The Singing Stone Pass was not marked on any living map. It hadn’t needed to be. Those who remembered it knew better than to speak its name aloud.
The journey to its threshold took three days. The forest gave way to scrubland, then to jagged hills where the trees thinned and the wind grew sharp. The further they walked, the quieter the world became — not the silence of fear, but of reverence, as though even the stones remembered.
The entrance to the pass revealed itself like a wound in the cliffs: two towering slabs of grey stone that curved inward like praying hands, etched with runes faded from rain and time. Beneath them, a tunnel yawned into the earth, deeper and darker than any cave had a right to be.
Bedwyr paused at the threshold, resting his hand on the stone. He could feel its hum, a vibration like distant thunder. "The mountain remembers."
Skif hovered low, uneasy. “These stones sing,” she murmured. “I can hear it in my wings.”
“They always have,” Galahad said. “But only the dead know the words.”
They lit no torches. The Singing Stone Pass provided its light — a faint glow from veins of luminous quartz running through the walls, pulsing in time with their footsteps. The sound was there too: a faint harmonic drone, like choirs humming beneath the rock. Notes of longing. Notes of warning.
As they descended, the tunnel widened. Stalactites hung like the teeth of giants, and carvings—old, older than fae—marked the walls: images of wings and flame, shattered thrones, and rivers running backwards.
Gwyn moved like a shadow. Her blade stayed sheathed, but her eyes never stopped scanning. “This place smells wrong.”
“It’s not wrong,” Bedwyr whispered. “Just remembered.”
They passed alcoves where broken statues knelt, their heads bowed to empty altars. Galahad slowed at one such recess, brushing dust from a stone face. “This was a guardian,” he murmured. “From the Accord Era.”
“Which one?” Gwyn asked.
“The kind that stood between worlds.”
The drone grew louder.
Without warning, the pass opened into a vast chamber — a cathedral of stone, its ceiling lost in shadow, its floor veined with molten crystal that pulsed like blood. In the centre stood a monolith: a blade-shaped pillar, black and ancient, humming with the same resonance as Bedwyr’s lyre.
“It’s calling,” Skif said, eyes wide.
“No,” Bedwyr corrected. “It’s listening.”
He stepped forward and played a single note. The sound struck the air like a chime, and the monolith sang back — a long, mournful tone that shook dust from the high arches.
Then, from the far end of the chamber, came movement.
Figures. Shrouded. Cloaked in moss and stone, their eyes glowing faintly from beneath their hoods.
“Pilgrims?” Gwyn asked.
“Wardens,” Galahad said, drawing his sword. “Not all of them sleep.”
The stone sang louder.
And the pass was prepared to test those who would cross it.
