They crossed the border before dawn.
Six riders. Two skyborn. A caravan of silence behind them.
Callan led, his cloak caught in the wind, Ashendrix humming with anticipation. The closer they came to the Throat, the more the world seemed to forget itself. Trees leaned at impossible angles. The wind carried no scent. Even the sun hung strangely in the sky—paused, as if unwilling to move forward.
No birds sang.
No insects stirred.
Only the faint, haunting echo of a note that had no end.
Vale, the skyborn captain, rode up beside Callan.
"We are close," she said, her voice barely audible above the Song's pressure. "I feel the echo pulling at my bones."
"You were born from resonance," Callan replied. "They see you as kin."
"They are not my kin," Vale growled. "They are echoes that refused to end."
Callan nodded.
"A song that never ends is not music. It's madness."
By midday, they reached the descent.
The Throat of the World.
A spiraling chasm that plunged into the very bones of the realm, deeper than any mine, older than any ruin. Wind rose from it, carrying fragments of melody and memory. Some were beautiful. Most were not.
Solenne shivered as they approached.
"Are we sure about this?"
Callan dismounted. "No. But we don't get to be sure. Not when the alternative is silence swallowing the world."
The Choir-bound children huddled together. The youngest, a boy named Kess, clutched his flute, though he hadn't played it since the mirrors cracked.
"I hear voices down there," he whispered. "They're...calling me."
"Don't answer," Solenne told him firmly. "Whatever they sound like—they're not you."
The descent began with whispers.
Each step downward made the world more dreamlike. Light bent strangely. Footsteps echoed before they were made. Colors shifted. Reality lost shape.
Lysander cursed as his sword vanished from his belt, only to reappear on his back.
"Time's unraveling," he muttered.
"No," Callan corrected. "Memory is. The Deep Choir doesn't kill the past—they eat it."
By the fourth spiral, they encountered the first of the faceless.
It stood motionless in the path.
Ten feet tall. Smooth as porcelain. No eyes. No mouth. Just that endless hum pulsing from within its hollow frame.
Callan raised a hand—and Ashendrix flared to life.
The faceless lunged.
It moved not with rage, but precision—as if rehearsed, its every step perfectly timed to a rhythm only it could hear.
Callan met the attack, their weapons colliding with a clash that sent notes skittering across the stone.
Then the skyborn moved.
Vale spun into motion, her blades dancing in patterns older than words. Together, they struck in harmony—and shattered the faceless.
It crumbled into dust, humming still as it fell.
"What was that?" Lysander asked, panting.
"A conductor's memory," Callan said. "A rehearsal of war. We'll face more."
He looked down the endless spiraling path.
"And worse."
At the seventh tier, the air changed.
It listened.
The walls seemed to draw in breath. The sound of their footsteps returned not with echo—but with judgment. Every word they spoke was mirrored back, twisted slightly, like a memory retold by a stranger.
Then Kess stopped.
His eyes glazed over.
"I hear it," he whispered. "My sister. She's singing for me."
"Kess, no—" Solenne stepped forward, but it was too late.
The boy stepped into a shadow that hadn't been there a moment before.
And vanished.
"Damn it!" Lysander roared. "We lost him!"
"No," Callan said grimly. "They took him. To bait us. To turn him."
"We go after him," Vale said without hesitation.
Callan looked at the path ahead.
"No. We keep going."
Lysander turned, furious. "We abandon him?!"
"We finish the mission," Callan said, steel in his voice. "If we fall here—so does the world."
He didn't say it aloud.
But deep down, he already knew.
They wouldn't find Kess again.
Not as he was.
At the ninth spiral, they found the gates.
Two massive slabs of obsidian carved with a thousand names, each name vibrating softly with its own note. The gates opened—not with force—but with recognition. The Song inside had sensed Callan.
And welcomed him.
"Welcome back, Zareth-Kal," a voice whispered.
Callan's hand clenched on Ashendrix.
"Don't call me that," he muttered.
But the Song didn't stop.
It sang.
And beyond the gates, the Choir Without a Face waited.
Their stage set.
Their silence poised to devour.