Lysa woke to silence.
That, more than anything, frightened her. The village of Hallowmere never slept in complete quiet—there was always something: roosters calling, carts creaking, a dog barking at its own shadow. But this morning the air felt held, pressed between two fingers of something unseen.
She sat up. The blankets were damp with sweat though the night had been cool. Her pulse beat too loudly in her ears. The temple bells hung still against the pale dawn.
Then she noticed the light.
It wasn't gold. It wasn't morning. The rays spilling through the shutters were tinted faint red, as if the sun had bled on its way up.
Lysa rose, heart thudding. She crossed the small room attached to the temple and pushed the shutters open.
The sky above Hallowmere was pink-gray, streaked with darker veins that pulsed slowly outward from the horizon. Every few seconds the colors shifted, fading to normal daylight before washing red again. The air trembled with each pulse.
She whispered a prayer without thinking. No words, just a shape made by habit. The Veiled Flame flickered in its brazier on the altar behind her, responding to her fear—its light guttered, turned orange, then steadied again.
She dressed quickly, grabbed her staff, and stepped outside.
The village square was nearly empty. A few farmers stood near the well, heads tilted back, watching the sky. Old Master Den limped across the stones toward her, his face pale.
"You see it?" he asked.
"I do," Lysa said. "Since when?"
"Started just before dawn. Thought it was a fire in the woods. Then the birds stopped singing." He spat, the motion mechanical. "Never seen a sunrise like that."
Neither had she.
The world felt… off. The ground seemed to breathe under her boots, a slow rhythmic flexing that wasn't quite an earthquake. She could taste iron in the air.
"Where are they?" Den asked quietly. He didn't need to say who they were.
"In the guest house," she said. "Sleeping, I think."
"Then wake them," he said. "Whatever's happening, it started with their coming."
She didn't answer.
Because he was right.
⸻
The guest house door stood open.
Lysa hesitated on the threshold. The smell inside was strange—sweet and metallic, like flowers rotting in honey. The air shimmered faintly, heat rising where there was no fire.
They were awake.
Veyra sat on the table, legs crossed, humming to herself as she peeled the petals off a white flower and dropped them into a cup of water. Each petal dissolved, tinting the water pink.
Kaen leaned against the window frame, bare-chested, steam coiling from his skin. The wooden frame was blackened where his shoulder touched it.
Lyra knelt by the floorboards, tracing patterns in the dust with a needle of silver light. The lines she drew glowed, then faded, like veins under skin.
Cirel lounged on the bench near the wall, eyes half-closed, smiling faintly at nothing.
Sareth stood motionless in the corner, hands clasped behind his back, chains hanging silent.
Alinor sat on the floor near the door, knees drawn to her chest, humming a tune that didn't exist yet.
And Auren—
Auren stood in the middle of the room, staring out through the open door at the bleeding sky. His long golden-orange hair caught the strange light and turned it molten. The inverted crosses in his black eyes burned brighter than the sunrise.
Lysa's throat tightened. She forced herself to speak. "The sky—"
"Yes," Auren said softly. "It's waking up."
"Waking—?"
"Your world is small," he said, turning toward her. "It was bound to notice us eventually."
Lyra looked up. "The lower realm is collapsing. The echo reaches even here."
Lysa gripped her staff. "You mean — your world?"
Kaen laughed. "Not ours. Just one of the toys we broke."
The priestess stepped back instinctively. "You did this?"
"We do everything," Veyra said pleasantly. She dipped her fingers into the cup; the pink water hissed against her skin. "Sometimes on purpose."
Lysa's pulse hammered. "You have to leave. Now. Before it spreads."
"It's already everywhere," Alinor murmured, eyes distant. "Can't you feel it? The heartbeat beneath the soil? It's faster today."
Lysa glanced at the floor. The boards vibrated faintly under her feet.
She turned toward Auren. "If you care at all—if there's even a trace of mercy in you—go."
Auren tilted his head. "Mercy," he repeated, as if tasting the word. "I don't think we kept that one."
Sareth's voice slid across the room. "Even if we left, this world would still break. Our steps are already written into it."
Lysa swallowed hard. "Then help me hold it together."
"How?" Lyra asked, curious.
"Pray," Lysa said. "The Veiled Flame answers those who ask."
Veyra laughed outright. "Answers? I like her optimism."
Lysa ignored the sound. "The temple's wards are strong," she said, desperate now. "If we strengthen them, maybe — maybe the rift will close, the bleed will stop—"
Auren stepped closer. "You think magic lines in stone can hold the weight of us?"
"I have to try," she whispered.
He studied her for a moment. Then he nodded once. "Then try."
Lysa blinked, surprised. "You'll let me?"
"I want to see what faith looks like when it burns," he said simply.
She turned and fled the room before she could lose her nerve.
⸻
By mid-morning the sky had darkened again. The red pulses were stronger, bleeding into orange, then violet. The sun's edge looked jagged, as if pieces of it were missing.
The villagers gathered in the square, whispering. Children clung to their parents. Dogs hid under carts. The well water glowed faintly in the shadows.
Lysa worked.
She traced the outer stones of the temple, pressing symbols into the mortar with ash and oil. The air around her buzzed. The Flame inside the brazier flared higher with each mark she made, feeding on her exhaustion.
Den knelt beside her, clutching a handful of talismans. "The ground's shaking again," he said.
"I know," she whispered. "Keep the bells ringing."
He tugged the rope; the bells tolled, off-beat, their sound warped by the trembling air.
From the road came the sound of footsteps.
The Seven had followed her.
They watched in silence for a moment. Even the villagers stopped whispering, eyes darting between Lysa and the strangers.
"What's she doing?" Kaen asked.
"Begging," Veyra said.
"Building," Lyra corrected.
"Breaking," Cirel said.
Sareth's chains scraped against each other. "All the same thing, in the end."
Auren walked forward until he stood beside Lysa. She could feel the air chill around him. Her markings dimmed slightly in his presence.
"Do you want help?" he asked.
Lysa looked up, sweat streaking her face. "You can help?"
"No," he said. "But I can stand here while you pretend it matters."
"Then stand," she said through clenched teeth.
He did.
The Flame roared suddenly, throwing sparks into the air. The symbols on the temple walls blazed white, then cracked. A sound like glass breaking echoed through the square.
Every head turned toward the sky.
The clouds were splitting.
A thin black seam ran straight through the sun, spreading wider with each heartbeat. Red light poured out like blood from a wound.
The villagers screamed.
Lysa stumbled back, shielding her eyes. "What is that?"
"The wound," Alinor whispered. "The one between worlds."
"The lower realm's dying breath," Sareth said.
Kaen grinned, flames flaring along his arms. "Beautiful, isn't it?"
The ground buckled. Cracks raced through the cobblestones. The well exploded upward, water turning to steam mid-air.
Lysa fell to her knees. "Stop it—please, stop—"
Auren looked up at the bleeding sun. "We're not doing it," he said softly. "It's doing it because we're here."
Then the sound came—
a deep, resonant boom that wasn't thunder, wasn't explosion, wasn't anything that should exist. It was the sound of a world tearing its own skin.
Villagers clutched their ears and screamed. The bell tower shattered, its bells falling like meteors. Dust rolled through the square.
When the haze cleared, the sky above was half red, half white, the split widening like a smile. Through it, faint and distant, another world glowed—a dying one, collapsing into itself.
Lysa stared, tears streaking the ash on her face. "That's your world," she whispered. "It's falling into ours."
"Yes," Auren said. "They always do."
She turned on him, fury cutting through her fear. "You could have saved it!"
He met her gaze calmly. "We never save anything."
"Then why come here?"
"To see what happens next," he said.
The words broke something in her. She raised her staff, sigil flaring white. "Then I'll—"
The staff shattered in her hands.
Not by his touch. Not by magic. Simply because the air around her couldn't hold its shape anymore.
She fell back, gasping. The flame at the temple's heart flared once more, then went out.
Darkness swallowed the square.
The only light left came from the sky: the red wound above and the soft orange glow leaking from the scythe in Auren's hand.
For a heartbeat, nothing moved.
Then the bells rang again.
But they weren't bells anymore.
The sound was lower, slower, like iron groaning under weight. It rolled through the village and out across the fields, shaking the trees, bending the grass.
Lysa looked up. Her eyes reflected the red light. "What happens now?" she whispered.
Auren smiled—mocking, gentle, unafraid. "Now?" he said. "Now your world learns how to break."
He turned away, and the Eclipsed Seven followed.
Behind them, Hallowmere began to burn—
not with fire,
but with light that shouldn't exist.