Sister Alenya Vale stood before the cracked mirror, her reflection distorted, like something seen through a haze of heat. The silent passage of time had done little to ease the gnawing unease within her chest. The Bishopric had trained her well, in both discipline and fear. Fear of failure. Fear of disobedience. Fear of the truth.
Yet now, standing in the dimly lit chamber of her private quarters, she couldn't shake the feeling that something deep within her was shifting.
Her hand trembled as she adjusted the hem of her white-and-gold robes, the standard garb of the Bishopric enforcers. The pattern of the radiant sun, emblazoned across her chest, was meant to symbolize purity—light in a dark world. But tonight, under the flickering candlelight, the symbol felt like a brand, searing into her very soul.
The reports had come in earlier that day. The windmill had been abandoned, the rift unexplained, and Icarus Thorn was nowhere to be found. Not captured. Not dead. Just… gone.
Yet, it was the remnants—the whispers of the past—that gnawed at her. She couldn't explain it. No matter how much her logical mind screamed at her to focus on the mission, another voice—a darker, older voice—echoed at the back of her mind.
What if we've been wrong all along?
Alenya clenched her jaw, shoving the thought away. No. She was a Bishopric enforcer. She knew the truth. The Beyonders were a threat—chaos incarnate. But the stories she had been raised on—about the Cataclysm, about the Choirs, the dangerous knowledge hidden in the past—what if they had been twisted? What if the Choir of Echoes had always been misrepresented?
"What if… the truth is not what they told me?" she muttered to her reflection.
The silence answered her.
The sound of distant footsteps outside her quarters broke her reverie. She straightened, and a knock echoed from the door.
"Enter," she commanded.
The door creaked open, revealing a young enforcer, her face flushed from running. She saluted quickly, her eyes flickering with an urgent gleam.
"Sister Vale," the enforcer said, voice trembling. "It's… the Exarch. He demands your presence. Now."
Alenya's heart skipped a beat. The Exarch was a rare presence, a figure of such power and influence that he rarely appeared in person. His communication was reserved for the highest officers in the Bishopric, and even then, only on matters of utmost importance.
Without a word, Alenya nodded, motioning for the enforcer to lead her.
The journey to the Exarch's chambers was a quiet one, the weight of each step feeling heavier with each passing moment. The stone corridors of the Bishopric stronghold seemed to close in around her, the oppressive atmosphere making it harder to breathe. She had known fear before—fear of the outside world, fear of the heretics, fear of the Beyonders. But this… this was something different.
As they reached the ornate double doors, the enforcer paused and bowed, whispering, "The Exarch awaits you, Sister."
Alenya gave a curt nod, pushing the doors open. The room beyond was dim, lit by a single candle that flickered on a massive obsidian desk. The Exarch sat in shadow, his features unreadable, a dark silhouette against the faint light. He was a figure of terror and legend, cloaked in robes of deep crimson, his face always hidden beneath a mask.
"Sit, Sister," the Exarch's voice rasped, a low, almost hypnotic sound. His tone held the weight of centuries.
Alenya crossed the room and seated herself across from him, her hands resting on the arms of the chair. Her heart pounded in her chest. The air was thick with unspoken words.
"You've failed, Sister," the Exarch said flatly. "The Listener has escaped."
Her stomach clenched at the mention of Icarus Thorn. His name was a ghost now, haunting her every thought. "I didn't fail," Alenya replied, her voice steady but firm. "He evaded capture, yes. But I've traced his path. He's gone underground—literally. We're still investigating."
The Exarch remained silent for a moment, and Alenya met his gaze, her fingers twitching at her side.
"Icarus Thorn is no longer a mere target," the Exarch said, his voice hardening. "He is the catalyst. Do you understand, Sister?"
Alenya's pulse quickened. She had heard rumors—whispers of a prophecy, of the return of the Choir of Echoes, of the Listener—but they were just stories, relics from a time long passed. She had dismissed them, thinking them foolish fantasies. Now, sitting across from the Exarch, a man who had seen the rise and fall of empires, the weight of his words settled heavily in her chest.
"Catalyst for what?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
The Exarch leaned forward, his mask catching the candlelight just enough for her to see the sharp angles of his face. His eyes gleamed like black voids, hollow and ancient.
"Chaos," he answered, "and rebirth."
Alenya's mind raced as she processed his words. The Bishopric had always warned of the Beyonders. They were harbingers of destruction, capable of unraveling the very fabric of reality itself. But what the Exarch spoke of wasn't just a war—it was an awakening.
"The Choir of Echoes is not a myth," the Exarch continued, his voice growing darker. "Icarus Thorn is the Listener, the one who will awaken it. He has already begun his transformation. The Sequence 9 potion… it's not just a power boost. It's a gateway."
A cold shiver ran down Alenya's spine. The Sequence 9 potion. She had heard of it in whispered circles, but it was forbidden. An ancient relic of the Fourth Epoch, it could elevate a person beyond mortal comprehension.
"What happens if he reaches Sequence 8?" Alenya asked, her voice tight with apprehension.
The Exarch's lips curled into a cruel smile. "Then he becomes the Song itself. And the world will be remade."
Alenya stood abruptly, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. "I'll find him. I'll stop him before it's too late."
The Exarch rose, his movements fluid and unsettling. "No, Sister. You will join him. You will listen."
Her heart stopped.
"What?"
He stepped toward her, his hand resting gently on her shoulder. "It is time to remember, Sister. The Bishopric has lied to you. All of us. The Choir… it was never meant to be silenced. You are not here by accident, Alenya Vale. You were chosen."
Alenya recoiled, her breath catching in her throat.
Chosen?
Her world began to tilt, the weight of her loyalty and faith crumbling in the face of the Exarch's words.
"Listen to the Song, Alenya," the Exarch whispered, "and let it remake you."