God Grave

The Vessel (pt 2)

Prelate Sorin's office was on the third floor of the administrative wing, accessed by a narrow spiral staircase that made Ilara's legs burn. She climbed slowly, bag slung over one shoulder, trying to prepare herself for whatever was waiting at the top.

‎The door was already open.

‎Inside, Prelate Sorin sat behind his desk—a massive thing made of god-bone and dark wood that made him look even smaller than he was. Standing on either side of him were two figures in the grey coats of the imperial bureaucracy, silver pins glinting at their collars. Both were women. One was older, maybe fifty, with iron-grey hair pulled back in a severe bun. The other was younger, thirtyish, with sharp features and eyes that tracked Ilara's every movement like a hawk watching prey.

‎"Ilara Vale," Sorin said, not bothering with pleasantries. "Sit."

‎There was only one chair. She sat, clutching her bag in her lap like a shield.

‎"Do you know why you're here?" the older woman asked. Her voice was clipped, educated, carrying the faint accent of the Spine cities.

‎"No, ma'am."

‎"My name is Administrator Voss. This is my colleague, Technician Lemark. We're from the Engine Council's Resonance Division." Voss pulled a folder from inside her coat, opening it on the desk. Inside were papers covered in dense script and what looked like waveform diagrams. "We've been monitoring unusual resonance activity in the eastern districts for the past three weeks. Specifically, voice-based resonance. Are you familiar with the term?"

‎Ilara's mouth went dry. "I... I've heard of it."

‎"Don't lie to the Administrator," Lemark said sharply.

‎"I'm not lying. I've heard of it. In the Vaults, before—" She stopped herself.

‎"Before your parents were executed for heresy," Voss finished calmly. "Yes. We're aware of your family history. In fact, it's part of why we're here." She pulled out a sheet covered in graph lines. "Three weeks ago, we detected a resonance spike originating from this building. Specifically, from the dormitory wing. The signature matched voice-based patterns—rare, but not unheard of. We dismissed it as a sensor malfunction."

‎She pulled out another sheet.

‎"Two weeks ago, another spike. Same signature, same location. Stronger this time."

‎Another sheet.

‎"One week ago, a third spike. Strong enough to cause minor fluctuations in the city's god-engines. Strong enough to wake up things that should stay sleeping."

‎Voss looked up from the papers, her gaze drilling into Ilara. "And last night, we detected a fourth spike. The strongest yet. Strong enough that it caused a resonance cascade through the bone network connecting Veresh to the Lorn Expanse. Strong enough that we have reports of distortions appearing two hundred miles south of here."

‎Ilara couldn't breathe. "I don't know what you're talking about."

‎"You were singing," Lemark said. "Last night, around midnight. In your sleep. We have three witnesses who heard you through the walls."

‎"Everyone sings sometimes—"

‎"Not like you." Voss leaned forward. "Ilara, I need you to understand something. Voice resonance is an extremely rare ability. It allows the user to manipulate divine frequencies through vocal patterns—to calm godstorms, to stabilize aetherich, to communicate with remnant consciousness in god-corpses." She paused. "It also makes you incredibly valuable. And incredibly dangerous."

‎"I haven't done anything wrong," Ilara said, hating how small her voice sounded.

‎"We're not saying you have. But whether you intended to or not, you've attracted attention. The kind of attention that doesn't go away."

‎"What does that mean?"

‎Voss exchanged a glance with Lemark. "It means that as of this morning, you've been conscripted into imperial service. You'll be transferred to the Spine, to the central Engine facility, where you'll be trained to properly control and utilize your abilities."

‎The room felt like it was tilting. "Conscripted?"

‎"It's a great honor," Sorin said, speaking for the first time in minutes. His voice was carefully neutral. "The empire is offering you a purpose. A chance to serve."

‎"I don't want to serve."

‎"That," Voss said quietly, "is not an option."

‎Ilara looked between the three of them, searching for any hint of sympathy, any crack in the wall. She found none. "And if I refuse?"

‎"Then you'll be classified as a rogue resonant. A threat to imperial stability." Voss closed the folder. "We both know what happens to threats."

‎The unspoken answer hung in the air: the same thing that happened to your parents.

‎Ilara's hands clenched around the strap of her bag. Every instinct screamed at her to run, to fight, to do something other than sit here and accept this. But what could she do? She had no money, no allies, no way to survive outside the empire's systems.

‎She was alone.

‎She'd always been alone.

‎"When do I leave?" she asked, voice flat.

‎"Today. Within the hour." Voss stood. "You'll travel with a military escort to the Spine. The journey will take approximately two weeks. Pack lightly—you'll be provided with everything you need once you arrive."

‎"Can I say goodbye to anyone?"

‎"No. Fewer complications that way."

‎Of course. Because she wasn't a person anymore. She was a resource. Imperial property, just like the god-bones they mined and the aetherich they burned.

‎Just like her parents had warned her about, in the months before they died.

‎They'll come for you eventually, her mother had said, voice low and urgent. If they find out what you can do. So you have to hide it, Ilara. Hide it and never let them see.

‎But she'd failed. She'd let herself sing, let herself be heard, and now there was no hiding left.

‎Voss was watching her with something that might have been pity. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry. But you'll understand eventually—this is bigger than you. Bigger than any of us."

‎"What is?"

‎"The work we're doing. The future we're building." Voss moved toward the door. "Come. The transport is waiting."

‎Ilara stood on numb legs and followed, bag clutched to her chest. Behind her, Prelate Sorin was already looking at other papers, dismissing her existence as easily as he'd logged her arrival ten years ago.

‎She didn't look back at the orphanage as they led her outside. Didn't let herself feel anything except the cold weight of inevitability.

‎But as she climbed into the sealed carriage—windowless, reinforced, designed for transporting valuable cargo—she felt something else stir inside her. Not fear. Not quite.

‎Anger.

‎And beneath the anger, deeper and older, something that might have been the echo of her mother's voice:

‎Don't let them make you into a weapon, Ilara. Don't let them take who you are.

‎The carriage door closed. Locked from outside.

‎In the darkness, Ilara closed her eyes and let herself remember the dream. The place made of ribs and shadows. The vast presence that had spoken her name.

‎Vessel. Singer. Key.

‎And for the first time, instead of fear, she felt something else.

‎Recognition.

‎As if some part of her had been waiting for this moment her entire life.

‎The carriage rattled south through the morning, and with every mile the hum in her bones grew stronger. By midday, Ilara could feel it thrumming through her entire body—the resonance of god-bones buried beneath the earth, the echo of divine death that permeated the empire's foundations.

‎She pressed her hands flat against the carriage walls, feeling the vibration.

‎And without meaning to, without even realizing she was doing it, she began to hum.

‎The sound was barely audible, just a soft vibration in her throat. But the resonance answered—the bones beneath the road, the aetherich in the carriage's suspension system, even the imperial agents' god-bone weapons.

‎Everything sang back.

‎Outside, two hundred miles to the south where Kael stood bleeding in a circle of terrified caravan workers, the distortion grew stronger.

‎The air folded.

‎Reality bent.

‎And something that had been sleeping for three hundred years began, very slowly, to wake.

‎