The alarms were unlike anything Ilias had ever heard.
Not shrill. Not panicked. Harmonic.
A low, resonant tone rolled through the city like a wave—felt more than heard—reverberating through metal, glass, bone. Every building in the Morrows began to hum in unison, vibrating at the same frequency. Windows trembled. Walls groaned. The air itself felt heavy, like the city was holding its breath.
"Stay close," Seraph shouted over the noise, gripping his wrist hard enough to bruise.
Ilias stumbled after her, lungs burning. "I thought Code Black was just a myth. Something to scare people into submission."
"It was." She didn't look back. "Until now."
They ran through narrow corridors lit by pale neon—broken signs flickering, emergency networks broadcasting the same message on repeat: "REMAIN CALM. SHELTER IN PLACE. AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTION."
Above them, the artificial sky—projected across the dome that covered the lower city—cracked.
Not physically. Visually.
The illusion shattered, revealing what lay beyond: fleets of listening satellites, pivoting in perfect synchronization, all turning toward the same point on the horizon.
Toward them.
The Council's Signal
Far above, in the Elyrian High Spire, the Council chamber glowed with cold light.
Twelve figures sat around a circular table, robes shimmering with shifting frequencies—each one a living display of their house's resonance. The air hummed faintly, tuned to suppress emotion, enforce clarity, demand obedience.
The High Censor stood at the head of the table. Tall. Pale. Voice like silk over steel.
"Every tuned instrument on this planet just responded to a single harmonic key," she said. "Someone has sung beyond the human range."
One of the advisors—an old man from House Gravemont—leaned forward, frowning. "That's impossible. Only a Blessed could—"
"Yes." The Censor's eyes were cold. "And not one registered within our records."
The chamber went still.
A rogue Blessed. Unregistered. Untrained. Uncontained.
The Ferroline general slammed a fist on the table. "We mobilize. Now. Full deployment. Sanctifiers, Hunters, every asset we have."
"No." The Censor's voice was quiet, but absolute. "We move carefully. No leaks. No broadcasts. This event never occurred."
"And if the people panic?" Luma's representative asked.
"They won't," the Censor said. "Because we control the narrative. The feeds. The channels. The truth." She turned to the hooded figure at the far end of the table—Vaen's envoy. "Mobilize the Resonant Guard. Quietly. Find the anomaly. Contain him. And if containment fails—"
She didn't finish the sentence.
She didn't need to.
Back in the Morrows
Ilias and Seraph reached the old transit hub—a rusted, half-collapsed structure that used to connect the lower districts to the rest of the city. Dust rained down from the ceiling as the world above quaked with sonic aftershocks.
Seraph activated her comm. "Reverb. I need eyes."
Static crackled for a moment. Then Reverb's voice came through, distorted and layered. "You've got more than eyes, sweetheart. The whole sky just changed color. Elyria's running on full containment mode."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning if you're not in the High City right now, you're invisible to them. For now." Reverb paused. "But that won't last long. They're synchronizing the resonance grids. Once that's done, they'll be able to trace every frequency spike back to its source."
Ilias leaned against a crumbling pillar, breathing hard. His chest ached. His throat felt raw. "The blind man said something was scanning the planet."
"He wasn't lying," Reverb said, tone dark. "And it's not just the Architects. The Cult of Silence is moving too. Their frequencies just spiked in six sectors—like they've been waiting for this."
Seraph's jaw tightened. "They have been. My father warned the Council this would happen."
Ilias glanced at her. "Your father knew about this?"
She hesitated. Then nodded. "He used to work for the Council. Before they exiled him."
"Why'd they exile him?"
"Because he told them the truth." Her voice was bitter. "That the system was broken. That the Churches were corrupt. That the Families cared more about power than people." She looked away. "They didn't want to hear it."
Ilias didn't know what to say to that.
Seraph's Home
Far above, in the Seraphis Manor, voices clashed behind closed doors.
"You think I wanted this?" Taren Kael shouted, fists clenched at his sides. "You think I enjoy being exiled from the Council's chambers?"
Vera stood across from him, arms crossed, eyes cold. "You gave up the one chance we had to rise again. All for your daughter's little pet project from the Morrows."
"That 'project' saved half a district during the Resonance Riots," Taren snapped.
"And she cost us the other half." Vera's voice was icy. "Do you know what they're saying about us now? Do you know how many doors have closed?"
"I don't care."
"Of course you don't." Her voice trembled, just slightly. "Because you never did. You chose principle over survival. And now we're—"
"We're alive," Taren interrupted. "We're human. That's more than most people in this city can say."
Silence.
The dangerous kind. The kind that comes before regret.
Taren turned away, shoulders sagging. "You want status. I want peace. The universe doesn't give both."
Vera's voice softened, trembling. "Then you'll die forgotten. With your peace."
He sighed. "Better that than living a lie built on noise."
He walked out.
Vera stood alone in the dim light, staring at the closed door.
Then she pulled out her comm and made a call.
Deep beneath the Morrows, in a hall carved from obsidian and shadow, the Cult gathered.
Dozens knelt in a perfect circle, heads bowed, breathing synchronized. At the center stood their leader—The Voiced Void. A tall, gaunt figure draped in robes that seemed to absorb sound, pulling it in like a black hole.
When he spoke, his voice didn't travel through the air.
It pressed directly into their minds.
"They've heard it again."
One of the acolytes lifted their head. "The Anomaly's song?"
"Yes. The same tone the Council buried many cycles ago. The same frequency they tried to erase from history."
"What shall we do?"
The Voiced Void smiled faintly. "Nothing. For now."
A younger cultist hesitated. "And if the boy survives the Church's manhunt?"
The leader's pale eyes gleamed. "Then he becomes the proof of everything they denied us. The proof that silence came first. That sound is the infection. That the universe was meant to be still."
He turned, robes shifting soundlessly. "And when the time comes, we will offer him a choice. Join us. Or be unmade."
The city lights flickered again, synchronized, pulsing in rhythm.
Seraph looked up, face lit in electric blue. "They're synchronizing the grids. Once that finishes, they'll trace every resonance spike back to its source. Back to you."
"So what do we do?" Ilias asked.
She glanced at him—that mix of irritation and reluctant care that had become their rhythm. "We go dark. Completely."
"Hide?"
"No." She smirked faintly. "We out manuver them."
Ilias frowned. "How?"
Before she could answer, Reverb's voice crackled through the comm. "I've got something. Old transit line, decommissioned decades ago. Leads to a substation on the edge of the city. Off-grid. No surveillance. No resonance tracking."
"Can we reach it?" Seraph asked.
"If you move fast. You've got maybe twenty minutes before the grids sync."
"Then we move."
They ran.
Through crumbling corridors. Past rusted trains frozen on dead tracks. Under flickering lights that buzzed and died and flickered again.
Ilias's chest burned. His legs ached. But he kept running.
Behind them, the sound of pursuit—distant but growing closer. Hunter drones. Sanctifiers. Maybe worse.
They reached a junction. Three tunnels branching off in different directions.
Seraph skidded to a halt, breathing hard. "Which way?"
Reverb's voice crackled. "Middle tunnel. Follow the red markings."
They turned.
And stopped.
A figure stood in the tunnel ahead.
Hooded. Silent. Holding a tuning fork that hummed faintly in the dark.
The Cult.
Seraph drew her blade. "Get behind me."
But the figure didn't move. Didn't attack.
Just stood there. Watching.
Then, slowly, they raised one hand.
And pointed.
Not at Ilias.
Not at Seraph.
At the tunnel on the left.
Ilias frowned. "What—"
The figure vanished. Not fled. Vanished. Like they'd never been there.
Seraph cursed under her breath. "What the hell was that?"
"I don't know." Ilias stared at the empty space where the cultist had stood. "But I think they just helped us."
"Why would the Cult help us?"
"Because they don't want me dead," Ilias said quietly. "They want me on their side."
They took the left tunnel.
It led to a narrow maintenance shaft, barely wide enough to squeeze through. They crawled through dust and rust and broken machinery until they emerged into a small, forgotten chamber.
A substation. Old. Abandoned. But still humming faintly with residual power.
In the corner sat an old piano—half-broken, keys cracked, strings rusted.
But when Ilias touched it, the strings vibrated.
Not broken.
Alive.
Seraph watched quietly. "You really don't understand how rare you are, do you?"
He shrugged, exhausted. "I'm just trying to survive."
She stepped closer, eyes bright with something between curiosity and fear. "You're not supposed to survive, Ilias. You're supposed to change the song."
He looked up at her. "And if I don't want to?"
She smiled—not cruelly, just knowingly. "Then the Architects will make sure you never sing again."
Outside, the city's grids finished synchronizing.
Every resonance sensor on the planet locked onto a single frequency.
A single location.
A single person.
And in the Council chamber, the High Censor smiled faintly.
"Found him."