The hum thickened.
It wasn't a sound anymore — it was a presence, a weight. It curled through the hot, dust-slicked air like smoke, invisible but choking, sliding into Ola's lungs until her tongue stung with the taste of iron. Her vision pulsed, black corners creeping in, and she fought the instinct to cover her ears. Pointless. The sound wasn't out there. It was inside her — inside her bones, humming against her teeth, coiling like wire around her ribcage.
Across the cattle pen, the Binding moved.
It didn't walk. It didn't even float. It tilted forward, the same way someone might lean into a whisper, or a scream. The drum that served as its head gave one slow pulse, and the sigils etched into its hide — once softly shifting — tightened like a net being drawn closed. The vibration that followed rolled through the earth, shaking the brittle fence posts and making the trough water ripple in long, silver veins.
Next to her, Èkóyé's hand snapped out, gripping Ola's wrist hard. "Don't let it take the rhythm."
Ola swallowed, the metallic tang thickening on her tongue. She nodded, even as her jaw locked to keep from answering. Not with words. Not with thoughts. The hum was shaping itself into something. It was calling.
Something inside her answered — the Watcher's mark. Buried beneath her collarbone like a forgotten ember, it stirred now, pulsing in rhythm with the sound like a muffled heartbeat of its own.
Across the pen, two of the Hollowed moved in sync. One was fissured through the middle like cracked porcelain, its torso jagged and glowing faintly from within. It stepped sideways, blocking the only rear path to escape. The smaller one, skeletal and slick with threads of black resin, unfurled a coil from its waist and dragged it across the dirt. Where it touched, the ground changed — dark brown fading to dead grey, the color draining from the earth itself.
A circle. They were closing a circle.
"Shit," Ola breathed, and the sound barely escaped her lips.
Èkóyé didn't flinch. Her eyes scanned the edge of the pen, zeroing in on a warped section of the left fence — one plank already half-collapsed. A gap.
She leaned in, breath warm against Ola's cheek. "We break before they close it. Left side. On my mark."
The Binding's hum sharpened. The vowels twisted, consonants forming where there should've been none. Ola's thoughts snagged on the sound, as if it were carving through her mind. Then, suddenly, she recognized it.
It was her name. Not spoken. Not sung. But built. Bone by bone. Letter by letter.
And with each syllable, her body responded — a twitch in her leg, a flutter in her lungs. Her own breath began to sync with the sound. Unbidden. Dangerous.
Then Èkóyé moved.
They went low, fast — all instinct and dust. Ola didn't hesitate. She followed, her limbs reacting before her brain could protest. Behind them, the fissured Hollowed turned too slowly, its cracked joints grinding as if moved by invisible hands. The smaller one flicked the coil with a shriek like glass splitting. Black lines lashed toward them.
Ola flinched — but Èkóyé was ready. Her riverstone blade flared, pale light rippling from the carved runes on its hilt. The coil recoiled, sizzling as the light touched it, just long enough for them to dart past.
The fence loomed ahead — warped, splintering. Èkóyé vaulted it with a sharp grunt, landing in a crouch. Ola hit it half a second later, palms tearing on splinters. She kicked up, scrambled over, and fell hard on the other side. Her boots hit the dirt too loud, and the thud echoed like a dropped drumbeat.
The hum didn't stop.
Ola rolled, panting, eyes darting back over the fence. And there it stood — the Binding, motionless at the edge of the pen. Its drum-face turned to her.
The sigils flared once — blinding, cold white — and the hum slammed into her chest like a second heartbeat. Not her own. Not human.
Her knees gave.
Pain shot up her legs as she hit the ground. She tried to rise, muscles trembling — but something inside her shook, like a string pulled taut and then plucked. Not broken. Claimed.
Èkóyé grabbed her under the arms and dragged her into the shadow of a collapsed grain shed. The tin roof sagged dangerously above, rusted through and pocked with holes. It smelled of mold, straw, and old blood.
"Breathe," Èkóyé hissed, crouching in front of her. "In your own time. Not theirs."
Ola blinked. Her lungs burned. Her heartbeat stuttered against the false one still echoing inside her. She pulled air into her mouth in shallow sips, trying not to gag on the iron tang that still lingered. Slowly, slowly, she forced herself to breathe against the rhythm she felt the Binding had planted.
Her voice, when it came, was dry. "It… took something."
Èkóyé stared at her, dark eyes unreadable. Then she shook her head. "Not took. Marked."
Ola's stomach twisted. "Marked for what?"
Èkóyé didn't answer.
Outside, beyond the wreckage, the hum deepened again. Not closer. Not retreating. Waiting.
The silence stretched, thick with heat and grit. Ola's muscles ached, her palms still bleeding from the fence. Every breath she took felt like dragging air past broken glass. Èkóyé sat beside her now, her blade still unsheathed, the riverstone gleaming softly in the dark.
Ola broke the silence first. "What is it? The Binding?"
"A tool," Èkóyé said without looking at her. "A ritual turned inward. It was made to hold power. But someone — or something — taught it to hunger."
"Hunger for what?"
"Rhythm," Èkóyé murmured. "Intent. Names. The core of a person. Once it has your name, not the one you were given but the one you are—" She made a slicing motion. "It can thread you into itself."
Ola shivered. "Like the Hollowed."
Èkóyé nodded. "That's what they are. Not dead. Not exactly. Just… rewritten."
Ola's fingers found the skin above her heart, pressing against the spot where the Watcher's mark lay dormant — a raised scar, faintly warm. "Why now? Why me?"
"Because you carry the mark. And because we're getting close."
"Close to what?"
"The Mouth," Èkóyé said softly. "Where the Binding was first named. It's awake again. Or… opening."
A loud crack outside made both of them freeze.
Ola ducked lower, heart slamming. The hum didn't return — but the silence now felt watched. She reached for Èkóyé's arm. "We can't stay here."
"No," Èkóyé said. "We follow the old irrigation trench east. Stay low. Keep the blade ready. If it calls again—"
"I don't answer."
Èkóyé nodded once. "No matter what it sounds like."
They moved again.
The land beyond the cattle pens was flat and dead. Once-green fields turned grey. Dried-out stalks snapped underfoot. The air was still hot, but heavy now, like it was waiting for rain that never came.
The old trench was barely visible — more a shadow on the land than a path — but it offered cover. They followed it in silence, crouched low, eyes scanning.
Ola kept touching her chest.
That second heartbeat hadn't returned. But the feeling hadn't left either. Like a thread tied around her ribs, pulling gently, persistently — toward the west. Toward the thing that had marked her.
They walked for an hour.
Then Ola spoke again. "If it threaded me — does that mean it can find me?"
"Yes," Èkóyé said. "But it already could. Now it just… knows your name better."
"Will it come for me?"
"No," she said. "It doesn't need to."
Ola swallowed. "Because I'll come to it."
Èkóyé didn't answer.
But Ola could feel it — the pull. Faint. Rhythmic. A lullaby with no melody, just a heartbeat that wasn't hers. And it was waiting.