The sky above Wrenmore had changed.
Clara couldn't say how—only that it felt heavier. The clouds loomed low, despite no forecast of rain. A silence had settled over the village, like the air itself was holding its breath.
She turned the coin over in her hand for the hundredth time. The sigil still pulsed faintly with a dull warmth, as though it remembered something she didn't. The raven and serpent stared up at her like a challenge.
The Hollow Eye.
A name older than blood.
She'd spent the night reading—poring through Mr. Hargrove's private collection, desperate for any mention of the Order. Most of the books were nothing more than fragmented records, half-lost in time or deliberately obscured. But one passage had stood out. It had been scrawled in the margins of an otherwise mundane historical journal:
"The Eye does not see with sight. It sees with memory. And the one who bears the mark cannot run from what was done."
Now, seated inside the old chapel with Liam and Mr. Hargrove, she repeated the quote aloud.
The historian looked grim. "That's from the Black Ledger. It was destroyed during the last fire at the manor—until now, I thought none of it survived."
"What does it mean?" Liam asked.
Clara answered before Hargrove could. "It means they remember the truth. Even when we forget."
Behind the chapel, there was a small crypt. Most of Wrenmore had forgotten it existed. Ivy choked the walls, and half the stone steps had been swallowed by earth.
Mr. Hargrove lit a lantern and led the way inside.
"It was built by the founders," he explained as they descended. "A place to bury the first keepers of the village. But legend says there's something deeper beneath it—something hidden even from the clergy."
Clara gripped her coat tighter. The coin in her pocket burned faintly, like it knew they were close.
They passed rows of crumbling sarcophagi, dust thick in the air. At the far wall, a collapsed archway led into nothing but dirt. Hargrove knelt and brushed away some of the soil.
"There's stone behind it," he said, excitement flickering in his eyes. "Help me dig."
Together, they cleared the obstruction. After an hour of scraping, coughing, and shifting stone, a doorway emerged—sealed with a slab etched in runes.
Clara pressed her hand to it instinctively.
The sigil on the coin flared.
And with a shuddering groan, the stone slid aside.
The room beyond was unlike anything Clara had seen.
It was circular—walls made of black basalt that shimmered faintly in the lanternlight. At the center stood a pedestal, atop which rested a massive tome bound in what looked like bark and hide. All around the room, symbols spiraled along the floor in a language not even Hargrove recognized.
But Clara felt it.
This was where the truth had been buried.
She stepped forward and opened the book.
Dust swirled upward like breath escaping a corpse.
The pages turned on their own.
"The Chronicle of the Hollow Eye," she read aloud.
The first page bore a title in blood-red ink:
"Testament of the Three Seals."
Liam moved closer. "Three again. Like in the letter."
Clara read on.
Before the Age of Names, when the sky was still ash and the stars yet to burn, there were Three. Sisters not of flesh, but of essence. One bound to the earth. One scattered through lineage. One unborn, yet promised to descend. They were not gods. They were not demons. They were memory incarnate—fragments of the First Sin.
The First Warden broke them. Sealed them apart to preserve the world. But even broken, they remember. And through memory, they awaken.
Clara shivered. "The entity beneath the well… it's only one part. The first."
"And the others?" Liam asked.
She turned the page.
Another passage, this one darker:
When the Seals weaken, the Hollow Eye will awaken. They will seek the vessel who bears the scar of the First Sin. She will carry memory not her own. Pain not earned. She will open doors meant to stay shut. She will be both jailer and key.
Clara stepped back.
"The vessel… it's me."
They were silent for a long time.
Outside, the storm finally broke. Rain began to fall, heavy and cold.
Liam looked at her, eyes shadowed. "Clara, we need to talk about your dreams."
She met his gaze. "They've changed. Haven't they?"
He nodded. "The last few nights… I've seen things too. The same things you describe. The well. The fire. But more than that—I've seen you. Older. Dressed in black. Standing in a city of ash, screaming."
Clara clutched the coin again.
"I think something's bleeding through. Memories… from another life. Or another version of mine. One where I didn't stop the well. One where I joined it."
Mr. Hargrove whispered, "You're becoming the vessel. The lines between timelines, selves, choices—they're all merging."
A thought struck her. "If I'm the vessel, then the Hollow Eye doesn't just want to stop me. They want to use me."
That night, Clara dreamed again.
But this time, it was different.
She stood in a circle of fire, surrounded by three thrones made of bone. On each throne sat a woman—identical faces, but different eyes.
One's eyes were filled with sorrow.
One's with rage.
And one's with… nothing.
They spoke in unison.
"The world forgot us. But you remember. And memory is power."
Clara screamed—but no sound came.
One of them rose and reached out. Her touch seared Clara's skin, branding her with a mark that flared across her chest: the same sigil of the Hollow Eye, now embedded into her flesh.
She woke gasping.
Liam was already beside her.
"It's spreading," he said, staring at the brand with horror. "You're changing."
Clara looked at her trembling hands.
"No," she said. "I'm becoming."