The hush after the meteor shower lingered like incense in the wind. The group remained beneath the sky's soft gleam, cloaked in warmth, not from blankets or fire, but from presence. From the truth of shared pain and earned peace.
But Orahm was not yet safe.
Shin rose slowly, the silver thread glinting faintly from his palm as it stirred to life. He turned to face his companions—no longer just warriors or Servants, but his soul's constellation.
"It's time," he said quietly.
They understood.
Alexandra stepped forward first, guiding them to the high altar beneath the central dome. The architecture curved skyward in vast celestial arcs of glass and pearlstone, polished to a mirror sheen. Above, the open skylight welcomed the full moon directly overhead.
"This place was called the Celestarium," Alexandra whispered. "Where the ancient choirs of Orahm wove resonance into prophecy. Into defense. Into sanctuary."
Shin unspooled the silver thread from his orb, the same relic gifted by the loom. It shimmered like liquid moonlight, yearning to anchor itself.
"We need a sigil," he said. "Not to fight—but to bind. To protect Orahm from ever being breached again."
Alexandra's voice was soft but sure. "Then we sing."
Tessara glanced up, already moving toward her place in the circle. "I've sung moon-rites before. The cadence is familiar."
Maika scratched her cheek. "I'm... not exactly choir material."
Zera chuckled, folding her arms. "If I sing, birds might explode. Clarent once hissed at me when I tried."
Laverna looked away with a light scowl. "I've only ever learned to scream, not sing."
Alexandra stepped between them, her voice gentle. "You don't have to be perfect. This place magnifies resonance. It will hear your hearts. With the energy blooming here, your crests will shape your voices. Even a whisper carries power if it's shared."
She turned to Zera, smiling. "And your Voix de commandement will resonate more clearly than you expect. You're stronger than you think."
Zera blinked. "Well, if it kills a pigeon, that's on me."
They laughed together, nerves easing into warmth.
Shin lifted the silver thread between his fingers. "Then take your places. Let your voices speak the truth. I'll guide the loom."
They nodded and began to move, each woman stepping toward a marked pillar beneath the moon's glow. Shin moved to the center, the loom's thread swirling slowly in the air above his palm.
Each of the women stepped into their place, forming a wide circle under the moon's gaze. Their crests glowed in response, the bond between them synchronized by heart rather than command.
She began the rite.
Her voice rose in a slow, breathy tone that stretched like the horizon at dusk. Each note rippled with intention—soothing, healing, beckoning the moon's attention. It resonated in the air like woven silk, coaxing the ancient wards to stir in response.
Her magic did not dominate—it invited. The cathedral responded, harmonizing like a sleeping beast slowly waking.
Tessara joined next.
Her Moonflower Mask shimmered across her face, channeling illusions with her voice. Her notes were elusive, curling and drifting like fog over water. She sang in minor keys, sorrowful and ancient, each syllable pulsing with the rhythms of the moon's hidden face.
As she sang, ghostlights filled the space between them, dancing like memories made real.
Maika's sunfire lit the chamber as she began her verse, a counterbalance to the lunar harmonies. Her voice rang clear and sharp, fast as wind, bright as day. Her tones arced like throwing daggers, precise and passionate. Each note seemed to slice the darkness, drawing warmth from every corner.
She sang in the dialect of the Hi Okami faithful, not in reverence—but as reclamation.
Zera's voice entered like a war drum wrapped in velvet. Low and steady, it thrummed with the dignity of knights and broken thrones. Each line she sang was a vow, each rise in pitch an oath etched into bone. Hers was the voice of honor rebuilt.
Behind her, the sapphire gem of Clarent glowed with each bar, absorbing the resonance and projecting it outward in faint ripples.
Laverna's lips parted last.
Her voice was neither high nor loud, but raw. It trembled, then steadied, pouring years of suffering and survival into every breath. Her words were not in any known tongue, but in pure, instinctual sound—emotive and primal.
Magic swirled around her jamadhars as they pulsed without her willing them to, singing in harmony with her voice. Where once she chanted incantations, now her soul did the weaving.
And the moment her voice joined the others, the silver thread glowed like a second moon.
Shin stepped into the center.
He moved slowly, reverently, as if walking upon the fabric of fate itself. The silver thread in his hands lifted and spun, guided by his intent and the harmony around him.
As the women sang, their voices began to merge—not in dissonance, but in unity. Each note covered another, layering like waves upon a still pond. Tessara's illusions, Maika's sunfire, Zera's command, Laverna's raw truth, Alexandra's elegance—all fused into a singular symphony. Their song didn't just echo through the chamber; it resonated beyond fate, as though the stars themselves paused to listen.
Shin guided the loom like a conductor leading a celestial choir. With each motion of his hand, the silver thread danced to their harmony, forming a philharmonic of magic, memory, and hope. Where he stood at the center, it was as if the orchestra of the cosmos came to life.
He passed before each woman, binding the thread through their crests—not as a tether, but as a signature. As he wove, their voices braided tighter, lifting the cathedral's resonance.
When the thread reached the midpoint of their circle, it expanded upward, forming a radiant unity sigil in the air—six points around one center. The pattern pulsed with light, then embedded itself into the dome overhead.
Alexandra raised her hand, voice trembling at a crescendo. "Let this be our vow. This city is no longer sleeping."
As their voices settled into silence, the moonlight burst through the skylight.
Above them, the sky shimmered, and stars rearranged.
It began as a scattering. Then a slow coalescence. Then clarity.
A great fox, nine-tailed, woven from constellations, appeared overhead. Its body was composed of ancient starlight and comet trails. It bowed its head toward Orahm, then faded gently, its blessing offered without a word.
Everyone stood in stunned silence.
Tessara whispered, "The Kitsune constellation… it's real."
Shin exhaled, the weight of their rite settling in his chest. "And it knows who we are."
The unity sigil slowly faded, leaving behind warmth, calm, and an unspoken promise.
Zera crossed her arms, voice quiet. "If they try to come again, they'll find no doors."
Maika leaned against a column. "And if they force one open…"
Laverna answered, "They'll face all of us."
Shin turned to his companions, eyes soft but sure. "This wasn't just a seal. It was a vow."
Alexandra smiled, her voice faint and melodic still. "A harmony we wrote together."
The cathedral fell silent, but not empty.
Orahm was awake now.
And it was singing.
In joining their elemental voices and crests into a single sigil, the party doesn't just protect the city—they affirm their bond. The constellation overhead confirms Shin's place in prophecy and the world's subtle recognition of their unity.