Snow flaked down like cigarette ash—soft, weirdly heavy—over the peak of Mount Aelriin.
Out here? No cities, no music, just wind that screamed like it was grieving. The last of the Choir, still and quiet, stuffed away in a coffin of glossy black stone. Guy hadn't moved in ages. Probably didn't even remember how.
Maelin had seen him before, but only in sleep. Dreams, really. Never a face—just this vague outline, standing at the edge of some godawful cliff, staring out at a sea so dark it ate the light, and didn't even bother with waves. Creepy, honestly.
Nobody spoke his name. Seriously, not even Iravelle, and she wasn't exactly shy. The Hollow Wind? Forget it. They acted like the name was a curse, or just too old for words.
Anyway, Maelin climbs up, hands numb, lungs on fire, feeling like the mountain wants to spit her out. But she keeps going, because that's what you do when you've got divine baggage. She feels it—this ancient heaviness, like the mountain itself is holding its breath.
He wasn't just taking a nap, that's for sure. He'd locked himself away, like a kid hiding under the bed from monsters. Or maybe he was the monster. Who knows.
She makes the summit right as dusk crashes in. The sky's a bloody mess, clouds thick as soup. No stars—just the flame-crystal buzzing in her hand, packed with the whispers of five gods. It's almost too much.
And bang, there it is: a hulking slab of black stone, runes nearly vanished, humming some weird bass note that rattles her teeth. Not exactly cozy.
Kaelen's voice comes from behind, all hushed and spooked. "He called himself the Sentinel once. The Star That Watched." Like that's supposed to be comforting.
Maelin wanders closer, kinda hypnotized by the noise. The stone feels… not dead. Not warm either, but it's paying attention.
She leans in, whispers, "I know you're listening. You saw everything fall apart first. And you were last to close your eyes."
Stone doesn't answer. Figures.
Kaelen edges up. "He sealed himself up to protect us. But sacrifice like that? It messes you up."
Iravelle, in the back, mumbling like she's afraid to say it out loud: "He didn't just lock himself away. He trapped something else, too. Something worse."
Maelin presses that overloaded flame-crystal to the stone.
And boom—the ground convulses. Cracks split the monolith, leaking blue light like the world's worst nightlight.
A voice rumbles out—doesn't even bother with words—just slams her with raw feelings.
Memory. Sorrow. Vigilance. Terror.
Then, finally:
"You've gathered the others."
Her knees wobble, but she nods. Gotta fake confidence sometimes.
"We need you now."
Silence. Like the mountain itself is thinking about it.
Then:
"If I get up, all the chains break—not just mine. Hers, too. You get that?"
"She's already waking up," Maelin shoots back. "And you're the only one who can keep her from wrecking everything."
The monolith splits—no epic music, just stone grinding open.
He steps out.
Robe looks like someone stitched it from midnight and bad dreams, face unreadable, eyes like deep space. The Sentinel. Number seven.
He looks right at her, dips his head.
"You carry our voices. You carry the choice."
And, boom—all seven stars blaze up in the flame-crystal at once.
But way off, in that bizarre dreamscape between worlds, Nerethiel opens her eyes.
And something else wakes up, too.
Something that damn well doesn't belong in any song anyone ever sang.