Ashen woke to the smell of ash and iron.
For a long moment, he didn't remember where he was—or who he was. There was only pain: a dull, spreading ache that pulsed through his chest and down his arms, as if his bones had been struck with a hammer and left to cool crooked.
He tried to sit up.
The world lurched violently, and he groaned, falling back onto rough fabric.
"Don't," a voice said. "You'll split your head open."
Ashen blinked against the dim light. Wooden rafters swam into focus above him, crossed with age and smoke stains. A single lantern hung from a beam, its flame low and wavering.
The infirmary.
Memory rushed back all at once—the creature, the darkness, the bells.
He sucked in a sharp breath and clutched his chest.
Bandages wrapped his torso, tight and layered. Heat throbbed beneath them, centered just below his collarbone.
"What—" His throat felt raw. "How long?"
"Since just before dawn," Mara replied.
She sat on a stool beside his cot, elbows braced on her knees, hands clasped so tightly her knuckles had gone white. Her braid had come loose, dark strands falling into tired eyes that hadn't slept.
Ashen swallowed. "The town?"
"Still standing," she said. "Barely."
She leaned back, exhaling. "You were unconscious when they brought you in. Some people wanted to… deal with you. Others wanted to pray over you. The elders couldn't agree on which would be worse."
That earned a weak huff of laughter from Ashen that quickly turned into a wince.
"Figures."
Silence stretched between them, thick and uneasy.
Mara finally spoke again, quieter this time. "They say the square's cracked all the way down to the old stone foundations. The ones from before Blackmere had a name."
Ashen stared at the rafters. "The creature said something about bells. And blood."
Mara's jaw tightened. "I know."
He turned his head to look at her. "You know?"
She hesitated—just a second too long.
Ashen pushed himself upright despite the dizziness. "Mara."
Her gaze dropped to the bandages on his chest.
"The elders think you should see it," she said.
"See what?"
Instead of answering, she reached forward and carefully began unwinding the bandages.
Ashen sucked in a breath as cool air hit burned skin.
At first, he saw only red—raw, angry flesh still healing too quickly to be natural. Then Mara pulled the cloth away completely.
The mark stared back at him.
It was burned into his skin in perfect lines: a circular sigil broken by vertical slashes, intersected by symbols that looked carved rather than branded. The flesh around it was unscarred, untouched—as though the mark had always been there, waiting beneath the skin.
It faintly glowed.
Not bright. Just enough.
Ashen's mouth went dry. "That wasn't there before."
"No," Mara said softly. "It wasn't."
He reached out with shaking fingers and touched it.
Cold.
The same unnatural cold as the pendant.
As his skin made contact, something stirred inside him—a distant echo, like a bell heard underwater. Images flickered behind his eyes: towering stone arches, chains stretched across a sky full of ash, and a forest burning without flame.
Ashen jerked his hand away with a sharp gasp.
Mara caught his wrist. "What did you see?"
He shook his head. "I don't know. Places. Things that shouldn't exist."
The door to the infirmary creaked open.
Both of them stiffened.
Elder Bram stepped inside, his heavy robes whispering against the floor. His beard, once neatly braided, hung loose and gray around a face carved deep with worry. Behind him stood Sister Elowen of the temple, her veil drawn back to reveal eyes rimmed red from sleepless prayer.
"So," Bram said, his voice low. "You're awake."
Ashen met his gaze. "I didn't ask for this."
Elowen's lips pressed into a thin line. "No one ever does."
Bram moved closer, studying the mark without asking permission. His breath hitched almost imperceptibly.
"It's exactly as described," he murmured.
Ashen's heart pounded. "Described where?"
"In the Annals of the Veiled Sun," Elowen said. "Texts older than the temple itself. We stopped teaching them generations ago."
"For good reason," Bram added.
Ashen swung his legs over the side of the cot, ignoring the wave of weakness. "Start explaining."
They exchanged a glance.
Elowen spoke first.
"Blackmere was not built to keep monsters out," she said. "It was built to keep something in."
The lantern flame flickered.
"Long ago," she continued, "there were gates between this world and others. Not heavens or hells—places closer. Hungrier. When those gates began to fail, the bells were forged. They sealed the weakest crossing point."
Ashen swallowed. "And me?"
Bram's voice was heavy. "The bells require a bearer. A living anchor. Someone whose blood binds the seal."
Mara stood abruptly. "You're saying he's some kind of… lock?"
"A key," Elowen corrected. "And a warning."
Ashen's chest tightened. "You never told me."
Bram looked away. "Because we believed the line had ended."
Silence fell like a blade.
Ashen stared at them both. "What line?"
Elowen met his eyes. "Your mother's."
The room seemed to tilt.
"That's not possible," Ashen said. "She was a weaver. She died of fever."
"Yes," Bram said quietly. "After the mark faded."
Ashen's thoughts raced. Memories surfaced—his mother flinching at church bells, her refusal to enter the temple, the way she'd clutched him too tightly whenever the forest grew loud with wind.
"What happens now?" Ashen asked.
No one answered immediately.
Outside, the wind rose, rattling the shutters. Somewhere in the distance, a bell rang once—sharp and wrong—before falling silent again.
Elowen finally spoke. "Now the seal is awake."
Bram added, "And so are the things that test it."
Mara stepped closer to Ashen, her shoulder brushing his. "Then we don't let him face this alone."
Bram studied them both. "You may not have a choice."
Ashen looked down at the glowing mark, feeling its cold pulse in time with his heart.
For the first time, he understood the truth the creature had spoken.
He had never been asleep.