CALAMITY : Legends Of The Chosen

Midnight in the village came with no clock, no chimes, no sign.

Only stillness.

Thick, bloated fog blanketed the rooftops, pooling between alleys like stagnant water. The silence was too complete, like the world itself had forgotten how to breathe.

Then the sound began.

A hum. So faint it was almost a memory. A note held gently in the lungs of something not quite alive.

It began in the east, by the statue.

The air vibrated. Just barely. Like the earth was tuning itself to a frequency only it could hear.

Inside the manor, the Chosen stirred.

Enme, first. Her head twitched on her makeshift pillow. Her body flinched, as though something had brushed past her skin.

Shojiro's fingers twitched, muscle fibers subtly tightening. His breath hitched.

Max turned in his bedroll, his brow furrowing. Static crackled from his fingertips in confused pulses.

Karl, half-conscious in low-power mode, shuddered as corrupted data loops scrambled across his HUD. His vision blurred, sensors flickering between heat, light, and something stranger.

And then… they rose.

One by one.

Without words. Without will.

Their eyes opened—but they did not see. Their pupils were dilated to pinpricks, gazes hollow. They moved like puppets, swaying in place, drawn to something far beyond the walls of the manor.

The hum became music.

Notes folded into notes, chords bleeding together like watercolor on silk. It was soft. So soft. Like a song a mother might hum through her tears. Like the lullaby you don't remember but ache for. The kind of song that doesn't feel like sound—just warmth.

Comfort.

Enme took the first step toward the door.

Shojiro followed, head tilting as if trying to hear something clearer.

Karl's feet clanked softly on wood, movement jerky. Max walked calmly, lips parted slightly, as if in prayer.

They left the house.

And in the village square, the statue stood waiting.

No longer stone.

No longer still.

Its head had turned. Slightly. Enough for the spine to visibly bulge and crack. The stitched eyelids bled dark fluid, trailing down its twisted cheeks. Threads around the mouth quivered, then snapped—one by one, like tendons unraveling. Blackened lips parted.

And she sang.

It was not a voice meant for mortals.

It was the ache of the ocean floor. The scream of widows lost at sea. The lull of waves that devour entire coasts. Every note curled through the village like fingers made of fog, slipping into ears, into hearts, into dreams.

The Chosen reached the square.

They stood in a half-circle, eyes glassy, faces slack, the Queen's melody swirling around them like a noose.

Only one did not move.

Morgz.

He sat in the upper room of the estate, alone and restless. His sleep had never come.

The moment the first note hit his ear, he felt it.

Not warmth.

Not comfort.

But recognition.

A deep, marrow-deep horror crawled through his gut. Something primal, inherited. Ancient warnings from his bloodline—the whisper of sea-people, of coastal disappearances, of singers who never breathed.

His eyes went wide.

"No…"

The music stabbed at his skull. His vision blurred. He fell to his knees, hands clamped over his ears as the pressure built.

The song wasn't just beautiful. It was designed. Sculpted. Sculpted to control. To enslave.

And it was working.

Morgz screamed. A short, sharp cry—lost in the fog.

He couldn't hold on.

The pressure behind his eyes intensified, the sound a drill boring into his brain. His nose began to bleed.

He did the only thing he could.

Drawing water from the very moisture in the air, he shaped it into two curved blades—delicate, thin, trembling in his hands.

He hesitated.

A heartbeat.

Then sliced.

One ear.

Then the other.

The pain was immediate and total.

His world went quiet.

No more music. No more voices. Only the pounding of his heart and the slick warmth of blood running down his jaw.

He collapsed, breath ragged, every nerve screaming. But he was awake. And free.

And alone.

He stumbled out of the manor, vision doubled, legs buckling with each step. His body was weak, but his instincts guided him.

In the square, the Siren Queen hovered above the broken cobblestone. Her hair floated around her like oil in water, shifting unnaturally, always moving. Her smile was impossibly wide—sharp. Almost amused.

Around her, the others stood in stillness.

Shojiro. Karl. Enme. Max.

Their eyes were filled with tears—but they weren't crying.

They were drowning.

"M-Move, dammit…" Morgz staggered forward, water trembling at his fingertips.

The Siren tilted her head, eyes meeting his.

There was no hatred there.

Only hunger.

And then the others turned—toward him.

Their expressions blank. But their bodies moved with killing intent.

Morgz froze. His gut clenched. "No… guys…"

Enme drew a glyph in the air, eyes hollow.

Max's hands crackled with unstable electricity.

Shojiro cracked his neck—and stepped forward, slowly, muscles twitching like coiled rope.

Karl's eyes glowed red. "Target acquired," he said in a dead voice.

Morgz didn't have time to plead.

He ran.

Into the mist.

Blood trailing behind him. Heart thundering. No sound. No backup.

The Siren sang again—soft, now. Sweet.

Behind him, the Chosen followed.

And the fog swallowed everything.