The tunnels ran deeper than anyone alive remembered.
Old resonance lines, abandoned after the Council's purge, whispered faintly beneath the floor—like the bones of dead music, still humming in their graves.
Ilias and Seraph moved in silence, their footsteps echoing off walls covered in faded graffiti. Every few meters, the air shifted—hummed—responding to Ilias's presence like it recognized him.
He tried not to think about it.
"You're quiet," Ilias said finally.
Seraph glanced sideways, eyes sharp. "Still trying to decide if you're the luckiest man alive or the next apocalypse."
He smiled weakly. "Can't it be both?"
She almost laughed. Almost. Then her expression hardened again. "You really don't get it, do you? What you did back there—that's not tuning. That's something we only see in archives. In myths."
"I didn't mean to—"
"I know." Her voice softened, just slightly. "That's what scares me."
They walked in silence for a while, the tunnel stretching ahead into darkness. The walls were lined with old sigils—frequency codes painted by the Untuned decades ago. Most were faded, half-erased by time. But some still pulsed, faint and rhythmic, like heartbeats.
Ilias touched one as they passed. It flared briefly under his palm, warm and alive.
Seraph watched him, jaw tight. "You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"Making them listen."
He pulled his hand back. "I'm not trying to."
"That's the problem." She stopped, turning to face him. "Ilias, do you understand what you are? What you could become?"
He met her eyes. "No. Do you?"
She didn't answer.
They turned a corner—and froze.
Figures stood in the darkness ahead.
Not quite human. Their skin glowed faintly from within, pale light pulsing beneath the surface like bioluminescence. Their forms shimmered slightly, as if their atoms were phasing between frequencies, never quite solid.
The Untuned. Or what was left of them.
Seraph's hand moved to her blade. "Identify yourself."
A woman stepped forward. Her face was marked with glowing runes that flickered in time with her heartbeat. When she spoke, her voice carried the strange harmony of multiple tones layered over each other—like a choir singing through one mouth.
"You made the silence bleed," she said softly. "We heard it across the city."
Reverb's voice crackled through Ilias's comm, low and urgent. "Careful, kid. Those aren't your average rebels. They live between frequencies. The Council tried to erase them decades ago. Didn't work."
Ilias stepped forward anyway. "You said you heard me. Then maybe you know what I am."
The woman tilted her head, studying him with eyes that didn't quite focus. "Not what. Who. You're a harmonic fracture. A voice the system couldn't predict."
Seraph frowned. "That's not an answer."
The woman smiled faintly. "It's the only one that matters."
Another figure moved closer—tall, thin, definitely not human. His skin had a faint metallic sheen, and his eyes shimmered violet. When he spoke, his voice had a strange lilt, almost musical.
"I'm Korran of Vireen," he said. "My species hears the universe in waves. What I heard from you tonight…" He paused, tilting his head. "It wasn't a human song. It was divine error."
"Divine error?" Ilias repeated.
Korran nodded slowly. "The universe writes symphonies. Most of creation follows the score. But sometimes—very rarely—the universe stutters. And something impossible is born." His eyes locked on Ilias. "We call them Blessed."
Seraph's breath caught. "You've seen others?"
"On worlds far older than this one." Korran's voice grew quieter. "Some burn entire suns by speaking. Some turn oceans into crystal when they cry. Some unmake reality with a whisper." He looked at Ilias again. "You, boy… you're barely humming."
That stung more than it should have.
"Guess everyone starts somewhere," Ilias muttered.
The Choir laughed—not cruelly, but like a chord finally finding its harmony.
The woman gestured deeper into the tunnel. "Come. There's someone you need to meet. One who remembers the first Blessed to ever sing."
They followed the Choir through winding passages, deeper into the earth.
The air grew heavier. The walls breathed, resonating faintly with frequencies Ilias could feel in his chest. Old instruments hung from the ceiling—relics half-fused with alien tech, strings made of light, drums carved from crystal.
Sound floated in the air like dust, alive and waiting.
Finally, they entered a vast chamber.
It was circular, the walls covered in sigils that glowed faintly in the dark. At the center sat a man—old, blind, surrounded by tuning forks that vibrated without being touched.
He turned his head toward Ilias, even though his eyes were milky white.
"So the flame hums again," he said quietly.
Seraph's hand moved to her blade. "You know about the Silent Flame?"
The man smiled faintly. "I was the first to chase it. And I paid for it with my hearing."
Ilias frowned. "If you're deaf, how—"
"I don't hear sound anymore, boy. I feel it." The man lifted his hand, and the air around it shimmered. "Every word you speak leaves a trail in the air. Every breath, every heartbeat—it all moves. I follow the movement."
Seraph watched, fascinated despite herself. "You read vibration."
"I read truth," the man corrected. "Sound lies. Vibration doesn't."
He pointed toward Ilias. "The Council thinks they control resonance. The Churches think they worship it. But what you did tonight… that's beyond both. You didn't play the world's song. You rewrote its key."
Ilias swallowed. "So what now?"
The man's smile vanished. "Now you run. Because when Elyria's networks replay what you did, something watching from beyond your stars will recognize the note."
Seraph's jaw tightened. "What are you talking about?"
"The Architects," the man said quietly. "The ones who wrote the first song. The ones who shaped reality itself."
Korran stepped forward. "My people have records. Entire civilizations that sang too loud. Too bright. And the Architects came to correct them."
"Correct?" Ilias asked.
"Tuned them back into harmony," the blind man said. "Every anomaly, every dissonance—erased. Not destroyed. Rewritten. Like they never existed."
Seraph's face had gone pale. "You're saying they erase people?"
"Worse," the man said. "They erase the possibility of you. Every choice you made. Every life you touched. Gone. Like the universe corrects a typo."
Ilias felt something cold settle in his chest. "And they're listening?"
"They're always listening," the man said. "But most noise is too faint to notice. What you did tonight?" He smiled grimly. "You just shouted your name into the void."
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then Reverb's voice crackled through the comm, low and urgent. "Kid, whatever that old man just told you—he's not lying. Network sensors across three sectors just spiked. Something's scanning the planet."
Seraph drew her blade. "The Architects?"
"No." Reverb's voice was tight. "Worse. The Council just declared Code Black. They're mobilizing everything."
Ilias looked up toward the ceiling—toward the stars he couldn't see.
"They heard me," he whispered.
And somewhere in the farthest reaches of the void—beyond Elyria's borders, beyond the light of any sun—something ancient stirred.
It shifted its tone.
Just slightly.
Like tuning itself to a frequency it had been waiting centuries to hear.
The blind man stood slowly, leaning on a cane carved from resonant crystal.
"You asked what happens now," he said. "Here's your answer: you learn to sing beneath their frequency. You hide in the noise. Or—" He paused, smiling faintly. "You become loud enough that they can't ignore you."
"How?" Ilias asked.
The man pointed toward the Choir. "You learn from the ones who survived."
The woman with the glowing runes stepped forward. "We can teach you. But it won't be easy. The Blessed don't follow rules. They make them."
Korran nodded. "And making new rules means breaking old ones."
Seraph looked at Ilias. "This is your choice. But whatever you decide—" Her voice softened. "I'm not leaving you."
Ilias stared at her, surprised.
She almost smiled. "You're dangerous, Ilias. But you're also the first person I've met in a long time who didn't ask permission to be alive."
He didn't know what to say to that.
So he just nodded.
The blind man tapped his cane against the floor. Every tuning fork in the room resonated in response, filling the air with a single, perfect tone.
"Then we begin," he said. "But first—tell me, boy. Do you know why you survived the crystal?"
Ilias hesitated. "No."
"Because it recognized you," the man said quietly. "The Source Note doesn't speak to many. But when it does…" He smiled grimly. "It chooses its own."
The chamber trembled.
Faintly. Barely perceptible.
Like something vast and ancient had just turned its head.
Somewhere far away.
Listening.