Rain fell like nails hammered from the sky, thick and metallic, rattling against the remnants of stained glass that still clung to the ruined church's high frame. The old cathedral was a carcass of what it once had been: stone bones eaten away by time and rot, its tall spires gutted by lightning long ago, its insides hollowed and soaked with centuries of mildew and forgotten prayers. Yet despite the destruction, it still stood, looming in the midnight dark like a mausoleum dressed in broken reverence.

Inside, the only light came from tallow candles. Small, flickering teeth bit at the dark, scattered like forgotten stars across cracked altars and blackened stone. The wind howled through the ribs of the ruin, and with it came something else: the sound of breath where there should have been none, the rustle of feet that didn't walk, the twitch of limbs that didn't belong.

The Choir was awake.

They moved without pattern, without pause. Dripping figures of pale skin and elongated bones dragged their feet across the soaked tiles, whispering fragments of hymns that made no sense to mortal ears. They climbed walls like insects, heads twitching at impossible angles, ribs straining against translucent flesh. One crawled upside down across the cathedral ceiling, tracing its fingers along the stone like it was reading ancient scripture. Another sat perched on the pulpit, teeth clacking together like rosary beads being counted.

Their mouths moved, but no sound escaped. Only breath. Only longing. Only the sound of things that should never have been born remembering how it felt to live. They weren't bound. They never had been. They moved freely and with purpose. They watched the altar.

Vortah stood before it like a prophet carved from ash. His robe clung to him like wet skin, soaked through and heavy, outlining a body far too lean, far too starved, yet upright with unnatural poise. The candlelight licked his features, casting long shadows from his high cheekbones and sharp jaw. His blue eyes shimmered, not sky blue, nor ocean, but something glacial and ancient. The color of a light that has forgotten how to warm.

Thunder cracked outside so violently the windows shuddered in their frames, and he didn't flinch.

Instead, he smiled. His mouth opened slowly, deliberately, as though the very act of speech was a rite he performed with devotion.

"They never stop singing," he murmured, tilting his head toward the blackened rafters. "But you... you make them quiet."

The Choir grew still. The twitching subsided into tremors of reverence. They shifted like beasts scenting something sacred. One dropped from the ceiling and landed behind him without a sound, folding its limbs like a supplicant. Another dragged itself across the front aisle, mouth yawning wider than a jaw should stretch, like it was preparing to echo a forgotten hymn only Vortah understood.

His gaze rose to the great church doors, soaked in rain and scarred with time. Water streamed from the roof above, sliding down his shoulders, his brow, his chest. He did not move to shield himself.

He wanted the storm. He needed the weight of it. His voice lowered, thick with something between worship and warning. "She's at the threshold."

The Choir hissed, a sound like breath forced through rotted lungs. The door groaned.

Vortah did not rush. He stepped down from the altar with the reverence of a man descending into revelation. His footfalls echoed through the ruined sanctuary like a heartbeat rising from the grave. He pressed his fingers to the rusted handle, leaned in, and let his lips brush the old wood.

"Come in," he whispered. "You look like you've been wandering too long."

The door creaked open, reluctant and heavy. Rain burst in like a shriek. In the frame, carved by stormlight, she stood. Water poured around her, turning the steps into rivers and the earth into mire.

Lightning cracked across the heavens, illuminating her silhouette. And the moment he saw her, something in him shifted. The smile fell away.

His eyes widened, not with joy or horror but something more ancient. Recognition. Like a soul glimpsing the mirror it forgot it once held. "You're late," he said, softly. Though the wind screamed behind him, his voice did not waver.

The Choir did not touch her. They circled, crawling through the shadows, limbs bending with reverent malice. One reached for the stone wall beside her. Another inhaled, tasting her presence like incense. But none dared to approach. Vortah stood aside and extended his hand, palm upturned, like a priest offering something holy and ruined. "There are no crosses left here. No saints unshattered. Only the pieces of the divine, torn from mercy."

She entered. The door slammed shut behind her, though no hand touched it.