The battlefield was no longer earth and ash, but sound and mory. The lattice blazed above, chains stretched taut, and every survivor’s mind beca both a pillar and a weakness.
The Unborn pressed into those weaknesses.
Its hymn softened, almost tender, winding through the choir like a lover’s whisper. It no longer shouted despair; it seduced. Kael felt his blade lighten in his hand, the pain ebbing. He heard his comrades laughing again, voices from before the wars, when hope still lived. For an instant, he longed to sink into that mory, to stay.
Then their laughter broke into coughing, choking, gurgling death. The illusion twisted, leaving him with corpses once more.
Others buckled under similar visions. The farr cried out, reaching for ghostly sons who appeared before him, arms outstretched. He ran to them, only for their forms to shatter into black ash that poured into his lungs. He collapsed, gagging, dragging the entire chain web with him.
The widow clawed at her face, whispering, “They’re inside ... I can feel them crawling.” The hymn amplified her panic until it bled into all of them. Chains frayed, sparks bursting from the lattice.
Elara fought to hold the boy steady. His light flickered wildly, his small fra convulsing as the hymn tried to burrow deeper into him. “Stay with ,” she pleaded, pressing her forehead to his. “Stay here. Not with him.”
But the boy’s mouth opened, and another voice poured out—ancient, booming, the Unborn’s echo. “He is mine. He was always mine.”
The scarred woman raised her spear, teeth bared. “End him now before it’s too late!” She lunged, but Kael intercepted her, blade sparking against her shaft.
“Not while I breathe!” he roared, though his arms shook under the weight of both her strike and the hymn gnawing at his will.
Their clash tore the choir further apart. Threads of unity splintered, discord spilling into the lattice. The Unborn’s laughter deepened, its shadow pressing closer through the fissure, the Gate’s chains screaming as they strained.
Kael staggered, heart pounding. He could feel it inside him—the temptation to yield, to let silence claim him. Then he saw Elara again, clutching the boy, her body trembling yet unbroken. She was not singing words now, only a hum, low and steady. A lullaby.
The sound wove gently through the choir, finding those who still stood. The widow’s breath slowed. The farr’s convulsions eased. Even Kael felt the trembling in his hands lessen.
It was not a song of denial or defiance. It was acceptance—the lody of scars carried without sha.
Kael closed his eyes, let the hum fill him, and added his own note—not pure, not strong, but resolute. Others followed, one by one, voices cracked and jagged yet binding together. The lattice flared, trembling but whole.
The Unborn hissed, its whispers turning sharp. “You cannot hold forever.”
Kael lifted his blade, his voice raw. “Then we’ll hold long enough.”
The fissure shuddered. The Gate trembled.
The hymn warred on, but the survivors sang still.
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