The first toll of the harbor's great bronze bell was meant to warn of fire. The second was for warships spotted on the horizon. But the third—so rarely struck that many thought it only ceremonial—was the bell of drowning, a knell that no city should ever hear.
On this night, that bell screamed its third toll.
The deep, resonant bong rolled over Veyrus like a death sentence. The harbor shuddered with the sound, echoing across every street, every stone wall, every trembling soul. It was not merely a warning—it was an admission. The city was already dying.
---
The Mortal Chaos
Salt wind lashed through the docks, but it wasn't natural. The sea surged unnaturally high, dragging ships from their moorings and smashing them against stone piers. Masts splintered like bones. Sailors and dockhands screamed as waves reared up like walls of blue-green death.
"Hold the lines!" someone cried. "Chain the gates! Brace the walls!"
