The wind shrieked like a starving beast.
Nima walked the road alone.
Behind her, the shattered skeleton of her home receded into the fog like a fading nightmare. She hadn't looked back since the sun rose, and she wouldn't now. There was nothing left to return to. The Harrowblight had taken it all.
The road, if it could still be called that, was a scar carved through the dead woods. Thick roots cracked the cobbles. Fungus and frost crept along the edges. There were no birdsong, no insects. Even the wind here seemed hesitant, like it feared to disturb what slept beneath the soil.
She hadn't buried her family.
There hadn't been enough of them left.
Her mother's hand. Her father's face—twisted, half-sunken. Her brother… no. She wouldn't think of him yet.
Her grip on the naginata tightened. It was once ceremonial, hung over her family's hearth—a symbol of protection. Now it was covered in blood, bits of flesh still clinging to its edge. She hadn't cleaned it. Couldn't. Not yet. Not until she found something worth keeping it clean for.
The bell tolled again.
Gong…
It reverberated through the forest, slow and hollow. Neither close nor distant, like a memory trying to become real. She paused under a gnarled tree and listened.
Gong…
The sound came from everywhere and nowhere. Like it had no origin. It just was.
She walked faster.
By midday, the fog had thickened.
It slithered between the trunks, thick and wet, clinging to her skin like oil. Her boots squelched in the black earth. Her breath misted before her like smoke from a dying fire.
She caught sight of something ahead—a figure in the mist.
Shambling. Crooked.
Nima stopped and lowered her stance.
The figure dragged its feet. One arm hung loose at its side, bones poking through the flesh. Its head twisted too far, its mouth open in a silent scream. Rotted clothes clung to its body like wet parchment.
Her pulse quickened.
It was her neighbor.
Old Man Elric.
Or what was left of him.
He had once brought her firewood in the winter. Taught her how to snare rabbits. He used to whistle when he walked, a cheery tune that made her mother smile.
Now he groaned as he reached out for her, blackened nails scraping the air.
She moved on instinct.
One step forward. One clean arc.
The naginata sliced through bone like butter. The head fell to the dirt with a wet thump. The body twitched, stumbled, then collapsed.
She didn't mourn him.
There wasn't time for mourning anymore.
The crows descended a moment later. Dozens of them, screeching and circling overhead. Their eyes glowed faintly. She'd never seen crows glow before. One stared at her as it perched on a branch. Its beak opened, but no sound came out.
She moved on.
The road turned to gravel, then mud, then ruins.
A crumbled stone arch rose ahead, half-buried in vines. Beyond it, remnants of a hamlet—burnt frames of houses, collapsed wells, skeletal barns. She passed a crooked sign swinging from rusted chains. The letters were faded, scratched over with newer ones.
"Do Not Answer the Bell."
Nima's breath caught.
The bell rang again.
But this time, she felt it more than heard it. In her chest. In her spine. A deep, hollow thrum that made her teeth chatter. She stumbled, clutching her weapon, her knees buckling as images slammed into her mind like lightning.
A staircase spiraling down into endless black.
A crowd of eyeless children singing in reverse.
A sky stitched shut with chains.
She gasped.
Then silence.
When she opened her eyes, the world felt… thinner. The sky darker. Something had changed.
She pressed on, boots echoing in the empty ruin.
The chapel was the only building still standing.
It loomed atop a hill like a coffin left half-open. The steeple had collapsed, and the bell was missing, but its frame still cast a long shadow over the graveyard below. Dozens of headstones, most cracked or sunken, stood crooked like teeth in a rotted jaw.
She stepped through the threshold.
Inside, ash coated the pews. Something had burned here. The altar was shattered, the stained glass behind it broken into a dozen colorless shards. The scent of blood lingered beneath the soot.
Someone had been here recently.
A bedroll, discarded. Bones in the corner. A kettle, rusted shut.
And something carved into the floor beneath the altar:
"It rings for the stillborn gods."
Nima ran her fingers over the words. They'd been etched with a knife. Hastily. Deeply. Whoever wrote them had done so in desperation—or madness.
She stood slowly.
And that's when the bell tolled again.
But not like before.
This one came from within.
The sound didn't pass through the air. It resonated inside her, behind her eyes, through her ribs, like her body itself had become the bell. Her hands flew to her head. She fell to her knees, screaming.
Visions poured in—
She saw a throne of rusted iron, surrounded by kneeling shadows.
A sky where moons bled into oceans.
A cathedral without walls, where the stars chanted prayers in dead languages.
And a figure.
A vast, faceless thing, wrapped in funeral veils, sitting atop the Bell Throne.
Its presence crushed her like a tidal wave.
Its voice boomed without sound:
"SHE WHO SLEEPS IN SILENCE WILL WAKE IN SONG."
And then it was gone.
She collapsed.
When she awoke, the fog had lifted.
The sky was clear—but wrong. The clouds didn't move. The sun sat frozen behind a wall of violet haze. And beyond the chapel's shattered doors, in the valley below, was a town that shouldn't exist.
Too perfect.
Its streets ran straight and neat, lined with houses that cast no shadows. The windows were dark. No smoke rose from the chimneys. The trees didn't sway.
It looked more like a painting than a real place.
A lie given form.
And yet she couldn't look away.
Somewhere in her chest, the bell tolled again—softly, this time.
And with it came a whisper in her mind, not her own:
"Go down. Hear the hymn."
She descended the hill without a word.
The town had no name.
At least, none she could find.
No signs. No banners. No evidence of life. The cobblestone streets were pristine. The doors unlocked. The air stagnant. Every house she passed was fully furnished, stocked with unspoiled food, unlit candles, untouched beds.
A town preserved in stasis.
She opened one house at random.
A fire burned in the hearth, though there was no wood. The table was set for three. Plates full of meat and bread and wine—still warm. A note sat folded near the edge, addressed simply: To the Traveler.
With shaking hands, she opened it.
"Sit. Eat. Listen. She watches now."
She turned and fled the house.
Outside, the sky had changed.
The sun was gone. Replaced by a yawning black void. And high above, barely visible against the dark, hung a massive bell suspended in the air by chains of bone.
It began to swing.
And the whole town shuddered.
The bell rang.
And the dead began to sing.