Chapter 6: Seraph’s Song

The Republic's northern territories were once known for music.

Before the Silence Act, the streets of Arenthil were filled with public concerts, cathedral choirs, and balcony poets. Now, the entire city whispered in mute compliance, its sound domes absorbing even the chatter of crows.

But below the surface, in a labyrinth of derelict subway tunnels and acoustic shadows, a melody pulsed—a human voice not tethered to the law of silence.

The voice was pure.

Unfiltered.

Unyielding.

And dangerously illegal.

In Varen Kes's underground tower, a storm brewed over the Echo Map. The symbols on the table had begun to glow. Two lit. Five dim.

Nima stared at the newest pulse—etched with a pair of wings and a serpent.

"That's Seraph," Kes confirmed, arms folded.

Arian leaned in. "Who are they?"

Kes hesitated, just for a breath.

"Seraph is… the wildcard. A voice we lost control of even before the Silence began. A defector from the VoiceForge labs."

Nima narrowed her eyes. "You experimented on them."

Kes said nothing.

Arian looked between them. "So Seraph's still alive?"

"If that signal is true? Yes. And they're singing."

They boarded an old air-freighter under fake IDs. The journey was quiet, save for the occasional crackle of the Echo Disk Arian wore like a heartbeat on his belt.

Nima sat beside him, cross-legged, adjusting the disk's frequency.

"We need Seraph's voiceprint. Without it, we can't align the next symbol."

"What's so special about this one?" Arian asked.

Nima hesitated. "Seraph was said to possess the mirror tone."

"What's that?"

Kes, standing behind them, answered:

"A voice that doesn't just trigger memory. It reflects yours back at you. Amplifies what you deny. If Seraph sings to you… you might not like what you hear."

When they reached Arenthil, it was already midnight.

The streets were clean. Too clean. Not a scrap of paper. Not a breath of noise. The city looked like a photograph. Static. Lifeless.

They met the contact—a short, bearded man with a synthetic eye named Koro—inside a sealed record store.

Koro locked the door behind them.

"I hope you're not just tourists," he muttered, pulling back a curtain to reveal a rusted speaker tower.

Arian stepped forward. "You have Seraph?"

Koro smirked. "No one has Seraph. But they have us."

He clicked a button.

Static.

Then music.

Not instrumental.

Not digital.

A voice.

Low. Androgynous. Ethereal.

Arian staggered back. Something in his chest pulled tight.

The voice was singing in a language no longer legal.

Old Arenthil.

A language built entirely on emotion—where meaning shifted with tone, not grammar.

And it was beautiful.

Koro explained between verses.

"Seraph appears once a week. Never in the same spot. Never the same melody. People call it The Risen Song. We don't know how they broadcast it."

Nima tapped her temple. "The echo disk's vibrating. The signature matches."

Arian turned toward the speaker. "We need to find them. Now."

Koro frowned. "That's not easy. The Republic hunts Seraph every time they sing. Drones flood the city. Silent Agents swarm the tunnels. Seraph's always two steps ahead."

Arian clenched his fists. "Then we get three steps ahead."

Tracking the signal took hours. They ducked checkpoints, avoided sound traps, and decoded harmonic bounce from sewer walls.

Finally, in the belly of an abandoned opera house, they found a glowing circle on the stage—made of dust, mirrors, and broken strings.

Kes froze.

"This was their rehearsal sanctum."

Nima activated the disk.

The air changed.

Then… a voice.

Live.

Not a recording.

Not a memory.

A real, breathing voice.

From behind the stage curtain, Seraph stepped forward.

Tall. Pale. Dressed in a tattered cloak made of sheet music. Their eyes shimmered with mirrored lenses. Their throat—glowing faintly with implanted resonance tech.

Arian whispered, "Seraph?"

The figure smiled.

And sang.

It wasn't a song like before.

This one wasn't for beauty.

It was for truth.

Arian dropped to his knees as the melody hit him. Not his ears—his soul.

He saw flashes.

Himself as a child.

Locked in a soundproof room.

Being read to by a woman with no mouth.

A mirror on the wall that repeated his screams with perfect clarity—until he stopped screaming altogether.

He was being trained.

Conditioned.

Shaped into an Echo Host from birth.

Seraph's song showed him what was stolen.

What was built.

What he might still become.

When the song ended, Arian's body was drenched in sweat.

He gasped, crawling to his feet.

"You're one of us," Seraph said softly. "But you are not yet whole."

Nima drew closer. "We need your voiceprint. The next Echo Symbol."

Seraph tilted their head.

"You think you're saving the Republic. You're not."

Kes frowned. "Then what are we doing?"

"Resurrecting the dead," Seraph said. "And the dead do not return without consequence."

They pressed their palm to Arian's chest.

A flicker.

A pulse.

A new symbol burned onto the disk.

Wings and serpent.

Seraph's voiceprint.

"You have three now," they said.

"Then help us find the fourth," Arian said.

Seraph's voice turned sharp.

"I am the fourth. But I won't come with you."

"Why?"

"Because the Republic won't kill me."

They smiled.

"They'll use me to trap you."

Before anyone could move, Seraph vanished behind the curtain, and the ceiling exploded in white light.

Drones.

Silent Agents.

A shout rang out: "Target acquired! Echo Host #3 and #4 confirmed!"

Nima grabbed Arian.

"Run!"

As they fled through the burning opera house, Seraph's voice echoed one last time:

"Your voice was never yours, Arian.

But you still have time to choose what it becomes."