit, and the Choir shattered, and Iravelle's song? Forget it. It spun wild—raw and angry, impossible to ignore.
The stories—gods, the stories—said she kept singing after the rest turned silent, just belting her rage into the bones of the earth.
So yeah, the land felt haunted. No surprise there.
They got closer, and things only got weirder.
The mountains curled in on themselves, all hunched and suspicious. Trees practically flinched away from the path. Not a single bird. Not even the wind wanted anything to do with this place.
Dead center: a busted-up stone amphitheater, half-swallowed by the ground. Once, it must've been loud in there. Now? Graveyard quiet.
Maelin crunched over shattered instruments, her boots echoing on marble covered in glyphs nobody bothered to translate anymore. Right in the middle: an obsidian throne, black as regret and sharp as a broken promise.
Iravelle sat there. No crown, just this ragged cloak made of harp strings with not a string left. Her hair spilled everywhere, dark and angry. Her mouth moved, but no sound came out—just these shapes Maelin couldn't make sense of.
Kaelen stopped at the edge, wouldn't budge. "You gotta go alone. She won't hear me."
Yeah. Figures.
Maelin walked in, slow and steady. And weirdly, it wasn't Iravelle's voice she heard—it was her silence. Heavy. Like thunder and old memories, all pressing in.
Then—
"I remember you."
Iravelle's voice didn't bother with Maelin's ears. It just slammed straight into her bones—fury and heartbreak and betrayal, all twisted up in some weird melody.
"You sing for the ones who abandoned me."
Maelin met her gaze. "I sing for the ones who forgot themselves. You didn't forget. You just… got harder."
"Truth has no harmony," Iravelle spat, standing up. Her whole shape flickered—shadow one second, fire the next. "I'm the note that broke the song. And I'm not getting locked up again."
Maelin pulled out the flame-crystal. It throbbed with memories of Tharos, Liora, Serai. The whole crew.
"I'm not here to cage you. I want to listen. Even to the parts that hurt."
They just stared at each other. Nobody moved.
And then Iravelle screamed.
The amphitheater shattered. The stars—hell, even the stars—looked like they flinched.
Maelin just stood there, let the scream crash into her. Didn't flinch. Didn't fight. Just… listened.
When it died down, Iravelle dropped to her knees, shaking.
"You're not scared," she whispered.
Maelin knelt beside her. "Nope. Because your voice matters."
Up above, a fourth light burst onto the map. Not neat, not pretty—jagged as hell and absolutely real.
Iravelle touched Maelin's shoulder, her eyes less stormy now. "Don't look for the fifth."
"Why not?"
"Because he wants to forget. And in forgetting… he's turned dangerous."