Page 4 of Vengeful Melodies (Heaven’s Guilt Revenge Tour Duet #1)

Chapter Four

Takoa "Koa" Dravensin

The metal railings send a chill through my hand as I ascend the stage. The mic stands front and center like a beacon—guiding me home.

Music is the only thing that sets my soul free.

It gives the world a glimpse of what I usually keep buried: the pain, the heartbreak, the weight I carry.

Every lyric is a map—one that leads back to where everything went to shit.

Even when I’m not the one who wrote the words, I find myself in them by the end.

This band… it's all I’ve ever known. My entire life orbits around moments like this—right before we play. Every show, every rehearsal, this is where I exist.

They look to me like a savior, counting on me to lead them to their salvation.

But when the hell did I sign up to save anyone?

When did the spotlight turn into a trap? The music a cry for help I can't take back?

I’m the lead singer. The one who carries the songs we all write. Night after night, tour after tour. But I’m not allowed to enjoy the fame—the fleeting, glittering high that comes with being wanted. I’m chained to the image. The serious one. The stoic leader. No room for cracks. No room to breathe.

My bandmates get to live. Make mistakes. Be forgiven.

Not me. I’m held to a different standard. Always the one expected to keep it together. I’m not even sure the person they think I am still exists.

I never imagined chasing my dream would lock me into a cage I can’t escape from. Not without disappointing hundreds of thousands of fans—and the brothers I built this band with.

The resentment? I don’t want to feel it toward them. They’re my family.

But I’d be lying if I said I don’t.

Every time I see them living , and I’m just surviving …

I’m pouring my soul into every lyric, praying someone hears me. Praying someone sets me free.

A loud crash yanks me from my thoughts. I spin on the soles of my boots to see Alix stumbling onto the stage, trying to catch a cymbal before it rolls off the edge.

“Where the hell have you been? You’re an hour and a half late, dude,” I snap, stepping away from the mic and pointing at him.

“Back off. I don’t need this shit today, Koa,” Alix bites back, scowl carved deep into his jaw.

“You never take anything seriously anymore. It’s like you don’t even want to be here. Like we’re a burden to you. Your fans? Just another weight on your back.”

My voice comes out harsher than I mean it to, but it’s the truth. He hasn’t really been here in months. Mentally, Alix lives on cloud Alix. The rest of us are just passengers flying past.

“Cut it out, Koa. We’ve got a show to rehearse for,” Kai chimes in, like I’m the damn problem.

What a joke.

We all know Alix has been spiraling since the Vivian mess last year. Our PR team nearly lost their minds trying to clean it up. We warned him about her—how controlling she was, how he stopped showing up to rehearsals because she wouldn't let him out of her sight.

He nearly went broke trying to replace the shit she stole. His grandma’s ring is still missing. If someone pawned my nan’s ring for drug money, I’d lose my damn mind too.

But dwelling on the past won’t fix what’s broken now. We have obligations. Deadlines. This tour can’t be half-assed. Our label’s ready to cut the cord if we screw up again.

“Dude, I get it—you’re the leader,” Bash says, more serious than usual. “But we all know what this tour means. We’ve all got demons, man. But we leave them backstage. We don’t bring ‘em to the frontlines.”

He’s right.

And surprisingly mature, for once.

“I’m sorry,” Alix says quietly, almost too low to hear. “Today’s been… hard. I won’t let you guys down again.”

I exhale. “I’m sorry too—for snapping. It’s just…

the label’s been riding us hard. And our business assistant quit this morning.

Said he couldn’t handle balancing school and babysitting us.

His girlfriend was on crew too, so we lost her as well.

We’re down two people before the biggest tour of our lives. And—”

I hesitate, then drop the bomb.

“Grey’s coming back on tour. After this show, he’s leaving the tattoo shop and hitting the road with us.”

That catches their attention.

Our best friend. Our anchor. Back on the road with us. But we’re still short-staffed. And this tour? It’s global. Two years. No breaks. No room for error.

How the hell we’ll manage… I have no fucking idea.

“Alright,” I say, cutting off their questions before they start. “Let’s get to work. Show’s in three days.”

Everyone takes their places. I step up to the mic again.

Alix raises his sticks, slamming out the usual three-count. The bass hums in, Kai’s low rhythm vibrating through the stage. Sebastian’s guitar joins, sharp and chaotic.

Then it’s my turn.

I close my eyes.

And let go.

There’s a sickness inside me I can’t sweat out.

Not nerves. Not stage fright. Something worse.

The kind of pressure that doesn’t sit on your chest—it digs into it.

Clawed. Persistent. We’ve bled for this night.

Breathed it like smoke. Died and resurrected for it.

We can’t afford to fuck this up. Not for the label.

Not the fans. For us. For what it cost. I don’t want to be a god. I just want to survive the altar.

The room thickens with tension. No one speaks.

We feel it.

The weight of being seen.

I grip the mic like it’s the only thing holding me together.

Alix starts the beat. Slow. Measured. A war drum calling us back to life. Kai’s bass crawls under my skin. Sebastian’s guitar follows—a scream trapped too long.

Then the words come.

“There is no hope… since you left me behind.” Soft. Controlled. A whisper before the storm.

“My brain won’t cope… with the wreck you left in my mind.” I don’t tremble from nerves— I tremble from truth .

“I’m dying slowly— Every breath is a sin I can’t rewind.” Kai’s voice hits behind mine—low, cracked, like something drowning.

And then it shifts.

The rage.

I dig my fingers into the mic and scream.

“Do you not see the pain you threw at me?” “Do you not know I made you a throne— Just to watch you explode— And drag my fucking heart with you?!”

Sebastian screams behind me, his guitar ripping through the silence like a buzzsaw.

The chorus slams in.

“LET ME DROWN IN YOU.” “LET ME FALL—bruised and broken on the floor.” “I NEVER MATTERED.” “NOT TO YOU.”

We’re not a band.

We’re a riot .

Raw. Messy. Real.

This is the kind of sound that leaves scars.

I taste blood in my mouth as the bridge hits. Alix pulls the beat back to a single, pulsing heartbeat.

Kai's voice returns—ragged and brutal.

“Let me die so I can finally be let loose… From the noose around my throat.” “Begging me to step off the edge— And find my way back home.”

Everything drops.

Silence.

Just the amp’s low hum—our heartbeat refusing to quit.

One breath.

Then I whisper:

“You weren’t my savior… You were sent… as Heaven’s Guilt seeking revenge.”

Alix slams the drums into the solo, finishing us off in pure chaos.

Then—silence again.

His sticks fall to the floor with a crack.

Kai bows his head.

Sebastian exhales, his eyes red.

This was Alix’s song.

The one he wrote when we first started this band. It’s not just a setlist staple. It’s a lifeline . A ritual. A holy act.

We don’t need to say it out loud.

That was our wound. Our grief. Our salvation.

The song that gave us our name— Heaven’s Guilt .

That night… I nearly didn’t make it.

I remember the cold porcelain. The blood. The ache that told me I wasn’t meant to last much longer.

Alix found me in the dorm bathroom.

He didn’t just save me. He became my brother .

Since then, I’ve learned to let it out. The pain. The chaos. The guilt.

Not by bottling it—but by bleeding it into the mic.

Every show, every night.

And I know someone out there, some broken soul in the crowd, is healing with me.

That’s why I can’t quit.

It wouldn’t just be my life I’m giving up.

It’d be theirs , too.

I rub a hand over my face, throat raw. The amps cool around us as we pack up in silence.

“Alright,” I finally say. “Let’s run the rest of the set. Bright and early tomorrow.”

My British accent slips out—stern, sharp. Too much like my father.

I cringe. Bash snorts.

“Sounds golden,” Alix mutters, adjusting the kick pedal.

“Bash kicks off the next one,” I say, voice back in leader mode. “Then Death’s Peace. The Guilty of the Wicked after that.”

We grind through the rest of rehearsal until we’re spent.

One guitar gets sacrificed to the gods of stage rage.

Worth it.

Back in my suite, my muscles scream, but my mind is finally quiet.

I crawl into bed, pull up my audiobook, and let darkness take me.

Holly Black’s The Cruel Prince plays softly in my ears—

—and for the first time in weeks, my demons fall silent.