The wind shifted as they crested the final dune.
And there it was—Virelles.
Or what was left of it.
The once-magnificent capital, known for its white stone towers and gilded bridges, now stood half-swallowed by smoke. Columns of fire reached toward the sky. The banners of the royal house were tattered and burning. From their vantage point, they could see figures moving within the chaos—some human, some… not.
Ael narrowed his eyes.
"I was told Virelles had the strongest barrier magic in the central kingdoms," he said.
Elric's face was pale. "It did. That was a divine ward. No army should've been able to breach it without weeks of siegecraft and magic bombardment."
Arienne unslung her blade. "So who did this?"
Lyra crouched beside a rock, her gaze sharp and distant. "Look closely. Those aren't soldiers. They're cultists."
Ael followed her line of sight.
Down below, beneath the smoke and rubble, figures moved in robes soaked with ash and blood. Crimson veils. Bladed chains wrapped around their arms. Some dragged screaming survivors behind them. Others were gathering bodies near the city's shattered cathedral.
A sigil was being carved into the earth itself.
A great, spiraling rune of void.
"Crimson Choir," Ael said coldly. "They beat us here."
Elric swallowed. "They're trying to unseal the Vault. If they break the ward stone beneath the cathedral, the first seal of the Executioner could shatter."
"And if that happens?" Arienne asked.
Elric met her gaze. "A fragment of the Executioner could manifest fully."
Lyra stood. "Then we kill them all before that happens."
Ael nodded. "We split. Arienne and I go straight for the cathedral. Elric, you take Lyra and disrupt the ritual circle. Kill anyone drawing sigils. Leave none alive."
No hesitation.
Just orders.
They moved.
—
The streets of Virelles had become a graveyard.
Bodies lay strewn across market stalls and rooftops. Fires raged unchecked. The smell of blood and burning parchment filled the air—like the gods themselves had abandoned the place.
Ael and Arienne moved like shadows through the alleyways, cutting down isolated cultists without a sound. Each kill was surgical. Efficient.
But Ael noticed something strange.
None of them fought back.
Their eyes were glazed.
Their bodies gaunt.
"Drugged," Arienne muttered. "Mind-broken. They weren't fighting—they were sacrificing themselves."
"To fuel the summoning," Ael realized grimly.
They neared the cathedral gates.
It had once been a place of worship. Now its stained glass windows had been shattered from within. Chains coiled like vines across its front pillars, and a massive eye—painted in blood—loomed above the entrance.
And standing before it…
Was a man.
Or something like one.
He was tall, unnaturally slender, his skin pale and cracked like ancient porcelain. His eyes glowed red behind a bone mask etched with runes.
His voice slithered through the air.
"You are late, Hollow King."
Ael raised his blade. "And you're dead."
The man bowed mockingly. "I am Choirmaster Sereth. Third Voice of the Crimson Choir. I've been chosen to welcome you."
Arienne stepped forward. "Chosen to die, more like."
Sereth smiled.
And the ground behind him cracked open.
From the depths, a chained abomination emerged—ten feet tall, its arms bound in iron, its mouth stitched shut. Void energy leaked from its eyes like tears.
Ael's expression didn't change.
He stepped forward, one foot past the threshold.
Arienne blinked. "Wait, you're not—"
Too late.
Ael vanished.
Sereth's head snapped toward the motion—just in time to parry Ael's blade with a flick of his clawed hand.
The two clashed, sparks flying, steel against void-forged bone.
Arienne cursed and charged the abomination.
—
Meanwhile, on the far side of the city, Lyra danced through fire.
Her daggers flashed as she slit the throats of two cultists mid-incantation. Elric followed, incinerating a group of chanters with a nova of radiant light.
But the ritual had already progressed.
The sigil in the earth was now glowing, pulsing with life.
They had minutes at most.
"Elric," Lyra said sharply. "I can't stop this one. It's protected by a null-field."
"I know," he growled, eyes narrowed. "So I'm going to overload it."
He began tracing a new glyph—an anti-sigil, drawn with raw mana and infused with divine runes. His hands bled. His vision blurred. But the light grew brighter with every stroke.
"Cover me!"
Lyra stood between him and the cultists, blades raised.
—
Back in the cathedral, Ael drove Sereth into the altar.
"Your arrogance blinds you," the Choirmaster hissed, hurling a spear of void at point-blank range.
Ael caught it.
His hand bled instantly—but he didn't flinch.
He crushed it with sheer force and drove his sword straight through Sereth's side.
But the Choirmaster laughed.
"You've only delayed the inevitable," he whispered, and began chanting a final line of invocation.
The chained abomination howled.
Arienne, panting and bloodied, hurled her last flame spear directly into its open chest.
It exploded in a storm of bone and ash.
And Elric's final glyph detonated on the other side of the city.
The sigil collapsed.
The void pulse stopped.
Sereth staggered.
And Ael whispered, "Too late."
His sword cut down.
And the Third Voice of the Crimson Choir fell.