Resonant Echoes of Decay

The light in Ossus didn’t fall. It seeped, bled, filtered through the massive, curved plates of the god’s calcified ribcage that formed the tower walls. Mid-morning here meant a pale, milky haze that did little to chase the shadows from the corners of the massive chamber. Kaelen ran a hand, rough with callus and dried pigment, over the surface of the bone strut beside him. It was easily twenty strides thick, soaring upwards into the gloom, a pillar holding the very sky of their city. Except it wasn’t just *holding*. It was *groaning*. A low, resonant ache that vibrated up through the soles of his boots and settled deep in his own chest.

“Easy now,” Kaelen murmured, not to anyone else – there was no one else in this isolated height – but to the bone itself. His fingers spread, flattening against the cool, smooth-worn surface. He closed his eyes, taking a slow breath, and let his Song begin.

It wasn't music in the traditional sense. Bone-Singing was a resonance, a frequency hummed into the very fabric of Aethelgard’s skeleton. It was the whisper of calcium and collagen, a lullaby meant to soothe and repair the slow, inevitable decay. His Song started low, a gentle thrumming against his eardrums, a feeling more than a sound. He guided it, a steady current of intent flowing from his gut, up his spine, through his arms, and into the bone beneath his hands.

The initial response was familiar, a soft warmth spreading under his touch, a faint vibration echoing his own. The bone seemed to sigh, the low groan momentarily easing. *Good*. Healing the god, one microscopic fracture at a time, was his purpose. His entire life had been dedicated to this.

But as he pushed his Song deeper, seeking the source of the stress, something shifted. The answering resonance from the bone changed. It wasn't the quiet acceptance he expected. It was... agitated. A high-pitched, almost frantic thrumming started beneath the surface, vibrating against his palms with an unpleasant insistence. It felt wrong, like trying to tune a harp string pulled too tight, about to snap.

Kaelen’s brow furrowed. The elders spoke of Aethelgard’s dormant state, a peaceful slumber. Their Songs were meant to be simple maintenance, tending to a sleeping giant. But this felt less like sleep and more like a restless, disturbed dream. An echo of discomfort, a faint, unsettling pulse that wasn't his.

He shook his head, dismissing the feeling. Nerves. This strut was old, under immense strain. It wasn’t the god stirring. It couldn't be. The god was asleep, had been for centuries. Anything else was unthinkable. Ossus, Atheria, their entire world, relied on that slumber.

Steeling his resolve, Kaelen pushed his Song harder. Deeper. He envisioned the vibrations weaving through the bone, knitting the stressed fibers, smoothing the invisible fissures. He wasn't just soothing it now; he was forcing it, imposing his will, his *control*, onto its reluctant structure.

The low groan of the strut intensified, no longer a passive ache but a protesting bellow that echoed off the high, arched walls. Dust, fine and grey, sifted down from the ceiling high above. The agitated thrumming under his hands spiked, sharp and jarring, like fingernails scraping down a raw surface.

He felt a sharp, unfamiliar pain shoot up his forearms, a burning counter-frequency pushing back against his Song. He gritted his teeth, ignoring it. He had to fix this. This tower, this strut – they were vital. Failure here meant collapse, meant lives lost below.

*Sing, damn you,* he urged the bone, pushing every ounce of his will into the resonant frequency.

The bone shrieked. Not an audible sound, but a resonance so sharp, so agonizingly high-pitched, that it felt like glass shattering inside his head. Kaelen’s eyes snapped open. His hands instinctively recoiled, but the vibration lingered, a phantom pain.

Looking at the strut, he saw them. Fine, almost invisible lines, like spiderwebs spun from glass, spreading outwards from where his hands had been. Hairline fractures. He hadn't healed it. He had hurt it. He had pushed too hard, ignored the bone's clear resistance, forced his Song where it wasn't wanted.

The groan deepened, settling into a lower, more ominous rumble that seemed to shake the very foundations of the tower. The bone was not dormant. It felt... aware. And deeply unhappy.

The low rumble of the strut wasn't just shaking the tower now; it was rattling the shelves of calcified tools mounted on the walls, setting off a high, tinny jangle of metal on bone. Kaelen stared at the fractures, a cold knot forming in his gut. He’d gone too far, ignored the signs. The elders were right about caution, at least.

"Kaelen!"

The voice, sharp and laced with disapproval, cut through the lingering resonance in his ears. Kaelen flinched, turning. Senior Bone-Singer Elara stood in the arched doorway, framed against the filtered light of the tower. Her face, etched with lines of age and countless Songs, was set in a grim mask. Her gaze, usually calm and knowing, was narrowed, fixed on the damaged strut, then on his trembling hands.

"What in the name of the Dormant did you do?" Her voice was low, tight with held-in fury, but the resonance she carried spoke volumes – a deep, steady thrum of authority and warning.

Kaelen swallowed, the taste of dust dry on his tongue. "The strut was unstable, Senior. I felt a resonance, a… blockage. I was trying to clear it, strengthen it."

Elara stepped forward, her movements economical and precise. She didn't touch the strut, but held her hands a finger's breadth away, her eyes closed. Kaelen watched, knowing she wasn't just looking, but *listening* with her Song, feeling the bone's wounded hum, the raw edge of the fractures. A slow, shuddering breath escaped her.

"A blockage," she repeated, her voice barely a whisper, thick with contempt. "You call the god's *breathing* a blockage?"

Kaelen stiffened. "Breathing? Senior, Aethelgard is... dormant. Asleep."

"Asleep," Elara scoffed, opening her eyes, her gaze pinning him like a specimen. "That is the comforting lie we tell the city. The truth is, Aethelgard is dying, Kaelen. And his body, every bone, every sinew, every drop of ichor, is screaming in agony."

The statement hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. It wasn't the first time he'd heard whispers like this, hushed in the lower levels, dismissed by the elders as heresy or madness. But to hear it from Elara, the most respected of the Bone-Singers, here in the highest tower of Ossus... it was a punch to the gut.

"Screaming?" Kaelen echoed, shaking his head. "But... the Songs... we reinforce... we stabilize..."

"We apply poultices to a gaping wound," Elara finished, her voice flat. "We sing pretty tunes over a death rattle. And you," she gestured sharply at the fractured strut, "tried to silence a gasp for air. You pushed the god's own struggle against you."

Kaelen felt a wave of nausea. The unsettling pulse he'd felt... the pain pushing back... it wasn't just the strut. It was something vast, something suffering.

"But... why don't we know? Why do they teach us..."

"Because the truth is inconvenient," Elara interrupted, her voice regaining some of its former sharpness. "Because the city is built on the fiction of a sleeping god. If the populace knew Aethelgard was dying, truly dying, what then? Panic? Collapse? Our way of life would crumble faster than that strut."

She stepped closer, lowering her voice further. "And you, with your impatience, your eagerness to 'heal,' risk waking something far worse than you can imagine. The god's pain is a slumbering beast, Kaelen. You prod it with your recklessness."

"I... I felt the potential," Kaelen argued, his voice regaining a desperate edge. "That resonance... it felt like it *could* be healed. If I could just reach it, if I could understand..."

"Understand what?" Elara's eyes held a depth he'd never seen before, a weary, ancient knowledge. "Understanding the god's suffering is not a Song for the young and foolish. There are layers to Aethelgard, Kaelen, secrets the city has buried deep within its own bone. Secrets the elders know, and keep silent for a reason."

She glanced towards the distant, shadowed depths of Viscera, visible through the high arched windows. The lower city, a chaotic sprawl of decaying tissue and fungal light, seemed to writhe even from this height. "Some knowledge is a burden, Kaelen. Some knowledge is a curse. Leave the god's pain be. Focus on the repairs you understand, the superficial fixes that keep our fragile world intact for another day."

She turned back to him, her gaze unwavering. "And do not, *ever*, probe that deep again. You do not know what you are touching."

Kaelen met her gaze for a moment, the weight of her warning pressing down on him. The truth of a dying god, the hidden secrets, the hint of forbidden knowledge... it was terrifying, yes. But beneath the fear, a spark ignited. A truth, however grim, was something to be *known*. His hands still throbbed, not just from the bone's rejection, but with the phantom echo of that raw, vast resonance. It wasn't a blockage; it was a response. A response he had provoked.

He looked past Elara, his eyes drawn to the shadowed, distant expanse of Viscera below. The place where the decay was most rampant, where the god’s agony, perhaps, was most palpable. If the god was dying, truly dying, then fixing a single strut was less than useless. It was a distraction. The answer, if one existed, wouldn't be found in the stable, manicured bone of Ossus. It would be found down there. In the dying parts.

He nodded, but the gesture was perfunctory, his attention already elsewhere. "Yes, Senior." His voice was quiet, but firm.

Elara sighed, a sound like bone dust settling. She saw the look in his eyes, the stubborn flicker of something she couldn't extinguish. "Kaelen, you are playing with fire you don't understand."

He didn't reply, his gaze fixed on the distant grey and purple hues of Viscera. The broken bone, the senior's warning, the horrifying truth – it wasn't a deterrent. It was a map. A grim, terrifying map pointing towards the deepest wounds, the darkest secrets. The very places he now knew he had to go.