The sound that tore from the Choir wasn't made for human ears.
It scraped along the inside of Cassiel's skull, made his teeth ache and his knees want to buckle. He staggered back from the pedestal, the hourglass tight in his hands. The golden sands inside shimmered, responding to the pressure around them, pulsing like a living thing.
"Move!" Mirae shouted.
The Choir surged forward.
Not walked. Not ran.
Shifted.
Reality stuttered like a broken reel as the figures closed the distance between them with sickening speed, the air warping in their wake.
Bastion hurled one of his knives. It buried itself in the chest of the nearest figure—and simply sank in like it had been swallowed by mist. No blood. No impact. The figure kept advancing, its melted clock-face spinning faster.
Cassiel cursed under his breath. "Nothing physical!"
He spun on his heel, sprinting back the way they'd come. The others fell into step beside him, boots slamming against stone.
The Choir shrieked again, and the very walls responded—cracks spiderwebbing out, old runes bleeding silver smoke.
"We can't outrun them!" Elior snapped, dragging Mirae by the wrist as the ground tilted beneath them.
Cassiel looked around wildly. They needed another exit. Any exit.
There—a collapsed archway to the right. Beyond it, a darker tunnel that led downward.
"That way!" he barked.
They threw themselves into the side passage. Behind them, the Choir funneled after them, voices rising to a discordant frenzy.
The tunnel was narrower, forcing them into single file. The air grew colder, heavy with the scent of wet stone and rotting prayers.
"Someone tell me why we're chasing relics again?" Bastion panted.
"Because otherwise we die poor and stupid," Mirae shot back.
"And also because—" Elior started, but was cut off by a deafening BOOM.
The Choir had reached the collapsed archway—and simply broken through, the stone exploding into fragments behind them.
A shard grazed Bastion's cheek. He hissed but kept running.
They twisted through the maze of tunnels, Cassiel leading by instinct more than sight, clutching the hourglass tight against his chest.
After what felt like an eternity, the passage widened into an underground crypt. Statues of long-dead kings lined the walls, each one worn down to little more than smudged faces.
Cassiel didn't hesitate. He vaulted over a cracked tomb and skidded to a stop on the other side.
"Here," he rasped. "Hold them off."
Elior and Mirae threw up wards hastily, golden sigils blazing into life across the entrance.
The Choir slammed into them a second later. The wards shuddered under the impact, flickering dangerously.
Cassiel slammed the hourglass onto a plinth at the center of the crypt.
"Please tell me you have a plan!" Bastion yelled.
"I'm making one!" Cassiel barked back.
The hourglass pulsed again. Images flickered through the crypt—memories not their own.
A laughing child, chasing a paper bird.A field of white lilies, burning without fire.A broken mirror, reflecting nothing.
And then—
Cassiel saw a door. A simple wooden door, half-rotted, standing alone in the dark.
The sands inside the hourglass shifted, forming words:
"Open it."
Cassiel swore violently but reached out, miming the motion.
The crypt trembled.
A real door tore into existence at the far wall, flickering between real and not.
"I hope this isn't one of those doors that eats you!" Bastion said, too brightly.
"Only one way to find out," Cassiel growled.
The wards broke.
The Choir surged into the room.
Cassiel and the others bolted for the door. The world twisted around them—the statues' faces weeping ink, the floor warping into the shape of enormous clock hands ticking backward.
The door opened just as the Choir reached them.
Cassiel hurled himself through first, dragging Mirae. Elior followed, pulling Bastion in by the collar.
For a terrible second, Cassiel felt cold, bony hands brushing his back.
Then they were through.
The door slammed shut behind them, and the world changed.
They landed in a heap on soft grass.
Soft blue grass.
Above them, a cathedral of crystal loomed, its spires piercing the clouds. Bells rang somewhere high above, but the notes were wrong—sliding sideways through the scale, disorienting.
Mirae groaned, pushing herself upright. "Where the hell are we?"
Cassiel staggered to his feet. The hourglass was gone—vanished the moment they crossed the threshold.
"We're still in Ashreign," he said slowly. "But deeper."
Elior dusted himself off, frowning. "I don't think we were supposed to survive that."
"Good," Bastion said. "Nothing tastes better than spite."
They took a moment to catch their breath. Their clothes were torn, their magic reserves drained, but they were alive.
For now.
Cassiel looked up at the crystal cathedral. Something was waiting inside.
He felt it.
Mirae touched his shoulder lightly. "Cass. You alright?"
He hesitated. Then nodded once. "Let's move."
They began the slow trek toward the cathedral, the blue grass crunching underfoot, the bells tolling a broken lullaby.
And somewhere far, far behind them—
The Choir still sang.