Chapter 17: Fractured Song
The marsh was dead silent. No hymn, no pulse, no whispers threading through the mist. Just the sound of dripping mud and Lucien's labored breathing. He stayed on one knee for longer than he wanted to admit, his fingers clenched so tightly around Requiem's hilt that his knuckles turned white. The blade vibrated faintly, not with power but with a low, simmering resentment, as though the weapon itself sulked in defiance of its master's choice. The broken shard smoldered in the muck, its glow fading slowly like embers dying in ash. Lucien's body still burned, every vein aching as if molten fire had been forced through them. He forced air into his lungs, his jaw tight.
Liora stood close, her hand hovering near him without touching, her eyes scanning the ruins of the shrine. The roots that had formed its walls were blackened and brittle, collapsing inward as if the life had been sucked from them. Where once the swamp had pulsed with crimson, now it sagged, a hollow carcass of mud and bone. Her sword dripped with filth, but her gaze was on Lucien, not the battlefield. She didn't speak at first—didn't dare, as if words might undo the fragile silence they had won. Finally, she said, "You chose right." Her voice was steady, though her knuckles were white around her hilt.
Lucien let out a rough laugh, one with no humor. "Right doesn't feel like this." He pushed himself to his feet, wobbling until Liora steadied him. His eyes, still faintly rimmed with crimson, flicked toward the remnants of the shard. "The voice wanted me to take it. Said it was already a part of me."
"And you proved it wrong," Liora said, her tone sharp, brooking no argument. But she too glanced at the shattered fragment, unease in her eyes. "We don't know how many of these verses there are. We can't carry them. Not without… changing."
Lucien swallowed. The silence pressed on him like weight. He could still hear it faintly—somewhere in the distance, the hymn was not gone, only hushed, like a choir holding its breath. The thought made his skin crawl. He turned to move, but the swamp itself shifted beneath them. The mud trembled, not from the hymn this time but from something heavier. Something approaching.
Liora's hand snapped to her sword. "Do you feel that?"
Lucien raised Requiem instinctively, the blade's glow faint and reluctant. "Yes."
Out of the thinning mist came figures, but not the formless horrors born of the hymn. These walked with purpose. Cloaked in dark leather, masks of bone covering their faces, they moved with disciplined precision, boots sinking into the mud without hesitation. Each carried weapons wrapped in charms that flickered faintly against the damp air. Hunters. Not of beasts, but of the corrupted. Lucien counted six before the fog swallowed the rest.
The one at the front raised a hand, stopping the line. His mask was carved into a snarling visage, crimson paint streaking across its cheek. "So it's true," he said, his voice muffled but strong. "The hymn went silent here." His gaze—or what lay behind it—settled on Lucien. "And you're the reason."
Lucien's grip tightened on Requiem. "Who are you?"
"The Choir's Hunters," the man replied. "We cull those who disrupt the verses. You've silenced one. That makes you a threat." He tilted his head slightly. "And a curiosity."
Liora stepped forward, blade half-drawn. "We're leaving."
The hunter chuckled, a low, dry sound. "No one leaves the marsh without the Choir's blessing. And you've angered it."
The other hunters shifted, spreading out in a crescent to encircle them. Their charms glowed brighter, reacting to the residue of the shard still thick in the air. Lucien's heart hammered in his chest. He was drained, his body screaming for rest, but Requiem thrummed impatiently now, eager at the scent of battle. It wanted to prove its worth, to drown the hunters in blood, to punish Lucien for daring to restrain it.
Liora's eyes flicked to him, her voice low. "We can't fight all of them."
"We don't have a choice," Lucien muttered. His veins burned again, the hymn's echo stirring within him. The hunters were closing in, step by step, their bone masks expressionless, their weapons poised.
Then the leader raised his hand again, halting them. His head tilted, as though listening to something Lucien could not hear. A hum shivered faintly in the air, not the hymn, but close—a fractured echo. The hunter lowered his arm. "The Choir wants you alive," he said. His tone was almost regretful. "But if you resist…" His blade hissed from its sheath, black steel glinting. "…we'll bring you back in pieces."
Lucien exhaled, his grip steadying. He raised Requiem, crimson light cutting through the mist. "Then you'll have to try."
The marsh erupted into chaos.