“Hm? Where is the singing coming from?”

        “They must be Gods’ emissaries coming to celebrate the king’s coronation.”

        On the day of the king’s coronation, all the citizens heard an unknown chant, though none were certain who exactly was singing; only the king could see fylgjur hovering in the sky. Whenever someone nears death, fylgjur would wail, announcing the coming death. Hence, they were also called “obituary fylgjur”. Paying no regard to their wails, the king brimmed with joy as he succeeded the crown.

        The royal clergy had been teaching the king from his childhood on how to effectively govern. Whenever the king needed to give a decision, the clergy’s voice would seemingly ring in his head, reminding him to first consider his country and subjects. Occasionally, the haunt would agitate the king. He was the king after all; his decisions should not be affected by anyone.

        It was already late at night, but the king was still awake, head buried in documents. Suddenly, sorrowful wails rang from outside the window...

        The king had heard fylgjur’s wails before the coronation day, but there were no obituaries of anyone issued in the next few days, so the king’s memory about the wails had faded. However, the wails ringing through his ears had reminded him of the incident; fear immediately surged: “Could it be that...I’m the one...who’s near death...?”

        The next day, the news of the king’s demise spread across the country. The royal clergy, Kavanagh, led all in the national mourning. During the service, fylgjur’s chants gradually loudened, but this time, only Kavanagh could see a fylgja hovering outside the window.

        After the funerary services ended, Kavanagh returned to his bedroom and changed, before stealthily entering the royal family’s secret passageway. Blood was smeared all over the corridor; Kavanagh walked towards where the bloodstain was the darkest, and murmured to the crimson-covered wall —

        “Father, I have sent the king to underworld to face the punishment he deserves. Back then, I had no idea that he was responsible for your death! Only when a saint dies would a number of fylgjur appear at the same time. I had already felt something was wrong when I saw that many of them. And when I was suddenly forced to succeed your place, I was sure that something had happened to you.”

        “And that king dared say you taught him to govern with benevolence! You know what he said last night? He claimed that you had incessantly interfered with his decisions, and that you did not obey his orders. And saying that your voice still lingered in his mind after your death...Bullcrap!”

        “He even claimed that he decided to kill you because he heard fylgjur’s wails. Father...fylgjur’s wails...are they announcements of deaths? Or are they the precipitators of such deaths? My hands...Their wails have also caused my hands to be covered in blood. I probably don’t deserve to be with you again after my death, do I?”

        “Now your blood’s covered by his blood...Perhaps mine should also be added on there...I’m not like the king; I’ll atone for my own sins.” Kavanagh stroked the bloody wall before him. The glass in his hand dropped and shattered, and the wall was sprayed with another layer of fresh blood.

        That day, the chanting from the fylgjur never halted.

        Fylgjur sing their requiems not for blessings, nor do they care about the cause of death; they chant only for the deceased. However, their wails can amplify the negativity within Humans, severing their connection with rational thought. The surging emotions would drive actions that are out of characteristics, even if it means taking the lives of others —

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