Morning came with the soft chime of the chapel bell and golden light bleeding through fogged windows. A thin mist still blanketed the cobbled streets, giving the village an almost dreamlike calm. Birds chirped, brooms brushed stone, and the smell of fresh bread once again drifted on the wind.
Karl woke before the others.
He slipped on his coat, stepped quietly out the inn, and followed the stone path toward the village's edge. His black hair fluttered in the gentle breeze, and though he didn't fully understand why—he felt something calling. Not from the tower. Not from the shard.
From here.
As if a whisper from an unnamed past was pulling him forward.
At the village's edge sat an old well, moss-covered. Beside it: an old man with a fishing rod, casting into a narrow stone trough.
"You're the one who came out of the tower, aren't you?" the man asked—his voice gravelly but clear.
Karl didn't flinch. "How do you know?"
