The bell's second toll had set Briarwall into a hush unlike any other. No wind stirred the moor, no gull cried over the cliffs, no dog barked from the distant farms. It was as though the sound had peeled back some invisible layer of the world, leaving only silence behind.
Elise and Maris wasted no time. With the stolen book clutched tightly against her chest, Maris led the way through the winding cobbled lanes, their boots splashing through puddles made by the relentless mist. The lamps along the path flickered faintly, their halos smothered by fog, until they reached the ancient rectory—the one place where secrets had long been kept and twisted into prayers.
Reverend Crowthorne answered the door in his nightclothes, lantern in hand, his gaunt face pale beneath the soft gold light. His normally steady composure faltered when he saw them, and faltered further when his gaze caught the ancient tome Elise carried.
"You shouldn't have brought that here," he rasped, stepping aside to let them in.
"We didn't have a choice," Elise said, her voice tight with urgency. "The Watchman's choosing names—mine, Maris's, everyone who's vanished. This book knows why."
The reverend closed the door with a quiet finality and gestured them toward his study. The room smelled of damp parchment, burnt tallow, and aged wood, its walls lined with shelves that sagged under the weight of centuries of records. A crucifix hung above the desk, but its shadow stretched unnaturally long across the floor, warped by the flickering lanternlight.
Maris opened the book carefully, laying it flat upon the table. "We need your help translating these symbols," she said, pointing to the strange spiral script threading the margins of the pages. "They look older than anything we've seen."
Crowthorne leaned close, squinting at the writing. After a long pause, he whispered, "This isn't Latin… not entirely. It's a composite—a dialect of the Old Tongue spoken before the founding of Briarwall. This…" He hesitated, tracing a clawed finger along one spiraling line. "…This speaks of The Lantern Covenant."
Elise's breath caught. "You've heard of it."
The reverend's jaw tightened. "I buried it. Or I thought I had."
He flipped several pages quickly, his movements sharp and unsteady. The next illustration froze all three in place—a rendering of the Watchman without his hood, his face carved into horrifying detail: eyeless sockets, jagged teeth like shards of black glass, and a thin, stitched seam where lips should have been. Below the drawing, more writing sprawled like tangled veins:
"One binds the sea. One guards the names.
When the ninth toll comes, the bound shall rise.
A soul unclaimed will stand, or all shall drown."
Maris recoiled slightly, her voice low. "The ninth toll? There are seven more to come."
Crowthorne shook his head grimly. "Not seven. Six. The final toll… isn't heard."
Elise's heart thudded violently. "Meaning?"
"The last is silence," the reverend said, his voice hollow. "When no bell sounds, it means the Watchman has crossed fully—his claim fulfilled, his price taken."
Before Elise could respond, a distant creak split the silence. It came from somewhere above them—the attic.
Maris stiffened. "Did you lock it?"
Crowthorne looked confused. "There's nothing up there but relics. I—"
The creak came again, louder this time, followed by the faint, deliberate sound of dragging footsteps.
Elise grabbed the lantern, raising it toward the stairs. "Stay here," she whispered, though her own hands trembled. Each step upward groaned beneath her weight, the narrow staircase curling like a spine into the darkness above.
When she reached the landing, she paused, breath shallow. The attic door hung slightly ajar. Something wet dripped onto the floorboards from the crack beneath it.
Her voice was barely audible. "Maris… Reverend… there's something—"
The door burst inward.
A figure lurched from the shadows, tall and skeletal, drenched in seawater, its pale hair plastered to its hollow cheeks. Elise stumbled backward as the thing rasped in a voice that was neither male nor female, but stretched and distorted as though dragged through deep water:
"Elise…"
She froze. Its swollen lips parted, revealing something clenched in its teeth—a brass bell-clapper, tarnished and rusted, wedged there like a grotesque offering.
Maris screamed from below, "Get down!"
Before Elise could move, the figure dissolved into vapor, its form collapsing into a stream of mist that slithered across the beams and disappeared into the cracks of the roof.
Elise descended the stairs two at a time, heart hammering. "It was here," she gasped. "Something… something marked came to warn us."
Crowthorne's face was ashen. "Not warn," he said quietly, closing the book with trembling hands. "That was Jonas Pierce. What's left of him."
Maris' voice trembled, though her anger sharpened its edge. "You knew this was coming, didn't you? You've known about all of this."
The reverend looked away, his silence an admission.
"Elise," Maris said suddenly, pointing to the book. "Your name. Look."
Elise leaned over the table. Her name, once faintly scratched in the margins, now burned brightly on the parchment, glowing faintly blue. Beneath it, written in fresh, wet ink, a date had appeared—three nights from now.
Crowthorne slammed the book shut so hard the lantern nearly fell from the table. "We need the other half of the ritual," he said, his voice taut with panic. "Without it, Elise… you don't survive the third toll."
Maris frowned sharply. "Where's the other half?"
The reverend hesitated.
"Reverend," Elise said, stepping closer, her voice low and steady. "Where?"
He swallowed hard. "The Abbey Below."
Maris froze. "You can't be serious."
"The Abbey drowned in the Great Collapse," Elise said, her voice flat.
Crowthorne nodded grimly. "Yes. Which is why we'll need to go under the sea to reach it."
A violent gust of wind slammed against the shutters, rattling them so hard the entire rectory shook. Outside, somewhere deep within the fog, the faint sound of the third toll carried across the moor, low and dreadful.
The Watchman had begun his claiming.