The Blue Song

The silence hung thick, suffocating—but Rugal already knew.

Kira, the white-haired mystic of his squad, had been trained in the sacred arts of the Dawn Gods.

To wield ether as a true Manipulator, one had to be more than a mage. One had to be a disciple—accepted by a high scholar of the Church, purified through ritual, and bound to the divine path.

And now, she stepped forward.

—"I am an Ether Manipulator," she declared, her voice resonant, unshaken. "A disciple of Nyarael, the Lady of the Blue Song."

For the first time in cycles uncounted, a flicker of hope ignited in the eyes of the broken.

Across the bruised meadow, other survivors stirred—those who had not yet been hollowed by the horrors of this place. Their clothes were frayed, their faces gaunt, but they lived. And now, they turned toward Kira as if she were the first true star in this false sky.

Ether Manipulators—often called "Mages" by the ignorant—were not mere spellcasters.

In this world, magic was not born of will alone. It was a covenant. A gift from the the Dawn Gods, bestowed only upon those who walked their sacred path. Elemental power without devotion was a crude, fickle thing—a spark compared to the radiance of the Dawn.

And among the vast expressions of divine light, none was more subtle, more protective, than the Blue Song.

This was not mere water magic.

It was the manifest will of Nyarael, the Serene Voice—a celestial servant of Aethel, the Eternal Dawn. The Blue Song was a Divine Grace, granted only to those whose faith was pure, whose hearts sought harmony and preservation.

It could not be learned.

Only received.

Only earned.

And Kira had walked that path.

Yorven staggered to his feet, something like life returning to his hollowed eyes.

—"A disciple…?"

Around them, others stirred—survivors who had been lost in stupor, now snapping back to fractured awareness.

An old man coughed, his voice like wind through dead leaves.

—"A Dawn God's disciple…?"

A younger man, his armor rusted with Abyssal fluids, stumbled closer.

—"Can she… can she really…?"

Within moments, the last remnants of sanity in Lunaris Virelda had gathered around Kira—not touching her, not daring to hope, but watching.

And from the shadows, the Vraalmur and his Larva watched too.

The Larva's glow pulsed—blue-gold, like the first light of dawn.

Hope flickered—but its price was blood and sacrifice.

"No! That's insane, Kira!" Elion snarled, his grip tightening on his lance. "You can't just—"

"Would you rather we all die here?" Kira's voice was soft, but her smile was bright, almost unnaturally so. "I can hold on. And once you're out, you'll find a way back for me."

Elion cursed under his breath, knuckles white.

Rugal's voice was gravel. "Miss Kira… your family. What do I tell them?"

She unclasped the Veldra family pendant from her neck—a sigil of silver and sapphire, humming with latent power—and pressed it into his palm. "Give this to my father. He'll come for me."

A shaky laugh. "And trust me—he's stubborn enough to drag me out of even this place."

A young man, his face gaunt with hunger, stepped forward. "Prove it," he whispered. "Show us your magic isn't just words."

Kira turned, her tattoos glowing like veins of dawnlight.

"Have faith," she murmured. "The gods' grace will lead us home."

The survivors—those still clinging to sanity—followed her to the false village, its pulsating walls now a grotesque mockery of shelter. The plan was simple:

Kira would tear open a rift.

And she would stay behind to keep it open.

But the meadow knew.

Above them, the false stars twitched. The air grew thick, sweet with the scent of rotting nectar. Somewhere in the distance, the earth trembled—not from footsteps, but from something waking.

The Lords of the Meadow were coming.

And they would not let their prey escape so easily.

The survivors watched in silent awe.

Even the Vraalmur and his Larva, hidden within the crevices of the pulsating hut, observed—unblinking.

Before them, Kira began to sing.

Not with words.

With something deeper.

A melody woven from vibrations, humming through the air like the memory of an ancient language. The ground trembled faintly beneath her, as if the stone itself remembered this sound.

And then—

A liquid blue aura unfurled from her back like a mantle of suspended water. Her eyes transformed—not in shape, but in essence. They became pools of translucent crystal, reflecting depths of unshakable serenity. Her tattoos—spirals and koi in cerulean ink—glowed softly, as if stirred from slumber.

This was no mere spell.

It was divinity seeping into mortal flesh.

"That…" whispered one of the survivors, voice cracking, "is the Blue Song."

The young man who had doubted her earlier could only stare, transfixed. "What… what is that?"

The old man beside him—face half-scarred by Abyssal burns—answered in a voice like dry parchment:

"Not magic. Not as surface scholars understand it. Divine Graces are not studied. They are received. Endured. Earned."

He paused, then pointed a gnarled finger at Kira, still kneeling in trance.

"Each Grace comes from one of the Dawn Gods—the seven fragments of Aethel, the Eternal Dawn. They lend us their virtues to face what lurks below." His milky eye flicked toward the false sky. "And if you misuse that power?"

A wheezing laugh. "No one fools a god. Stray from the path, and the Grace fades… or worse. It consumes you. Warps you. Leaves you hollow."

The young man swallowed hard.

"To wield a Grace," the old man continued, "is to hold fire in your chest. It grows with every prayer… and burns with every doubt. Not a gift. A trial."

Kira rose unsteadily. Before her, a fracture split the air—thin, unstable. But her face was pale, her breath ragged. The blue light in her eyes dimmed.

"And if you push too far?" the boy whispered.

The old man looked away.

"Then the body breaks. The soul shatters. And Aethel either claims you… or forgets you forever."

But the meadow would not let them go.

Something was wrong—terribly wrong. The two Lords of the Meadow, eternal rivals, now moved together. As if the very land had sounded an alarm.

The ground trembled. The rift flickered, unstable. Kira's hands shook, her nose bleeding as she poured her soul into the spell.

"She did it!" Elion shouted, rushing toward her. "The rift is forming!"

Then—

The false sky went dark.

Not all of it. Just the warning lights—the ones that marked territory. The ones that signaled hunters.

The grass curled inward. The fungi shrieked. The earth roared.

Yorven rose slowly, his broken spear trembling in his grip.

"They're coming," he whispered. "They've felt it."

Auren turned. In the distance, something moved through the mist—not running, but advancing like a living avalanche.

Zark'Ul-Murr.

And from above, a shadow spiraled down, wings of nightmare unfolding.

Myrrhex-Vaal.

"It's like the Abyss knows we're trying to escape!" a soldier cried.

"It won't allow it," Yorven snarled. "This place owns us—and we're defying it!"

Kira gasped, blood dripping from her nose, her hands locked around her staff. The rift pulsed like an open heart, but it wasn't stable yet.

"I need more time!"

Rugal hefted his hammer.

"Then we'll buy it!"

The squad moved.

Yorven took up a borrowed spear. The survivors armed themselves with desperate courage. Elion aimed his weapon at the descending shadow. Auren laid traps in a final defensive ring.

Zark'Ul-Murr charged like a blind god, crushing everything beneath its hooves, horns crackling with ruinous energy. The ground split in its wake. Trees, pillars—pulverized.

Above, Myrrhex-Vaal descended in soundless song, its body an eclipse of flesh, wings spread like floating blades.

"Auren, left flank!" Rugal roared. "Elion, aim for its eyes! Yorven—"

Their gazes met. No words needed.

Yorven nodded.

"My squad died for nothing. This one won't."

They lunged toward death.

Kira, on her knees, screamed a prayer—not with words, but with her soul.

Dawnlight erupted from her chest, wrapping the rift in gold. Space itself began to bleed.

The world trembled.

Not in fear.

In rage.

And for the first time…

The Abyss screamed.