The air shimmered with something unseen, as though the world had been pulled taut like a string, vibrating between silence and collapse. Nima stood in the heart of the hollow town, beneath the looming gaze of the cracked bell statue. Her pulse beat in rhythm with the Song now, and though she wanted to fight it, there was something about it—something ancient and sorrowful—that demanded her attention.
Dmitri said nothing. He stood beside her, watchful. Tense. The figure who had called themselves the Keeper of Threads had disappeared into the mist that now hung heavy in the town. Only their words lingered:
"You are the ones who must answer the call."
The stillness of the square broke as the wind shifted. It wasn't just air moving—it was memory, it was voice, it was a sound without sound. Nima clutched her arms tightly, trying to anchor herself.
"We shouldn't stay," Dmitri finally said, his voice like a pebble thrown into a still lake. "The longer we're here, the less real everything feels."
Nima nodded, though her gaze was still fixed on the statue. "But I think this place… it holds something we need to understand. The Bell, the Song—it's all leading somewhere."
She turned her back to the statue, forcing her feet to move. Together, they made their way down one of the main streets, lined with buildings that looked lived-in but not living. A bakery with fresh loaves eternally unspoiled. A smithy where molten metal sat frozen mid-pour. A library, its door half open, wind rustling pages no one had touched in years—or centuries.
"This town," Dmitri muttered, brushing dust from a brass sign, "it's like it was plucked from time."
"Or forgotten by it," Nima replied.
They passed under an archway carved with intricate symbols—none familiar, but all strangely resonant. Nima reached out, running her fingers along the etchings. They pulsed faintly under her skin, like veins in stone.
As they walked, the street gave way to a courtyard. A faded sign marked the area: The Conclave of Threads. The center of the courtyard was dominated by a stone circle, within which sat eight empty chairs, each carved from different materials—obsidian, bone, ice, driftwood, coral, glass, iron, and something like starlight made solid.
"What is this place?" Dmitri whispered.
Nima crouched beside the obsidian chair. Etched into its armrest was a name: Vaelun of the Night Ash.
"Maybe…" she trailed off. "A council? A meeting place for those who understood the Song?"
Before Dmitri could answer, a sudden gust of wind howled through the space. The chairs trembled. The sky darkened, and the bell tolled again—not from the statue, but from everywhere. The sound vibrated through the stones, through their bones, through time itself.
Then, light. Each chair flared with ghostly brilliance, revealing fleeting images—silhouettes of long-gone figures, each sitting in silent judgment. For a moment, Nima felt as though she were being watched by gods—or worse, by the memories of gods.
The vision passed.
Silence returned.
Dmitri looked pale. "We should leave."
"We can't," Nima said quietly. "Not yet."
From behind the driftwood chair, a passage opened—a staircase descending into darkness. Nima didn't remember seeing it before. She took a step toward it, compelled by something deep within her. The Song thrummed again, quiet but urgent.
"Nima," Dmitri warned, but she was already moving.
They descended.
_______________________
The staircase spiraled downward, carved from pale stone veined with silver. The air grew colder, thicker. The silence was oppressive, the kind that crushed thought.
Eventually, the stairs ended at a massive door. Symbols glowed faintly on its surface—some matching the ones above the archway, others new. In its center was a hole, bell-shaped.
Nima reached into her satchel and pulled out the shard from the Loom—the one that had burned her hand when she touched the Echo. Without hesitation, she pressed it into the slot.
The door opened.
Beyond was a chamber of mirrors. Each surface reflected not Nima or Dmitri, but versions of them—older, younger, broken, triumphant. Some showed them together. Others showed one missing, or dead. In one, Nima saw herself weeping beside a shattered bell.
She turned away.
At the chamber's heart stood a monolith of crystal, suspended above the ground by chains of silver light. It pulsed in time with the Song.
"It's a fragment," Nima said. "Another one."
As she approached, a whisper flooded her mind—Do not pull what cannot be rewoven.
But she was already reaching out.
The crystal flared, and the chamber vanished.
She stood in a city of towers made from bone-white stone. The sky was purple and fractured, like a dome of broken glass. Bells rang in the distance—millions of them, all out of sync, creating a cacophony that rattled the soul.
People walked the streets—no, not people. Echoes. They passed through one another like ghosts, their faces twisted in agony or bliss. Above them all hovered a massive, cracked bell, its base inscribed with the names of thousands.
Nima looked down.
Her name was there.
A voice spoke behind her. "You will not escape it. Not now. Not ever."
She turned—and saw herself. Older. Hardened. Eyes silver with power and grief.
"Who are you?" Nima demanded.
"I am what the Song will make of you."
The vision cracked like glass. Nima fell through the pieces.
_______________________
She awoke in the chamber of mirrors, gasping. The crystal shard now floated before her, dim and cold.
Dmitri caught her before she could fall. "What happened? You just—collapsed."
"I saw… another world. A dead one. And me. Changed."
She took the shard.
"Let's get out of here," Dmitri said, urgency creeping into his voice.
They climbed the staircase again. But when they emerged into the courtyard, something was wrong.
The sky was darker.
The town had changed.
Buildings once whole were now crumbling. Statues wept blood. The bakery's bread was rotting. Time had resumed.
The Bell had tolled again.
The price had been paid.