Chapter 3 l The Whisper of Selection

The morning fog hung low over the town, weaving through the narrow streets like a living thing. Villagers moved quickly, heads bowed, voices low and urgent. Rumors spread in whispers: Who will be chosen this year? Some spoke of a child who vanished decades ago, erased from memory; others told of shadows that lingered too long, following those who would be taken next.

Katakana walked beside his younger brother and sister, their small hands clutching his as they navigated the slippery cobblestones. The hum was back, faint but persistent, threading through the chill in the air. It pressed against his chest in a rhythm he could feel more than hear, and he shivered, trying to ignore it.

“They say it’s always the quiet ones,” his sister whispered, her voice trembling. “The ones no one notices.”

His brother shook his head. “I don’t want anyone to be chosen. Not anyone.”

Katakana’s jaw tightened. He wanted to promise them safety, but the truth gnawed at him: the Choir did not care who it marked. No charm, no ritual, no pleading could protect those selected.

The square ahead was already filling. Wooden stalls had been hastily abandoned, their produce left behind, and the villagers formed a loose ring around the central platform. On it, the priest who oversaw the Choosing shuffled papers nervously, his hands trembling. Even he could not hide the tension that clung to the town like cobwebs.

Katakana felt the hum surge, vibrating through his bones. His left arm tingled, a faint warmth that seemed alive. He flexed his fingers instinctively. Shadows along the edges of the square bent subtly toward him, curling like smoke. He didn’t understand it, but it felt as if a part of him was responding to the song of the Choir.

He swallowed hard. Not yet. Not now.

Voices rose, not in words, but in fragments, whispers brushing against his ears:

A soft moan of someone crying, though no one was near.

A fleeting glimpse of movement at the corner of his eye: a figure in armor, skeletal, gone the moment he turned.

A faint pressure in his chest, like something unseen nudging him forward.

Katakana looked at his siblings. They were smiling, laughing quietly to hide their fear. He wanted to join them in pretending the day was normal, but the signs pressed in, impossible to ignore.

The priest stepped onto the platform. The square went silent, a heavy quiet that made the fog seem thicker, almost suffocating. He raised his hand, and the whispers ceased—momentarily, leaving only the hum.

“Today,” the priest said, voice cracking, “the town will offer its sacrifice.”

The words hung in the air like smoke, curling around Katakana’s senses. He pressed a hand to his chest as the tingling in his left arm sharpened. He could feel it now: a pulse beneath his ribs, a resonance that wasn’t just fear. Something inside him stirred, responding to the ritual, to the hum, to the unseen Choir.

Katakana’s heart raced. What is happening to me?

The priest began calling names. Each one made the town flinch, parents’ eyes wide, children gripping each other. When a name was called, a chosen child stepped forward, their face pale, eyes wide with terror. The hum grew louder for each step, vibrating through the stones, the air, and the bones of every person present.

Katakana looked at his brother and sister. His mind clenched in panic. I won’t let it take you. Not either of you.

And in that moment, he felt a strange awareness in his left arm again. Shadows curled tighter around him, almost protective, almost sentient. His chest ached, as if the hum itself was speaking directly to him. He didn’t understand it, didn’t know what it was, but he knew one thing with absolute clarity:

The Choir had noticed him.

Not fully, not yet, but enough.

The town held its breath. The fog twisted in the square. And somewhere deep inside Katakana, something whispered... a presence waiting, patient, hungry, and unknown.

The selection has begun.