The first sound he heard was not his heartbeat. It was the toll of a bell.
Dull and heavy, as if struck underwater, the resonance echoed through the marrow of his bones rather than the air. It rang once… then silence. No birdsong. No wind. No breath.
He opened his eyes.
A cracked ceiling of obsidian glass loomed above him, lined with tiny moving runes that pulsed like veins under skin. Dust motes floated through amber sunlight spilling from a broken stained-glass window, dancing like slow-burning embers. Somewhere, metal dripped—clang, clang, clang—regular as a ticking clock that had forgotten time.
"Where…?"
His throat was dry, voice hoarse, unfamiliar. He sat up slowly.
He lay upon a cold metal altar, engraved with concentric glyphs and circular diagrams. Around him, scorched pages littered the chamber—half-burnt scrolls, torn book covers, cracked lenses, and candle wax melted into arcane sigils on the floor.
This was a sanctum once. Now, it was a tomb.
Pain stabbed through his temples.
Fragments. Names. Sounds. A foreign language. A funeral of memory.
"Silas Veyne… that is this body's name…"
A whisper. Not aloud, but etched into the folds of his consciousness.
He staggered to his feet, legs trembling, and made his way toward the tall iron mirror set against the far wall. The surface was tarnished and cloudy, yet enough remained to reflect a pale face with sharp features, soot-streaked cheeks, and mismatched eyes—one gray like fog, the other deep crimson.
Not my face. Not my eyes.
He stared for a long moment, fingers brushing the mirror. The reflection did not move.
Then it did.
Only slightly. But it blinked slower than he did.
A memory—sharp and sudden—pierced his mind.
"The Sealed Codex... do not read... the Thirteenth Bell must never be rung again... we were wrong..."
He gripped his skull and dropped to one knee as something twisted behind his right eye. The air seemed to fold inward. Light dimmed. The sound of the world turned to whispers.
Then—clarity.
He looked to his right palm. Burned into the skin was a brand. A moving glyph, like a coiled spiral devouring its own tail. It pulsed faintly in rhythm with the bell that still rang somewhere beyond time.
A sigil. A curse. A mark.
Codex Fragment: [Unnamed]. Rite of Ashes Initiated.
Mental Integrity: 93%.
Warning: Prolonged exposure to Codex glyphs may degrade reality alignment.
He did not know how he knew this, but he did.
Footsteps.
He turned sharply, instinct drawing him behind a pillar.
Two figures entered through the shattered archway—hooded, robed in dark blue layered with brass chains and bloodstained scripts. They carried rusted lanterns filled with liquid starlight, the light flickering oddly, casting too many shadows.
"The heretic corpse has vanished," one hissed. Female voice, metallic undertones. "Seal the sanctum. If the mark has awakened, the Thirteenth will rise."
The other figure knelt before the altar, fingertips tracing the scorch marks.
"The Bell has already tolled. We are too late."
They began chanting in a tongue he did not recognize—but somehow understood. Words that bent thought. Phrases that carved grooves into the air.
"Thar'keli Vostrun. Ha-nur Vaal. Grant silence to the Unbound."
He backed away, every instinct screaming.
The shadows behind the pillar slithered unnaturally, reaching for his feet.
He ran.
Through ruined hallways filled with shattered glass and half-melted statues, through a sunken library where the books whispered when he passed, up cracked spiral stairs that rang like hollow bones, Silas Veyne fled the temple of his second birth.
He emerged into a world cloaked in fog and twilight.
The sky was gray, hung with fragments of a broken celestial ring—massive floating ruins circling endlessly above, each piece inscribed with runes the size of cities.
Beneath the fractured firmament, the city of Vel Quen sprawled like a corpse stitched to life.
Steam rose from pipe towers. Airships groaned in the mist. Distant chimes echoed from unknown quarters. Lanterns with blue soul-flames lined the rain-slick streets, and every corner bore a symbol, a charm, or a watcher.
It was a world of contracts, machines, and gods long dead.
Silas stepped forward, a fugitive in a city that had once executed the man whose body he now wore.
Somewhere, deep below the earth, in the gears of a hidden bell tower, a great mechanism stirred.
A second bell began to toll.
And with it, the forgotten Codex awakened.
[End of Chapter