Voidsong

You dreamt of a riverbank. Wildflowers, unfamiliar yet beautiful, cradled your body. The warmth of twin suns kissed your face, and a soft breeze carried the scent of earth and water. Across the river, a grand city rose—its architecture strange, unplaceable.

Someone lay beside you in the flowers. They were breathtaking, yet their features slipped from your mind before they could settle, like mist in the morning light. They sang.

The song held you, bound by its melody. Minutes, hours—it didn’t matter. The tune was haunting, filled with loneliness, longing. Even as the dream faded, pulling you back to waking, the song remained.

It had carved itself into your soul.

Now awake, it lingers at the edge of perception. You cannot recall the notes, yet the melody is unmistakable—a funeral dirge, or a call to action.

Months pass. Others have heard it too. They surface in radio broadcasts, in screamsheet editorials, in whispered conversations. Some call it revelation. Others claim it’s a trap. Some fear it is not of this world at all.

They call it the Voidsong.

The world is divided. The faithful and the fearful, the seekers and the skeptics. You know only one thing: it is real.

And it wants something.

Whatever life you led before, the Voidsong has marked you. The need for answers burns within you. Your search leads you to Hallia, to Iconoclasm.