Zerune was a song even when it slept.
At night, the molten rivers cooled to a deep amber glow, and the streets whispered in faint chords of heat and light. The rhythm of Histinak was everywhere — flowing through the city's veins like molten blood, looping through conduits carved centuries before memory began.
Nakala had learned to feel it now. Every footstep carried a vibration that wasn't hers; every shadow hummed with an unseen heart. Yet tonight, as she followed Serah through the silent tunnels beneath the lower terraces, the rhythm felt… wrong. Uneven. Hungry.
> "Where are we going?" Nakala asked, her voice catching on the thick, humid air.
Serah's torch flickered crimson. "To where Zerune truly breathes."
They passed beneath great slabs of stone engraved with sigils that pulsed faintly in time with their heartbeats. The light from the runes dimmed as they descended, until the only glow came from Serah's flame — and from Nakala herself. The violet flicker of her Histinak kept bleeding through her skin no matter how hard she tried to suppress it.
The tunnels ended at a set of gates — wide, circular, made of glass-black iron. Upon them were thousands of names carved so small Nakala couldn't read them. They stretched to the ceiling like a constellation of letters, endlessly repeating, shifting as if written by memory itself.
> "These are the Bound Names," Serah said, pressing her hand to the gate. "They keep Zerune alive."
Nakala frowned. "Names of who?"
Serah hesitated — just long enough for Nakala to notice.
> "Those who give themselves to the city. Or are… taken by it."
The gate opened with a sound like sighing breath. Beyond lay a cavernous hall, alive with quiet fire. Countless obsidian pillars lined the chamber, each engraved with names that burned softly in gold flame. Between the pillars, streams of light flowed through glass channels — souls, moving like rivers of liquid memory.
Nakala stepped closer, entranced. Each name whispered faintly when she passed — fragments of forgotten prayers, laughter, pain.
> "They're… alive," she murmured.
Serah nodded. "In a way. Zerune was built on a pact. Every century, the city offers its rhythm to the N'gai Veil to keep the darkness beyond from devouring us. But rhythm is not endless. When the cycle thins, it feeds on memory."
Nakala turned to her, a chill crawling down her spine. "You mean—"
"Outsiders," Serah said quietly. "Travelers. Strangers who die within the city's borders. Their names are swallowed. Their souls are made into rhythm. That is how Zerune stays eternal."
The sound of it hit Nakala harder than any blade. The warmth, the glow, the beauty — all of it bought with the forgetting of countless lives. She could almost feel the weight of the souls pressing against her ears, whispering to be remembered.
> "How long have you known?" Nakala asked.
Serah looked away. "Long enough to stop asking if it's wrong."
Something inside Nakala cracked — a small, fragile piece that still believed the world could be saved without cost. Her hand drifted toward one of the glowing pillars. When her fingers brushed the glass, she saw flashes: a man with eyes like dawnlight, a woman weaving light into music, a child laughing in a place that no longer existed. Then, as quickly as they appeared, the visions faded.
Esh'ra's voice rose within her, dark and almost tender.
You see now, little vessel. The living always eat the dead. It is their truest religion.
Nakala pulled her hand back. "Why show me this?"
"Because," Serah said softly, "the rhythm is breaking. The Bound Names are fading faster than they can be replaced. The N'gai stir in the Veil again — the same whispers from before the great forgetting. If the city fails, all of A'banu will follow."
"And you think I can fix it?" Nakala asked.
"I think," Serah said, turning toward her with a faint, weary smile, "that you already have."
Nakala didn't understand. But then she saw it — one of the pillars at the far end flickering violently. The golden names upon it began to dim, turning gray. From within the glass, a faint scream rippled outward, shaking the entire chamber.
The rhythm faltered.
The city shuddered.
Serah ran forward, pressing her hands against the pillar, whispering rapid incantations. "The pulse is rejecting something—!"
Then Nakala felt it. The violet rhythm of her own Histinak responding, echoing through the hall, answering the dying pulse. The light returned — but so did something else. For a heartbeat, the names on the pillar rearranged themselves into a single word:
NAKALA.
The flame turned violet.
And the city, for the first time in centuries, skipped a beat.