THE GILDED CHORUS;

resurrections into the half-slain. bundles of tinder and piles of gold. across the bonfire you can see a feathered body older than these ruins hobble to its feet. a low hiss as its gilded beak scrapes the marble. when it opens its jaws you can hear it singing. it is singing. it is singing.

you do not remember what happens next. only the choir - dozens, dozens of voices - echoing through the hallowed halls. the cold pavement pressed flush against your cheek.

you wish you remembered what happened.

it has been decades since then. they say you were found unconscious on the outskirts of the town, a little bruised but whole, but none the wealthier - the locals reckon you were robbed by bandits. you never told them what you found. try as you might the words refused to leave your throat, and with every attempt some awful dread settled in your chest.

you've grown old now. you hardly recall the memory, let alone the incident. sometimes, in dreams, you can almost hear it - or at least you think -

alas, as winter ripens you travel to a distant city to see your nieces and nephews. well-cobbled roads and black iron lamplight dot the street corners. it is late evening, a dim sky pierced by the intricate spire of a belltower. a gust of wind follows, and for a brief moment, you recognize the few feathers that fall astray. a dozen voices follow.

it is singing.