The dream had not faded.
Even with the sun high in the sky, even with the hum of the city returning to normal, something clung to the edges of every breath, every shadow. The song lingered—not with sound, but with presence.
Callan stood on the edge of the royal amphitheater, watching as scholars and enchanters decoded the spiral sigils left across the rooftops.
"It's a key," muttered Grand Archivist Melior. "Or maybe a lock. Either way, it's not meant for us."
Callan folded his arms. "Then who is it meant for?"
Melior didn't answer. He simply adjusted his spectacles, hands shaking, and whispered, "Something that remembers music in a world that forgot."
Meanwhile, in the Black Pits of Raventhorn, the prisoners had begun singing.
At first it was dismissed as coordinated rebellion.
But the warden—an old veteran of the Demon War—recognized the tune immediately. His face turned pale, his limbs cold.
"It's his song," he said.
Then he ordered the prison sealed.
Not to contain the prisoners—but to protect the world from what might answer.
Back in the capital, the spiral sigils began to move.
Not physically.
But perceptually.
Each time someone stared at them long enough, they shifted—not their form, but their meaning. A spiral that once evoked dread now hinted at hope. A line that once looked like division now sang of unity.
"It's rewriting us," Solenne said, standing beside Callan at the balcony of the Council Tower.
"Or maybe it's showing us who we've always been," Callan replied.
She glanced at him. "You're taking this too calmly."
He didn't respond.
Because inside, he wasn't calm.
He was certain.
Something from the past was returning.
And it wanted him.
Three nights later, Callan returned to the Black Mirror.
This time, he brought the shard.
It pulsed once in his hand—softer now, warmer.
He pressed it to the mirror.
The obsidian rippled like water, and a face emerged on the surface.
Not his.
But a version of him.
With eyes like twin stars. With scars that glowed like runes. With a smile that belonged to a god and a murderer.
"Finally," the reflection said. "You're listening."
Callan said nothing.
"You hear the song, don't you?" the reflection asked.
"I do."
"And do you remember the words?"
"I never knew them."
"But you wrote them," the reflection said, and leaned closer.
Callan stepped back, heart pounding.
Because now, behind the reflection, stood others.
Thousands.
Each bearing a crown made of broken glass and eyes of silver flame.
The next morning, the capital awoke to silence.
No birds sang.
No merchants shouted.
The wind itself held its breath.
Then—at the strike of the sun's zenith—a single note rang out across the land.
It came from everywhere at once.
From rivers. From stones. From people's throats.
A tone so pure and ancient that children wept and the elderly clutched their chests.
And then it was gone.
In the Citadel war room, the map of the empire had changed.
Small glowing dots now appeared across every province—nodes of light pulsing in a rhythm no one had taught them.
Callan traced the pattern.
"They're forming a circle," he said. "No—a choir."
"Choir?" asked Lysander.
Callan turned toward him.
"It's not just a song," he said slowly. "It's a summoning."
Lysander frowned. "Of what?"
Callan didn't answer.
Because he already knew.
And his name was buried deep within the chorus.