[4:49]
The timer burned in the corner of my vision, a relentless countdown to the blessing's end.
Around me, the ballroom was a nightmare painting brought to life.
Darkness clung to every corner, thick and suffocating, broken only by the eerie crimson glow of hundreds of eyes—students and teachers alike, their pupils dilated, their irises bleeding into the sclera like ink in water.
They moved in jerky, unnatural motions, some whispering to phantoms, others clawing at their own skin. A first-year girl giggled as she dragged her nails down her cheeks, leaving red trails. A burly third-year boy slammed his fists into the wall over and over, knuckles splitting, his laughter guttural.
Zombies? No.
This was worse.
They were puppets—strings pulled by their own deepest fears, their most venomous regrets. The air reeked of sweat, iron, and something fouler: the scent of unraveling minds.
My grip tightened around the Bell of Still Voices, its metallic surface cool against my palm.
