THE SHATTERED SIGIL: CHRONICLES OF THE LAST DAWN

Chapter 9: The Song Beneath the Ashes

Chapter 9: The Song Beneath the Ashes

The ruins of Velshara whispered like a dying throat.

Every gust of wind carried the echo of what once was — laughter, markets, songs of harvest — now turned to dust and echo. Auren Kael stood at the city’s broken gates, his armor streaked with soot and blood. The sun barely touched the horizon, a dying ember behind a curtain of gray.

“Don’t stay too long,” Lyra warned, her voice low. She adjusted her cloak, eyes flicking toward the black clouds gathering over the north. “The Veilstorm is moving faster than it should. The gods are restless tonight.”

Auren didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on the statue before him — a shattered effigy of Seradiel, the Dawn Warden. Her stone wings were broken, her gaze hollow, her hands missing. In her chest was a dark crack that pulsed faintly, as if some faint heart still beat inside it.

“It’s calling,” Auren murmured.

Eira stepped forward, clutching her staff. “You feel it too?”

“It’s been calling since we entered the valley,” Corren muttered, tightening the strap on his sword. “This place was burned centuries ago. Nothing should still be alive here — not even stone.”

Lyra knelt, brushing aside ash and bone to reveal faint sigils carved into the ground — a spiral pattern of light and shadow that bled into the earth itself. “It’s not alive,” she said, “but it remembers.”

Auren turned to her. “Remembers what?”

She looked up, eyes catching the faint light of dusk. “The end.”

They walked through the streets of Velshara in silence. The world around them shifted — buildings flickering between ruin and restoration, ghosts of the past replaying like echoes in smoke. Children ran through alleyways that weren’t there anymore. Bells chimed from towers that had already fallen.

“Memory magic,” Lyra said softly. “The kind that feeds on grief.”

Eira touched a wall and flinched. The stone beneath her fingers turned warm, and suddenly — she saw it. Fire raining from the sky. Screams. Wings of light being torn apart by shadows. The Sigil of Dawn, fracturing like glass.

She pulled her hand back, shaking. “It’s not just memory. It’s a warning.”

Corren’s hand went to his blade. “Then let’s hope we’re smart enough to listen.”

They reached the old temple at the city’s heart — once the center of worship for the Dawn Sigil, now a grave of silence. Inside, light poured through cracks in the ceiling, cutting through the dust like blades. The altar was shattered, the walls etched with old runes that pulsed faintly in Eira’s presence.

Auren approached the altar, his boots echoing on the stone. The mark on his arm — the cursed sigil that branded him the Lightless Paladin — began to burn.

Lyra noticed. “It’s reacting. The shard must be close.”

He nodded, gripping his sword. “Then it’s here.”

But as soon as he spoke, the air shifted — and a low hum filled the temple. The ground trembled, dust falling from the rafters. The shadows moved… not like wind or fire, but like something alive.

Eira gasped. “Someone’s singing.”

They all heard it then — faint, haunting, beautiful. A song that seemed to echo from beneath the stone floor, winding through the ruins like a forgotten prayer.

Lyra closed her eyes, translating the ancient tongue beneath her breath.

“When the Dawn is shattered, seek the heart of ash.

Beneath the grief, the light will last.”

The melody grew louder. The ground beneath them cracked open, and light poured through the fissure. From the depths rose a figure — cloaked in soot and firelight — a woman made of ash, her eyes glowing with molten gold.

“Who dares disturb the memory of Velshara?” the figure intoned, her voice layered — one human, one divine.

Auren drew his blade. “We seek the Sigil of Dawn.”

The figure tilted her head. “Then you seek pain.”

Flames erupted around the altar. The air ignited with power — and the battle began.

Auren charged first, his blade cutting through fire and smoke. The ash-woman moved with inhuman grace, her form scattering and reforming like burning paper. Every swing of her hand sent waves of heat rippling through the temple.

Corren flanked left, steel flashing as he tried to draw her attention. Eira raised her staff, chanting a binding spell, her voice cracking under the weight of the magic.

“Velin solara! Bind the flame to stillness!”

Light shot from her hands, but the woman only laughed — the sound echoing like shattering glass.

Lyra, eyes sharp, shouted, “She’s not alive! She’s a manifestation — kill the memory, not the form!”

Auren’s heart pounded. “How?”

“Through the song!” Lyra replied. “Finish it!”

Auren gritted his teeth, forcing his sword into the ground. “Eira! Sing it!”

“What?! I don’t know—”

“Sing it!”

The ash-woman lunged, claws of fire slicing across the air. Eira raised her hand, fear and instinct colliding — and then she sang.

Her voice trembled at first, then grew stronger. The same words Lyra had translated — soft, ancient, carrying power older than language itself. The ruins responded. The walls glowed. The flames dimmed. The woman screamed, her body fracturing into embers.

“When the Dawn is shattered…” Eira sang, her voice rising.

The ash-woman fell to her knees, her molten eyes dimming. “You remember…” she whispered, and then — like a candle in wind — she was gone.

Silence.

Only the echo of the song remained.

They stood in the aftermath, surrounded by drifting ash. The crack in the floor had sealed itself, leaving behind a faint glow — a small shard of radiant crystal, pulsing with gentle light.

Auren bent down and picked it up. It was warm in his palm, humming softly — alive, almost breathing.

“The fourth shard,” Lyra said quietly.

Eira’s hand shook. “I heard her voice… the woman’s. She said, ‘You remember.’ What did she mean?”

Auren looked at the crystal. “That some part of this world doesn’t want to forget what it lost.”

Corren sheathed his sword, glancing toward the door. “We’ve lingered too long. That Veilstorm will hit us by nightfall.”

They turned to leave, but before stepping out of the temple, Auren looked back one last time.

In the fading light, he could swear he saw the ash-woman’s shape in the smoke — kneeling at the altar, singing softly to herself.

“When the Dawn is shattered, seek the heart of ash…”

He bowed his head. “Rest now. We’ll finish what you began.”

Outside, thunder rolled. The Veilstorm was coming fast — a wall of darkness sweeping across the horizon. Lyra covered her face as the wind whipped their cloaks.

Corren shouted over the gale, “Where do we go now?”

Lyra’s eyes glowed faintly as she unrolled a map made of enchanted cloth. “South. Toward the City of Mirrors. That’s where the next fragment lies.”

“The City of Mirrors?” Eira repeated. “That place is cursed.”

Lyra smiled grimly. “So was this one.”

Auren looked at the shard in his palm, its light flickering against the storm’s edge. He closed his fist around it and turned toward the rising winds.

“Then we’ll face the curse,” he said. “And we’ll break it.”

The storm roared as they disappeared into the horizon — four silhouettes walking into a world unraveling at its seams.

End of Chapter 9 — “The Song Beneath the Ashes”