The first notes of the Final Choir were not heard.
They were felt.
A ripple through the soul, a trembling in the marrow. Birds fell from the sky mid-flight. Rivers reversed course. Insects turned to ash. Every beast with a spark of spirit whimpered, fled, or collapsed.
The Choir did not walk. They descended—dripping light so blinding it cut like razors.
Seven figures. No wings. No faces. Just cloaks made of flame and halos that cracked the very concept of sound.
Their chant began with a single note.
And a city died.
The fortress of Vel'Dran, seat of the last neutral alliance in the north, simply ceased to exist—stone and soul unmade in a blink of light and harmony. Even the memories of its people were shredded. Only those far beyond the reach of the Sanctum remembered it ever existed.
At their lead floated the First Voice, an angel who had no name left—only titles. It spoke without lips, its words echoing directly into the minds of all living things.
"Balance will be restored."
Liora awoke in a cold sweat.
She wasn't in a bed. She didn't sleep anymore, not truly. But something had forced her under—something divine.
She rose to her feet inside the bone-chamber of her mobile fortress. Her war-beast slumbered beneath her, its breaths shaking the ground. All around, her undead army stirred with unease. Even the soulbound whispered.
Something had changed.
Then the scream came.
It wasn't human. It wasn't even alive. But it tore through the sky with such force that the mountains cracked, and every creature that once had a soul felt the pressure on their chest.
Kelvir appeared beside her, his voice dry. "The gods have unleashed the Choir."
Liora didn't blink. "Where?"
"North. Vel'Dran."
Liora closed her eyes. She'd visited Vel'Dran once, years ago, before her fall into necromancy. It was a haven for the godless. For mages, merchants, healers, and heretics. A place of balance.
Now it was gone.
"Casualties?" she asked, though she knew.
Kelvir didn't answer.
She clenched her fist. "How many more will die for their pride?"
Veyron approached from the eastern watchtower. "There's more," he said. "They've issued a divine proclamation."
He handed her a parchment sealed with a flame that never went out. Divine ink burned words into the air as she read:
"Liora the Bone Queen, known now as Ariastra of the First Flame, is hereby condemned. She is offered one final chance to surrender her will and return the Shard of Origin if it has been found. Should she refuse, the Final Choir shall continue its purging."
Liora burned the message in her hand.
"The gods are afraid," she said.
"No," Kelvir replied. "They're cornered."
The Dreamer stood alone at the edge of the Aether.
He hadn't spoken since the Choir was unleashed. Not to Ilyra. Not to Balthoros. Not even to the newborn gods whispering from the Astral Fold.
He simply stared into the well of prophecy—and wept.
He saw what came next.
He saw Liora standing over corpses, yes. But he also saw her reaching for the Shard of Origin, not in conquest, but compassion.
He saw a future where the gods were undone, not by wrath… but by truth.
And he knew what the others could not admit:
They had made her inevitable.
Liora stood atop her war-beast, watching her army stretch across the horizon like a moving grave.
But there was no joy in her expression.
Only fire.
"I want them to see," she said to her generals. "I want the Choir to know I do not fear them."
"What will you do?" Veyron asked.
She turned to him, her eyes brighter than they had ever been.
"I will answer their song with my own."
That night, Liora performed a rite so ancient, even the liches flinched.
She did not summon death. She did not call to demons.
She called to memory.
She offered her soul's truth into the sky and sang—not with her voice, but with her essence. A melody formed from grief and fire, betrayal and rebirth. It stretched across the realms, into the cracks of the heavens, and reached the very ears of the Choir.
The angels paused mid-flight.
The First Voice shuddered.
Because Liora's song was not wrathful.
It was beautiful.
And for the first time, the Choir hesitated.
Within the Aether Sanctum, Ilyra screamed in fury.
"She dares to answer us with grace?"
"She dares to remind us what we took," the Dreamer said.
"She'll make the mortals love her!"
"She already has."
But the vision returned that night—unbidden, cruel.
In her sleep, Liora saw the Shard of Origin in her hand. Power rippled through her. Worlds bent. The laws of gods fractured.
And at her feet… Kael, lifeless. Not the shell the gods gave him—but the real one. The soul she once loved in silence.
Slain by her own hand.
She awoke choking back a scream.
Not out of fear.
Out of certainty.
Because every vision she had thus far had come true.