Nima's breath came in short, ragged gasps. Her vision blurred, blinking against the dust and shadows that clung to her skin. Around her, fragments of stone and bone littered the chamber like the scattered remains of a forgotten cathedral. It was not the fall that hurt the most—it was the knowing.
The Song hadn't stopped.
It had simply quieted, become a whisper threading through the air like the breath of something ancient. It wasn't coming from above anymore. It came from below.
Dmitri stirred beside her with a groan, pressing a hand to his ribs. "Still alive," he muttered.
"Barely," Nima replied. She sat up, knees trembling as she looked around. The space they had landed in was impossibly vast. Ornate arches curved high above them, impossibly preserved despite the rot of time. Moss clung to columns carved with unknowable scripts, and in the distance, something shimmered like glass catching starlight.
They were not in Hollowroot anymore.
"Where the hell are we?" Dmitri whispered.
Nima slowly stood, her muscles protesting, eyes scanning the surroundings. "This isn't natural. Someone built this. Long ago."
Ahead, a series of spiraling bridges stretched out over a dark chasm, connecting to various points of the underground city. The bridges were strange—woven of a black, root-like material that glowed faintly beneath the surface, pulsing in rhythm with the Song. The pulse beat like a second heart in her chest.
"I think we're beneath the Song," Nima said slowly. "Or inside it."
"You think this is the Bell's doing?" Dmitri asked.
Nima didn't answer immediately. Her hand brushed the shard at her side. It had grown warm again, the symbols etched across it reacting to the architecture. She held it up. The light from it mirrored that of the bridges. Same rhythm. Same glow.
"We're where the shard was trying to lead me," she said. "It was never about Hollowroot. That was only a passage."
They followed one of the bridges, each step accompanied by the creak of strained wood—or what looked like wood. Dmitri stopped, knelt, and ran a hand along the surface. It flexed slightly under his touch.
"These aren't roots," he said grimly. "They're bones. Intertwined with something living."
Nima looked ahead, suddenly aware of how quiet the city truly was. There were no birds, no wind, not even the sound of dripping water. It was the kind of silence that existed in a tomb sealed shut for millennia.
When they reached the first platform, they found a gate made of woven branches fused with rusted iron. It hung open, leading into a chamber lined with symbols similar to the shard's. Unlike the upper ruins, this place felt untouched. Sacred.
Or perhaps cursed.
At the far end of the chamber sat a throne carved from petrified wood and obsidian. Upon it rested a skeletal figure dressed in regal silks, crowned with a band of thorns. In its chest, embedded in bone, was a second shard of the Bell.
Nima's breath caught.
"That's another piece," she said. "Like mine."
Dmitri glanced at her. "Are we taking it?"
Before she could respond, the corpse stirred.
Its head didn't move, but its voice poured into the chamber like thick smoke. "Who dares awaken the Remnant Sovereign?"
Nima instinctively stepped back, but she didn't look away. "We didn't mean to wake you," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "We fell. We're looking for answers."
"Then you have come to the wrong place," the voice answered. "This city is the grave of answers. It is the marrow of silence."
Dmitri stepped forward. "What is this place?"
The Remnant Sovereign's head lifted just slightly. Its sockets glowed faintly with silver light. "This is Bellgrave. The first city woven by the Song, long before your world rose from the sea of ash. We were its stewards, the first to hear its truth. And the first to be punished for believing it."
Nima's heart thudded. "You were punished by the Bell?"
"No," the Sovereign rasped. "We were punished by those who feared what the Bell could reveal."
The chamber vibrated faintly, and Nima could feel the Song again, growing more insistent. Her shard hummed louder.
"You carry part of it," the Sovereign said, voice suddenly soft. "The Voice that was shattered to save the world from itself."
"The Bell?" Nima asked.
The Sovereign nodded. "A lie given shape. It was never a warning—it was a lock. And the shards are keys."
Behind him, an old mural began to glow. It depicted the same council of masked figures from Nima's vision. One held the Bell aloft; others stood in defiance. Then the Bell shattered—and the world fractured with it.
"We fractured the Song," the Sovereign whispered. "We scattered it to delay the end. But you… you are bringing it together again."
Dmitri looked between them. "What happens if she restores it?"
The Sovereign's bones creaked as he leaned forward. "Then the song will be sung in full. And the world will remember."
Nima swallowed. "Remember what?"
The Sovereign smiled, and it was the kind of smile only the dead could wear.
"The truth it chose to forget."
The shard in the Sovereign's chest pulsed once. Without thinking, Nima reached toward it. The moment her hand closed around it, the Bell's Song screamed.
Her mind burned.
She stood at the edge of a different world—one wrapped in thorns and silver chains. A sky without stars. A city of masks and bells. And a Bellkeeper, faceless and towering, watching her through a hundred unseen eyes.
She saw herself standing on a precipice, the two shards in her hands glowing like dying suns. Beneath her, the world cracked open—and something stirred within the void.
Then she was back.
On the floor of the chamber, Dmitri beside her, calling her name.
Nima sat up slowly. Her breath came in shallow bursts. The second shard was now fused with the first, forming a larger piece of the Bell. It shimmered in her palm, heavier now. Hungrier.
"The Song wants to be whole," she whispered.
Dmitri nodded, shaken. "And it's using you to do it."
The Sovereign's body had crumbled into dust. Only the thorn crown remained.
They left the chamber in silence.
Back on the bridge, Nima turned to look out over Bellgrave. The shimmering lights of the root-like pathways pulsed again, and she could feel it—there were more shards. Hidden deeper still. Each one a memory. A key. A choice.
And with each one, the Bell's voice grew louder.