Yeah, so it all kicked off with fire. Not, like, a cozy campfire either—think more "ancient gods with a flair for drama."
Maelin was stuck trailing after Kaelen for… honestly, who knows. Days? Hours? Time got all bendy when the cosmos started eyeballing you. Kaelen kept spouting off about "listening"—not to birds or whatever, but to herself. "Feel your heartbeat sync up with the sky," he'd say. "Breathe, stir the wind." All that mystical mumbo-jumbo. Maelin tried, but half the time she just ended up dizzy.
Then—bam—one night, under this weird silver eclipse, Kaelen just freezes.
"He's close," he mutters. "The first. Used to go by Tharos. Total show-off, thought he was the Choir's main event. Got a little too obsessed with being the brightest candle, burned himself right out."
They're standing on the edge of what's left of an amphitheater. Stone everywhere, busted up and glowing red under the stars. Air's so thick you could chew it. It's got that "something awful's about to happen" vibe.
And smack in the middle, there's a guy literally made of fire, just chilling on a throne built out of charred bones. Yeah. Metal as hell.
No pupils in his eyes, just these glowing furnace-orbs. Skin's all lava and ember cracks, but he looks… weirdly exhausted. Like he's been through a million bad Mondays.
"So," the dude rumbles, voice bouncing off the dead walls, "another hopeful tune shows up."
Kaelen, being Kaelen, steps forward all serious. "Tharos."
The fire guy stands, slow and creaky. "Don't call me that. Tharos was my name before the world went quiet. Before the sky ditched us."
Kaelen just shrugs, soft. "Nobody ditched you, man. You quit listening."
Tharos barks out this laugh—sharp, ugly, like broken glass. "We were the song, Kaelen. We outshone every star up there. And what did it get us? Silence. So I made my own fire."
His burning gaze lands on Maelin now.
"And what, they send you? Some kid with no voice, no clue? You really think you can snuff me out?"
Maelin, somehow not peeing herself, steps up.
"I'm not here to destroy you," she says. Voice shaking, but hey—she's standing. "I came to remember you."
That actually does something. For a second, Tharos's fire stutters, almost… gentle.
She lifts the old parchment. The seven stars on it flare up—one line, bright and true, reaching right at him.
"Do you remember your note?" she whispers. Just the tiniest voice.
Everything kind of freezes. The flames shrink, like they're scared.
Then Tharos just snaps, unleashing this furnace-blast of heat that makes the air shimmer. It should've fried her, but she stands her ground.
Instead, Maelin opens her mouth and sings. Not loud. Not even pretty. Just honest.
One note, clear and aching.
The fire recoils, like it's actually afraid.
And deep inside Tharos, somewhere under all that burning rage, another voice stirs. Soft. Old. Remembering.