CHAPTER 18: The Choir Without Faces

The sound of bells woke the city.

Not the soft, measured tolls of morning mass — but the frantic, discordant clanging of alarm. A wild, panicked rhythm that shattered sleep and set flocks of birds scattering from the cathedral eaves.

Bell was already halfway down the spiral stairwell of the Guild Tower before the others even stirred. His cloak whipped behind him as he descended, boots hammering stone. From the windows, he could see the lower streets in motion — flashes of steel, crimson tabards, city guard pouring from the barracks, rushing toward the Temple District.

Seria caught up with him moments later, her hair half-tied, boots unlaced, breath tight in her chest. "What's happening?"

"A murder," Bell growled, not breaking stride. "In public."

Cid followed a little behind, slower, adjusting the collar of his coat with a calm expression entirely at odds with the urgency around them. "Public murders are fashionable these days, aren't they?" he said dryly.

No one laughed.

The Temple Plaza was chaos.

Bodies surged like waves around the marble fountains, panicked civilians shouting, pressing against the cordons as city guards tried to push them back. The sound of cries and confusion echoed off high stone pillars and golden archways, shattering the early morning calm.

Soldiers had formed a perimeter around the center — where a small, elevated stage had been erected the day before for the Midsummer Blessing, a speech to be given by High Orator Mavellan.

But now he lay dead upon that same platform.

Throat slit open, arms outstretched as if in benediction. Blood soaked into the wood beneath him, pooled beneath the folds of his ceremonial robes, staining them a dark, ugly brown. The crowd kept a wide berth, horrified, muttering prayers with trembling hands.

Carved into the platform beside him — deep, deliberate, and still glistening — were three words:

The Queen Awaits.

Bell forced his way through the press of bodies, shoving past two guards. "Who did this?" he snapped.

One of the armored soldiers pointed with a gauntleted hand toward the alley. "He ran that way. Masked. Didn't speak."

Bell was moving before the words finished. His blade was already drawn.

The chase took him through winding stone streets, the alleyways narrow and slick with last night's rain. Over rooftops dusted with ash. Down stairwells overgrown with moss and lined with refuse. He moved like fire — relentless, burning through the city's veins.

He saw flashes of the assassin's robes: green and tattered, moving fast but never frantic. There was a symbol on the back — a crest blurred by motion, unrecognizable. The assassin was fast, unnaturally so.

But Bell was faster.

He cornered him near the aqueduct, the spray of water misting the air.

"Stop!" Bell shouted, his voice cutting through the rising wind. "Turn and face me!"

The masked figure halted mid-step. Slowly, almost reverently, it turned.

Its face was white porcelain. Smooth. Expressionless. No mouth. Only two deep pits for eyes — dark voids that seemed to pull light inward.

And then it began to sing.

Not with lips. Not from any visible mouth. But with sound.

A chorus — male and female, childlike and ancient — echoing from nowhere, layered and wrong. The alley seemed to tighten around it, the air going heavy with pressure.

Bell stepped back, hand tightening on his hilt.

The figure raised its hand.

And shattered.

Not from any blow. Not from magic Bell could recognize. But from within — as if the body had reached the limit of its existence. Cracks raced across its limbs, splintering its frame into dust and ash.

Then it was gone.

Bell stood alone in the alley, heart pounding, sweat freezing along his spine.

That evening, the Guild Council convened behind sealed doors. Heavy curtains blocked the windows. Guards stood at every entrance.

Rennel looked ten years older. His eyes were bloodshot, hands stiff from gripping too many scrolls for too long.

"These are no longer isolated attacks," he said, voice hollow. "They are coordinated now. Strategic. Public stages. Priests. Mayors. Even scholars. Symbols of order."

Seria tapped her knuckles against the wood of the table. "It's not just the targets," she said. "It's the message. It's performance."

Bell sat forward, brow furrowed. "They're preparing the city. Like staging a play. Each death a scene."

Rennel's gaze moved slowly toward the shuttered window. "And what's the final act?"

No one answered.

No one wanted to.

But far away — beneath the city, deep in the carved crypts of the forgotten, past doors sealed in languages no one spoke anymore — a circle of masked cultists lit their candles in silence.

One stepped forward.

In their hand was a tiny object — a single strand of pale chestnut hair.

They placed it gently into the fire.

A strand of Seria's hair.

The flames turned violet. The color of bruises and poisoned twilight.

And behind them, beyond even the candlelight, a shadow watched.

A shape.

A presence unseen by the circle, but not absent.

It nodded once.

And melted back into the dark.

That night, as Aurelia held its breath beneath a veil of uneasy stillness, Bell and Seria stood on the high ramparts of the Guild Tower. The city below looked peaceful in the torchlight — but peace had become illusion.

The wind was cold, brushing against them like the fingers of something not entirely human.

"You've changed," Seria said softly, arms folded, eyes fixed on the horizon.

Bell raised an eyebrow. "Have I?"

"You used to smile more," she murmured. "Joke more. Before all of this."

He was silent for a time.

Then, slowly, he nodded. "Maybe I forgot how."

She looked at him then — really looked — and studied the lines at the corners of his mouth. The way his shoulders hunched slightly when he thought no one was watching.

"You haven't," she said, barely audible over the wind.

He turned to her, golden eyes catching the flickering light from the torches along the battlements. They shimmered like distant firelight on a stormy sea.

"If I lose myself in this…" he said quietly. "Remind me who I am, Seria."

"I will," she whispered.

Her fingers brushed his.

Then her lips.

And for the first time in a long time, Bell didn't pull away.

Above them — unseen, silent — a pale serpent coiled just beneath the eaves of the tower, hidden among stonework and shadow.

Its eyes glowed softly in the dark.

It watched.

And listened.

Then, without sound, it uncoiled — and vanished into the wind.