The Hall of Lost Echoes was not a place one entered lightly. Its vast, arched ceiling was woven from the last breaths of faded stars, and its walls, built of solidified silence, held the memory of every song that had ever ended. It was a place of remembrance, a sanctuary for grief. And now, it was never empty.
Ashai stood among the choir, his simple linen robe feeling like a weight. Around him, other Malakim gathered, their lights subdued. A pair of artisans spoke in low, tired voices.
"...another shipment of starlight crystal rerouted to the Metzudah," one murmured, rubbing a temple. "Mammon's forges consume more each passing cycle. Phenex's entire mural project in Emek Ha'or is stalled. No resources."
The other sighed, a sound like a broken chord. "It's been this way since Aethelgard fell. They call it a victory, but it feels like we've been bleeding ever since."
The words were a quiet confirmation of the new, grinding reality. The fiery shock of the first rebellion had passed. Now, it was a war of attrition.
The Choirmaster, an ancient Malakim whose own light was dimmed by countless dirges, lifted a hand. The soft murmur of sorrow stilled. A single, clear note hung in the air, pure and piercing as a shard of ice. It was the Note of Lament, the foundation of their psalm.
And then they began to sing.
Their voices were not raised in triumphant chorus or furious defiance. This was a different kind of warfare. It was a song of gentle, relentless love, a melodic thread sent into the void to find the lost echoes and weave them back into the fabric of memory, if only for a moment. To assure them, and themselves, that they were not forgotten.
Ashai's voice, a soft tenor, wove through the harmonies. He did not just sing the words; he felt them. He thought of the stories he'd heard—of the young sentinel who had held a pass alone, of the healer who had spent her last spark to save another. He poured his gentle heart into the music, his hazel eyes glistening. To him, this was not a duty. It was a sacrament.
The music swelled, a complex tapestry of interwoven grief and love. The very air in the Hall began to warm, the oppressive silence retreating before the advance of their song. For a glorious, fleeting moment, the shimmering impressions of the fallen glowed a little brighter, their forms momentarily clearer, as if comforted.
It was in that moment that a new presence joined them. It was not a sound, but a feeling—a profound, gentle warmth that seeped into the marrow of the spirit. It was the feeling of being perfectly known, perfectly understood, and perfectly loved. It was The Presence.
The choir's voices strengthened, not in volume, but in conviction, buoyed by this divine comfort. The psalm reached its crescendo, a heart-wrenching plea wrapped in unwavering faith.
"Adonai, Adonai, do you see our tears? We sing through the silence, we sing through our fears. The lights of our brothers are lost in the night, But we are Your echoes, we are Your light."
The final note hung in the air, a fragile, beautiful thing. Then, softly, it faded.
The warmth of The Presence lingered for a heartbeat longer, a silent I am here, before it, too, receded.
The choir stood in the returning silence, spent. As they filed out, the two artisans spoke again, their tones now hollow.
"They say Michael was wounded," the first one said. "In the last push at the Matzok. A brush with him."
A grim silence. No name was needed. "He will recover," the other replied, but it sounded more like a prayer than a statement. "He must."
Ashai listened, his heart aching not with despair, but with a fierce, protective love. This was what they were fighting for. Not for victory, but for the right to keep singing these psalms. For the right to remember in a world that seemed to be forgetting.
He turned and walked out of the hall, the echoes of their grief and their love clinging to him like a ghost, setting the tone for the long defeat to come.