The first thing they heard approaching Eversong was not singing but silence trying to remember how.
The dunes gave way to stone—smooth, worn paths etched with lines that pulsed faintly underfoot. The air smelled faintly of salt and brass, and far ahead, beneath a horizon of flickering light, stood the city itself.
Eversong shimmered like an instrument tuned to light. Its towers rose like organ pipes, each capped with glass and crystal that caught the wind and turned it into music. Or it had, once. Now the air was heavy, the notes faltering.The great chords that once defined its skyline trembled on the edge of collapse, echoing unevenly through the canyons of buildings.
Seren paused on the ridge overlooking the city. "Doesn't sound like a place called Eversong," she said quietly.
Aron adjusted the compass readings, squinting. "Sound intensity's dropping across all frequencies. Whatever's affecting the desert—it's reached here."
Taren stood between them, his gaze fixed on the distant spires. He could feel the silence even from here—a presence spreading like frost. "They'll know something's wrong," he murmured. "The Chorus won't let this happen without a fight."
"The Chorus?" Seren asked.
"The city's keepers," he explained. "Musicians, engineers, translators. They maintain harmony across the Pattern's channels. The city exists because of them."
Seren raised an eyebrow. "And if the city's losing its harmony?"
"Then either the Pattern's dying," Taren said softly, "or it's rewriting the song."
They descended toward the gates as dusk fell. Lanterns flickered along the bridges, their glow duller than it should have been. From the lower tiers rose faint murmurs—snatches of melodies, chants, and prayers, all out of tune.
At the gates, a young guard wearing silver earplates stepped forward. Her expression was tight, polite. "Travelers?"
"From the Listening Guild," Taren said, producing his insignia.
She examined it, then hesitated. "You'll want the Hall of Echoes. The Chorus is gathered there. They've been waiting for someone from the Guild."
"Waiting?" Seren asked.
"For days," the guard said. "They said they heard you coming."
Inside, Eversong was unlike any city they'd seen. Every surface was meant to sing. Bridges chimed underfoot, fountains exhaled harmonics, windows shimmered with voice-reactive glass. But now, all of it was broken—still producing sound, but dissonant. The city was like an orchestra whose conductor had died mid-score.
They reached the Hall of Echoes at the center of the city. It was a vast dome of bronze and crystal, suspended by resonance threads that hummed faintly. Hundreds of people moved within—technicians, musicians, healers—all gathered around the largest resonant chamber in existence.
At its heart stood a woman in a silver mantle, her hair braided with fine copper wires. She turned as they entered. Her eyes flickered with relief.
"You made it," she said. "We thought the desert had swallowed you."
Taren bowed slightly. "We almost did."
"I am Maerin Vale, High Conductor of the Chorus," she said. "And you must be Taren Mekh. The Guild sent word. They said you hear what others can't."
Taren hesitated, unused to hearing his name spoken with reverence. "I hear what shouldn't exist."
Maerin gestured to the chamber around them. "Then listen to this."
She clapped her hands, and the chamber's resonant field activated. The air shimmered; faint harmonics filled the space. At first, it was beautiful—warm tones, layered and complex. Then, slowly, the sound decayed. The harmonics drifted apart, splintering until the music warped into a slow, discordant moan.
Maerin turned back to them. "That's what we hear now. Every note, every frequency—decaying into silence."
Seren crossed her arms. "You think it's the Pattern?"
"We know it is," Maerin said. "The city runs on resonance drawn directly from it. But the stream's been… twisting."
Taren frowned. "Show me."
Maerin nodded to an engineer, who activated a wall of mirrored glass. Waves of light pulsed across it, forming visualized sound. The upper bands looked normal, but beneath them—shadows. Not absence, but negative presence, frequencies pulling in reverse.
Taren felt the hair on his neck rise. "You're seeing reflection frequencies," he said.
"Reflection?" Aron asked.
"When sound remembers itself too clearly," Taren explained. "It folds. Echoes inside the Pattern. The same thing we saw in the canyon."
Seren glanced at him. "You think it's spreading through the network?"
He nodded. "And the Pattern's not resisting anymore. It's participating."
Maerin's expression tightened. "We've heard… something, in the distortion. Not words, exactly. More like fragments. Would you listen?"
Taren hesitated only a second before nodding.
She gestured, and the resonance engineer increased the gain. The air thickened with sound—warped, layered, immense. Beneath it, a voice emerged, distant and echoing, like wind caught inside stone.
Eversong.
The syllables stretched and fractured. The next words came in waves, each one older than the last.
Remember the silence.
Then, more faintly, as if beneath a thousand layers of memory: You are playing too loud.
The room trembled. Every glass surface rippled like water.
Taren gasped, feeling the words resonate in his chest. The same tone he'd heard in the desert—the counter-frequency—vibrated faintly through the compass.
"It's the Pattern itself," he said. "It's asking us to stop listening."
Maerin's eyes widened. "Stop listening?"
"Yes," he whispered. "It's trying to quiet itself. It's… drowning in us."
The hall fell into stunned silence.
Aron rubbed the back of his neck. "That's poetic and terrifying."
Seren looked around, her soldier's instinct bristling. "If the Pattern wants silence, what happens to a city built to sing?"
No one answered.
A faint crackling sound drew their attention to the far wall. One of the mirrored panels had begun to darken, the reflected image warping. The shadow in the reflection thickened until it became shape—humanoid, translucent, standing where no one stood.
Maerin whispered, "It's been doing that for days."
The figure tilted its head slowly, as if listening. Then, in perfect imitation of Taren's voice, it said, You are playing too loud.
Taren staggered back. "Turn it off!"
The engineer slammed the controls, and the image vanished. The chamber's lights flickered, the resonance threads trembling like harp strings.
Maerin steadied herself against a pillar. "Every time we shut it down, it comes back. And it's learning."
Seren stepped forward, her voice low. "Learning what?"
"To be heard," Maerin said.
That night, they were given quarters within the upper tiers of Eversong. The rooms overlooked the Grand Plaza, where dozens of street musicians had gathered despite the failing harmonics. The songs rose in fits and starts, threads of melody unraveling mid-note.
Taren stood at the balcony, watching the city's lights dim one by one. The Resonant Compass sat on the railing beside him, glowing faintly, syncing with the rhythm of the faltering music.
Seren joined him quietly. "You're thinking about her again."
"My mother?"
"She'd have told you to leave this place alone."
He nodded. "And she'd have been wrong."
Seren leaned against the railing. "This city runs on song. If the Pattern wants quiet, everything here dies."
Taren looked down at the crowds below—people still trying to sing even as the air refused to carry their voices. "Then maybe we learn to sing differently."
Seren's brow furrowed. "You think you can teach the world a new kind of listening?"
He smiled faintly. "No. But maybe it's trying to teach me."
They stayed like that for a long time, watching the last song fade into the night. Somewhere deep beneath the city, something shifted—an undertone rising from the earth, soft but unmistakable. The sound of silence awakening.
The compass pulsed once, then twice.
Far across the plaza, the mirrored surface of the Hall of Echoes rippled again. For an instant, Taren saw his reflection standing in that mirrored wall, staring back at him—older, thinner, eyes bright with something unreadable.
It smiled.
And then it whispered, in perfect sync with his heartbeat:
You're listening too deeply.