The Whispering Hills were not just haunted—they were cursed.
Even seasoned Riftwalkers avoided the place. Maps bent themselves when plotted across it. Time pulsed strangely, thick as honey in the air. Every gust of wind carried voices—some pleading, some mocking, some simply screaming. Yet none of them were alive. The Hollow Choir had not sung in centuries, but their echoes remained. And now Callan walked straight into the heart of that dead melody.
The trees were skeletal, pale and sharp like bone. The deeper they went, the more the forest twisted. Flowers grew upside down. Branches curved like claws. At one point, Ren stopped and cursed.
"The hells is that?" he asked, pointing to a tree that bled smoke instead of sap.
Shura sniffed the air. "This place is stitched together wrong. I don't like it."
Callan said nothing. The whispering had already begun for him.
It called him Sovereign. It called him Pretender. It called him by names he hadn't spoken aloud in years.
When they finally reached the ruins of the Hollow Choir's sanctuary, they found a stone circle half-buried in ash. And in the center of that circle stood a figure in white robes, face veiled, body motionless.
Solenne hissed a breath. "That's not possible."
The robed figure turned its head. "Yet here I am."
Its voice echoed, not just through the air, but in the mind.
"You carry the Ash Crown," it said to Callan. "And yet, you live. Curious."
"I've come for truth," Callan said.
"No," said the figure. "You've come for permission."
Before Callan could answer, the ground beneath them erupted in flame—not destructive, but radiant. It formed sigils and symbols in every direction, an ancient dialect of the Flame that even Solenne struggled to decipher.
The robed figure lifted its arms, and others emerged from the forest—twelve in all. Each wore the same white robe. Each veiled. Each silent.
Callan stepped forward. "Are you the last of the Choir?"
"No," the first said. "We are its memory. And memory never dies."
"Then give me the truth."
A moment passed.
Then the robed figure nodded.
"You are not the Flame's successor. You are its container. When the First Sovereign rose, he did so to stop the Breach—not to lead men. The crown was a chain. The throne, a ward. You wear it not as ruler, but as lock."
The words struck harder than a blade.
Callan had always suspected his rise was unnatural. Too sudden. Too clean. But to learn he had been chosen not for greatness, but for containment—that was a betrayal deeper than blood.
"I've seen the Embered," he said. "They speak of return. Of a breach."
The robed figure turned to its kin. Together, they began to hum.
Not a song. Not quite. But something older.
A sound that seemed to scrape against the walls of the world.
As they did, the forest shifted.
Branches curved overhead to form a dome. Flames lit without spark. A circle of runes ignited beneath their feet. The Choir had turned the ruins into a ritual.
And at the center of the circle, a shape began to rise.
It was not a person. Not entirely.
It had limbs, yes. And a head. But its body was wrapped in chains of molten silver, its eyes like shattered stars. It opened its mouth, and from it spilled not sound—but visions.
Callan saw a great gate—wider than nations, deeper than oceans. He saw a fire that was not fire, swallowing worlds. He saw a hand made of light, reaching from that flame, grasping for a crown. And then he saw himself, standing in the gate's path, wrapped in shadow, sword ablaze, screaming as the world broke behind him.
When the vision ended, he was on his knees, breath ragged.
The Choir's leader approached.
"That is what awaits. The Breach cannot be closed. It can only be delayed. You must become the Delay."
Callan stood slowly. "What happens if I fail?"
"The world burns."
Shura snarled. "How convenient for you. Let the Sovereign sacrifice himself, and you all stay hidden in your cursed forest."
The leader turned to her. "We are not hiding. We are waiting. The Flame chose poorly once. It may do so again."
Solenne stepped forward. "Then help us. Stop speaking in riddles and help us fight it."
The Choir grew quiet.
Then the leader raised its veil.
Beneath it was not flesh. Not a face. But flame.
Endless, flickering, brilliant flame shaped into the memory of a human.
"We are Flame, girl. We burned ourselves to become its voice. Help is not something we give. Help is something you become."
Then, to Callan: "Kneel."
He hesitated.
Then obeyed.
From the center of the circle, a shard of light rose—pulsing with power. It floated before him, and the Choir chanted words so ancient even the Rift grew still.
Callan reached out.
The moment his fingers touched the shard, it exploded—not outward, but inward. His mind filled with screams, oaths, memories not his own. Names. Battles. Deals struck in blood. He saw the First Sovereign's face—not as a man, but a burning statue, hollow inside. He saw every Sovereign after him. How they burned. How they fell.
And then he saw himself.
Still standing.
The shard vanished.
But something remained inside him. A voice.
Small. Steady.
Waiting.
When he opened his eyes, the Choir was gone.
Only the leader remained.
"Now you understand," it said.
"I understand," Callan replied. "But I won't be a lock."
"You already are."
"Then I'll be one that opens from the inside."
The figure laughed—a sound like breaking glass. "Then you are already dead."
"No," he said. "I'm just getting started."
They left the forest at dawn.
And the trees whispered behind them.