Dawn stretched across Wrenmore like a cautious whisper, brushing light across rooftops still stained by memory. The birds had returned, their melodies sweet and deceptively innocent, but Clara couldn't bring herself to take comfort in them.
The dreams had not stopped.
If anything, they had grown stronger.
She saw visions not just of the prison beneath the earth, but of something older—a force that had existed long before the first brick of Wrenmore was laid. A darkness with no name, worshipped and feared by those who had walked the land before time had words.
Clara stood in the shadow of the newly unearthed tomb, wrapped in a thick cloak against the morning chill. Around her, the others gathered in silence: Liam, resolute and fierce at her side; Mrs. Alden, murmuring protective charms under her breath; Mr. Hargrove, clutching his ancient texts; and two others who had volunteered for the rite, knowing it would demand from them something precious.
"I'm ready," Clara said, her voice low. "Let's begin before it stirs again."
The clearing behind the chapel had been transformed into a sacred circle. Salt and ash formed the perimeter, while nine obsidian stones marked the ancient points of power. In the center, a basin of silver rested on a carved pedestal, its surface waiting to receive the offerings.
Clara stepped into the circle first.
She had read the Rite of Binding in whispers—translated by Mr. Hargrove from scrolls so fragile they had nearly turned to dust at his touch. It was no ordinary spell. It called on the land, the bloodline, and the will of those involved.
And it demanded a price.
Clara unsheathed a small ceremonial blade and held it over her palm.
"Are you sure?" Liam asked, his hand brushing her arm.
She nodded. "I have to be. This began with my family. It must end with me."
The blade kissed her skin—just enough to draw blood. She let several drops fall into the basin.
It hissed like steam against iron.
Mrs. Alden stepped forward next. Her face was lined with age, but her spirit was fierce.
"For my daughter, taken by the manor," she said. She sliced her palm, and her blood joined Clara's.
Liam was third. His blood hit the silver with a sound like thunder.
The two remaining volunteers—a farmer and his wife who had lost two sons to the Bennett curse—offered their blood last, their faces solemn but proud.
As the basin filled, the runes around the circle began to glow.
Wind rose, swirling ash and salt into a vortex that shimmered with unearthly light.
Clara raised her arms. The chant came from deep within, words older than language forming on her tongue.
"Eratum solvar. Nox regina. Custos invocamus."
The ground trembled.
From beneath the earth came a pulse—like a heartbeat, slow and terrible.
And then the whispers began.
They slithered through the trees like smoke. Clara could hear them all around her: voices of the past, twisted by sorrow and pain. She could see them too—phantom images flickering at the edge of the circle.
Her father, his eyes wild.
Her mother, sobbing as flames consumed the manor.
A child, faceless, reaching out from beneath the soil.
Clara staggered but didn't break the chant.
The others joined in, their voices forming a chorus of resistance against the pressure rising from below.
The basin pulsed. The blood within shimmered gold, reacting to the power drawn from the collective will.
Then the earth cracked.
A scream—deep and ancient—tore through the air.
Clara fell to her knees. The visions intensified: Wrenmore devoured in black fire, the well boiling over with shadows, her friends torn apart by something she couldn't see.
"No," she growled, gripping the earth with bleeding hands. "You don't win. Not this time."
She forced herself back up, voice hoarse but unyielding.
"Binding the dark. Binding the curse. Binding the forgotten. I am the last. And I choose the light."
Light exploded from the basin, a dome of golden energy sealing the circle.
The scream became a wail—defeated, bitter—and then… silence.
Just wind.
Just breath.
Just life.
When the light faded, Clara collapsed into Liam's arms.
"It's sealed," she whispered, barely conscious. "It's sealed, but… it's not dead. It's waiting."
Liam held her tight. "Then we'll make sure it never wakes."
In the days that followed, Wrenmore saw peace again.
The trapdoor to the prison was resealed and covered in sacred stone. A circle of obsidian now marked the site, guarded at all times by a rotation of volunteers trained in the new protective rites.
Clara was often seen walking the perimeter alone, her fingers trailing the air, sensing for fractures. She wore her mother's locket again, now containing a drop of the basin's golden blood—a charm of protection and memory.
But even as the village rebuilt, Clara knew the story wasn't over.
Wrenmore was no longer cursed—but it was still marked.
And someone had marked it.
Late one evening, as Clara reviewed the last of the binding texts, a courier arrived.
He bore a sealed letter, yellowed and worn with age.
"For Clara Bennett," he said, handing it over with a bow.
Clara took it with shaking fingers.
There was no return address.
The seal was unlike any she'd ever seen: a triangle of interlocking circles with a single drop of blood at the center.
Liam looked over her shoulder.
"Do you know who it's from?"
Clara opened the letter and read the first line aloud.
"To the last living Warden of Wrenmore: You have sealed the prison, but you do not yet know what it contains."
Clara sat motionless, the letter trembling in her hands. The parchment was old, yet the ink looked freshly spilled. Her fingers brushed the strange seal again—those interlocking circles weren't just a symbol. They were a map. A sigil. A warning.
Liam leaned closer, brows drawn. "What else does it say?"
She cleared her throat and continued reading aloud.
"The entity beneath Wrenmore is not alone. It is one of Three. One bound beneath the well. One scattered across bloodlines. One yet to descend."
Her breath caught. "Three?"
She scanned the rest of the message.
"You've awoken more than memories. Your blood has stirred the old compacts. The Wardens were meant to guard, not forget. But forget they did. And now, others are watching. Others who do not believe you are fit to bear the burden."
The letter ended without signature, but below the final line was a drawing.
A raven, wings outstretched, clutching a dagger in its talons. Around it coiled a serpent biting its own tail.
Mr. Hargrove, who had joined them quietly after hearing the courier arrive, gasped.
"That mark… it belongs to the Order of the Hollow Eye. I'd heard legends, but I never thought…"
Clara looked up, her voice firm. "What is it? Who are they?"
"The original guardians of the prison," he replied. "Before the Bennett family. Before Wrenmore even had a name. They were said to wield forbidden knowledge—magic so old it was erased from history."
Liam frowned. "Then why now? Why send a warning?"
Mr. Hargrove's face darkened. "Because by performing the Blood Rite, Clara has reclaimed the mantle of Warden. And that means… the others will see her as a threat. Or a key."
Clara's mind spun. The visions. The chanting. The presence beneath the stone.
Everything suddenly felt like the first page in a much larger book.
That night, Clara returned to the perimeter alone, clutching the letter in her coat. She traced the outer edge of the obsidian stones, listening.
Waiting.
She had expected silence.
But instead… she heard wings.
Not the soft rustle of birds—but powerful beats, as though something massive circled overhead. She looked up.
The moon was full, casting long shadows—but nothing moved above the trees.
Still, the air had changed.
She turned slowly—and saw a figure at the edge of the trees. Hooded. Motionless.
It didn't speak.
Didn't move.
Just stood there, half-hidden by fog.
Clara's voice came out sharper than intended. "Who are you?"
The figure lifted a hand—three fingers raised—and vanished into mist.
Clara rushed forward, but the clearing was empty.
In the dirt, where the figure had stood, lay a token: a coin, worn by time, etched with the same raven-serpent sigil.
She picked it up and felt a sudden jolt of memory—not her own.
Flames.
A stone city beneath the earth.
A child's scream swallowed by darkness.
Clara staggered back, heart thundering.
The entity beneath Wrenmore was just the beginning.