THE SHATTERED SIGIL: CHRONICLES OF THE LAST DAWN

Chapter 5 : The Whispering Hall

Chapter 5: The Whispering Hall

The storm had passed, leaving the forest soaked and gleaming like polished obsidian under the morning sun. Alysandra walked ahead, boots squelching in the mud, her cloak heavy with moisture. The air still hummed faintly with leftover static, as if the lightning had burned a charge into the world itself. Behind her, Varin and Kael argued quietly over the map that had somehow survived the downpour.

“We should’ve turned east hours ago,” Varin said, jabbing at the parchment. “The Hall is near the cliffs. We’re wasting daylight.”

Kael rolled his eyes. “We’d be dead if we went east — that’s where the wraith patrols were last seen.”

Alysandra slowed her pace. “Both of you, hush,” she said. Her voice carried a faint tremor, not of fear but of something else — a feeling tugging at the edge of her senses. “Something’s listening.”

They froze.

The forest was silent. No wind. No birdsong. Even the drip of water from the leaves seemed to hesitate. Then, slowly, a whisper drifted through the air — soft, almost human.

“...Alysandra...”

Kael’s hand went instantly to his blade. “You heard that, didn’t you?”

Varin swallowed. “I did. Gods, tell me that’s not—”

“It’s the Hall,” Alysandra said. “We’re close.”

The Whispering Hall stood half-buried in the earth, like the skeleton of a long-dead god. Vines clung to the marble pillars, and its archway gaped open like a mouth frozen mid-scream. Inside, an unnatural mist pooled across the floor, glowing faintly blue in the dim light.

“This place was built by the first seers,” Varin murmured as they entered. “They said it could speak to the dead.”

Kael snorted. “Or drive the living mad.”

Alysandra ran her fingers across the carvings on the wall — hundreds of names, some ancient, some freshly etched. The air was thick with whispers now, rising and falling like a tide. Each voice seemed to call her by name.

She stepped forward, entranced. “They know me.”

Kael reached for her arm. “Aly, don’t—”

Too late. Her hand pressed against the wall, and the world shuddered.

The whispers became screams. The mist surged upward, swirling around her like a storm. Her vision blurred — flashes of faces, hundreds of them, crying, pleading, burning. Then one voice cut through the noise — clear, deep, and achingly familiar.

“Daughter.”

Alysandra gasped. Her knees buckled. The mist coalesced before her into the shape of a tall figure cloaked in shadow. The features were indistinct, but she would’ve known that voice anywhere.

“Father?”

Kael and Varin exchanged alarmed looks. They saw nothing but Alysandra kneeling before empty air.

The shadow extended a hand. “You walk the same path I did. The Hall remembers the curse, the crown, the betrayal. It remembers everything.”

Alysandra’s breath came in shudders. “You died in the Rebellion... I saw your body—”

“Bodies can lie. Memories cannot.” The shade’s voice deepened. “The shards you seek are not mere relics. They are my fragments — pieces of the truth that was torn from time itself. Find them, and you’ll find me.”

The vision flickered. The whispers began to fade, replaced by the echo of his final words:

“Beware the King Who Never Died.”

Then silence.

When the light returned, Alysandra was on the ground, trembling. Kael knelt beside her. “Aly, talk to me. What did you see?”

Her voice was barely a whisper. “My father. He’s alive. Or... part of him is.”

Varin frowned. “That’s impossible. He died fifteen years ago.”

“Not if the shards are connected to him,” she said, rising shakily to her feet. “He said the Hall remembers. The curse, the crown, and... the King Who Never Died.”

Kael exhaled slowly. “That sounds like trouble with a capital T.”

Alysandra turned toward the entrance. The mist was already retreating, leaving the carvings dull and lifeless. “We leave at dawn,” she said. “East, toward the cliffs. The next shard lies there — and maybe answers with it.”

Varin looked uncertain. “You sure about this? Whatever that was, it nearly killed you.”

“I’m sure,” Alysandra said quietly. Her eyes glowed faintly, a flicker of blue like the mist. “If the past is whispering, I need to listen.”

Outside, the forest stirred again — the sound of leaves, the song of distant crows. But beneath it all, faint and nearly lost in the wind, another whisper lingered:

“She has awakened.”

And far away, in a ruined citadel where no living man dared tread, a figure cloaked in gold opened his eyes.