The corridor stretched ahead—and the whispers followed.
There had once been three voices in the Deathsong: a piercing high tone, a guttural hum, and the ceaseless whisper beneath. Each born of a resonance node. Two were gone now.
The soprano had fallen with the Wildfang Node. The bass had died with the Warden's Bloom.
Only the whisper remained.
Not from behind. Not from the walls. From everywhere.
They were no longer ambiance. No longer echoes.
They were targeted.
Soft, beckoning phrases trailed at the edges of each mind:
"You shouldn't have come."
"She sees you."
"The third heart is waiting."
The Deathsong had narrowed to this one final tone, stripped of its harmonies, baring the marrow beneath the choir.
The hall twisted subtly as they walked—too long, too narrow, yet somehow also tilting at a downward slant that hadn't been there before.
