Chapter One – Dust and Diesel
The first time the bus rolled into Darrow's Hollow, I thought the sound was thunder. A low, grumbling growl, thick with age and the weight of a hundred thousand miles. It emerged from the horizon like an exhausted animal, coughing black fumes into the hot, wavering air.
Darrow's Hollow didn't get much traffic anymore. The mines had closed twelve years before, and with them went the grocery, the post office, the school. Now the main street was just a row of sagging buildings, their windows clouded with dust and regret.
But every afternoon, without fail, the battered bus arrived.
I stood by the rusted iron bench outside what used to be Whitby's General Store. The wind carried the dry scent of copper and baked clay, and my boots sank into the soft grit that blanketed the road.
When the bus hissed to a stop, the door folded open with a reluctant wheeze, and he stepped out.
The Courier.
Tall, with a wiry build wrapped in a patched brown coat. His satchel was enormous—bulging in strange shapes as though it held both letters and things better left unmentioned. His eyes were sharp, restless, scanning every face like he was reading unwritten messages in the lines and scars.
We'd heard about him before he arrived. People whispered that he carried more than mail—that in towns where the bus stopped, fortunes shifted. Marriages ended, debts were settled, feuds reignited. Sometimes, people vanished.
He didn't speak right away. He'd set the satchel on the bench and pull out envelopes, parcels wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. No fancy packages here. Just the kind of things people in forgotten places still send: hand-written letters, jars of preserves, an old photograph wrapped in cloth.
When my turn came, he didn't hand me anything. Instead, he looked at me for a long second, as though weighing whether I deserved to be part of whatever came next. Then he said:
"Not today."
And stepped back onto the bus.
Chapter Two – The Map with No Roads
That night, the bus was gone. It always left as quickly as it came—no one knew where it went after. I sat on my porch with the lamp burning low, turning the day over in my mind.
I couldn't explain it, but there was something about the Courier's gaze. Not just the way it locked onto you, but the weight of it, like he was fitting you into a map you didn't know existed.
And maybe I wasn't imagining the shimmer. Just for a heartbeat—when he'd pulled a letter from his satchel for old Mrs. Fenwick—I'd seen the paper gleam. Not in the sunlight, but from something underneath, like it had its own light.
The next morning, I found something wedged in the space between my doorframe and the wall. A thin slip of paper.
No return address. Just a drawing of a road—empty, winding through mountains I didn't recognize—and, at the bottom, the words: "You're already on it."
Chapter Three – A Town of Whispers
Darrow's Hollow was full of talkers, but they weren't the friendly kind. Conversations here were like card games—half-bluffs, half-truths, nobody showing their hand unless they had to.
By the time I made it to Cal Wexler's diner for lunch, people were already speculating about yesterday's deliveries.
"Fenwick's got a letter from her son," Cal said, setting down my plate of stew. "Or at least that's what she says. But she looked at it once and locked it in the back of her wardrobe."
Old Henry swore the Courier handed him a small wooden box carved with symbols he didn't recognize. "Didn't open it yet," he said. "Feels… warm."
Everyone had a story.
Except me. I had nothing but a slip of paper and a nagging feeling I wasn't supposed to ignore it.
Chapter Four – The Package in the Rain
The Courier returned three days later—late. A thunderstorm had rolled in, battering the town with sheets of rain.
I watched from the porch as he stepped off the bus, coat soaked, water streaming off the brim of his hat. He looked directly at me, crossed the muddy street, and held out a package the size of a shoebox.
"Don't open it until the bus leaves," he said.
Inside, wrapped in oilcloth, was… nothing. Or so I thought.
But the longer I stared into that empty space, the more I realized the inside wasn't black—it was moving. Shifting. A depth so deep it made my stomach lurch.
And then, from somewhere impossibly far inside it, I heard footsteps.
Chapter Five – Into the Hollow
The storm had broken overnight, but the air still carried the smell of rain-soaked iron and the faint tang of ozone. The package sat on my kitchen table like an accusation. I hadn't moved it since the Courier left, not because I was afraid of it—but because I didn't trust myself not to open it again.
When I did, the emptiness inside no longer felt like emptiness at all. It was deeper now, the shifting darkness forming faint patterns. For a moment, I could have sworn I saw the suggestion of arches, the silhouette of a bridge suspended over an abyss.
And then came the sound.
At first, I thought it was my own pulse, heavy in my ears from holding my breath. But no—this was rhythmic. deliberate. Footsteps. Slow, echoing. Getting closer.
I slammed the lid shut.
The box vibrated once in my hands—just enough to make my teeth ache—and then went still.
I wrapped it back in the oilcloth, knotted it tight, and shoved it into the old bread bin by the sink. That was when I noticed something I should have noticed the night before: the oilcloth was bone-dry. Impossible, given the downpour yesterday. But the smell of the cloth was faintly… metallic. Not copper, but something older, sharper.
That night, the dream came again.
The same road, dark but lit by flickering lamps. The figure at the far end hadn't moved. Only now, the lamps blinked out one by one as I walked. The last one went dark just before I reached him.
I woke before I could see his face.
When I stumbled to the kitchen for water, the bread bin was empty.
Chapter Six – The Black Ledger
By morning, the town was buzzing. Not about the storm, or the Courier, but about something else entirely: Whitby's General Store, which had been locked and abandoned for over a decade, was standing open.
I wasn't the only one who stepped inside. The air smelled faintly of coal dust and cedar, as though no time had passed at all. The shelves were still lined with faded tins and glass jars containing things you couldn't eat anymore. But on the counter, in a shallow pool of morning light, sat a black leather ledger.
I don't know why I reached for it. Maybe because the Courier's gaze still haunted me. Maybe because I already knew it was meant for me.
When I opened it, there were no names, no numbers—just a list of places written in a looping, antique hand.
The first entry was: "Darrow's Hollow – The Last Road."
The second: "Stonewater Crossing – Lost."
The third: "Mireford – Burned."
Halfway down the page, my stomach knotted. The ninth entry read: "Cinders Rest – Your Turn."
The pages after that were blank.
Chapter Seven – Things That Shouldn't Be Here
It wasn't until I stepped outside that I noticed the bus. Parked exactly where it always did, but this time the engine wasn't running. No one was inside.
The driver's seat was empty. The Courier's satchel lay open on the nearest seat, and from inside, a faint humming sound—like bees behind glass—filled the air.
I should have walked away. But I reached in, my fingers brushing the edge of something warm.
When I pulled my hand back, I was holding a brass key. Its teeth were jagged in ways no ordinary lock could fit. And carved into the bow of the key were two words in a language I didn't recognize—yet somehow understood.
"Open carefully."
Chapter Eight – First Light
That night, I didn't dream of the road. I dreamt of the bus.
It was moving too fast, the landscape outside a blur of shadow and color. In the aisle, instead of passengers, sat objects: a violin with a broken string, a lantern with light that pulsed like a heartbeat, a jar containing… rain? The Courier sat at the back, watching me without speaking.
When I woke, the key was on my chest.
Chapter Nine – The Visitor
The next afternoon, a stranger came into town.
He didn't arrive on the bus. He walked in from the east, carrying a pack and wearing a coat even more battered than the Courier's. His hair was silver—not from age, but something else—and his eyes had that same sharp, restless quality.
He didn't stop for food, water, or rest. He came straight to me.
"You have something of his," he said.
I didn't ask who he meant. I just told him no.
His smile was the kind that made you want to take a step back. "Keep it, then. But it will open whether you want it to or not."
Chapter Ten – The First Door
Two nights later, it happened.
The key woke me up—not by moving, but by humming, faint and steady. The sound drew me outside, to the road just beyond the last streetlamp in Darrow's Hollow.
There, standing in the middle of the cracked asphalt, was a door.
No frame, no hinges, just a weathered wooden door standing on its own. It didn't belong. It couldn't belong. And yet the air around it shimmered like heat rising off stone.
The key fit perfectly.
When the lock turned, the wind changed direction.
Chapter Eleven – What Waited Beyond
I didn't step through at first. I only looked.
Beyond the door was no road, no landscape I knew. It was a city—but not like any I'd seen. Streets paved in pale stone, towers that curved like seashells, and a sky that burned with green fire.
And far below, in the shadow of the towers, something moved.
The moment my foot touched the threshold, I knew two things:
I had crossed into somewhere I wasn't supposed to be.
The Courier had brought me here on purpose.
Chapter Twelve – The Chase
I heard them before I saw them: boots striking stone, voices barking in a clipped, unfamiliar tongue. Shadows spilled into the street ahead—tall figures in armor that seemed forged from glass.
I ran.
The streets twisted and shifted beneath my feet, like the city was rearranging itself to keep me moving. I turned corner after corner until I burst into a wide square lit by floating lanterns.
The door I'd come through was gone.
Chapter Thirteen – The Clockwork Fox
I might have been caught if not for the fox.
It darted into the square from a side alley, its eyes glowing with the same green fire as the sky. Gears whirred faintly beneath its fur, and when it stopped to look at me, its mouth opened—not in a growl, but in words.
"Follow me if you want to live."
So I did.
Chapter Fourteen – The Bridge of Hours
The fox led me through a hidden archway and into a narrow passage that opened onto a bridge of black glass. Far below, a river of light surged like liquid lightning.
"This is your only way back," the fox said. "But you can't return empty-handed."
It flicked its tail toward a figure waiting at the far end of the bridge.
The Courier.
He was holding the package I'd lost.
The air around us shifted—too still, too clean. That's when I noticed the sound: a hum that didn't come from any engine or wire, but from the bridge itself.It was alive, somehow.
The Courier's expression didn't match the place. He looked like he'd been through worse, much worse, but the corners of his mouth were drawn tight, his jaw locked. Whatever this bridge meant to him, it wasn't good.
"You took it," he said at last. His voice was steady, but not flat—more like he'd been holding that sentence in his throat for days.I followed his gaze down to the bundle strapped against my side. The package. Still wrapped in coarse, black cloth. Still faintly warm, like it had been sitting in the sun too long.
"I didn't take it," I replied. "You handed it to me."
His lips twitched—half a smile, half a flinch. "That's the same thing here."
The fox—if you could still call it that—sat right between us. The gears in its joints ticked faintly, but there was something new in its eyes: not just cunning, but urgency."The bridge," it said, voice like dry leaves rubbing together, "is not a door. It's a promise. Once you step off, time will move differently for you."
"I don't even know what's in this thing," I said, giving the bundle a quick, almost guilty glance.
"That's the point," the Courier said.
The bridge trembled underfoot. Tiny cracks flickered open along the glass-like surface, then closed again—like the place was breathing. And somewhere beyond the shifting green light overhead, I heard the echo of metal striking metal.
The Courier stepped closer, his voice dropping. "You want to get home? Take it and don't look inside. Not until the right place, the right moment. You'll know when."
I hated that kind of answer. Too many shadows in it. But before I could tell him so, the hum of the bridge deepened into something heavier—boots. Many of them.
The fox's ears flattened. "They're here."
Chapter Sixteen – Shadows on the Bridge
The sound grew clearer—boots, but not leather or rubber. Something heavier, harder. The bridge amplified it, carrying each step like a drumbeat in the bones.
The Courier's hand slid inside his coat. He didn't draw a weapon—not yet—but the air around him shifted in that invisible way fighters have. The fox backed toward my feet, tail stiff, gears in its legs tightening with a faint whir.
Through the fog ahead, shapes emerged. Tall, rigid silhouettes, their heads covered in what looked like bronze helmets shaped like the beaks of birds. Their armor wasn't metal as I knew it—it had the matte sheen of volcanic rock, every piece carved with those same knotlike patterns I'd seen on the box in my home.
They didn't rush. They advanced with the slow certainty of people who knew they had you trapped.
"Ferrin Wardens," the Courier muttered. "They shouldn't be this far out."
"Shouldn't be?" I whispered back. "That sounds—comforting."
"They guard things that are meant to stay forgotten. Which means…" He glanced at the bundle. "…one of us is in trouble."
The lead Warden stopped twenty feet away, voice metallic and hollow. "Courier. Step aside."
The Courier's eyes hardened. "Not while she carries it."
"She is unmarked. Return the object and the bridge will let you live."
The fox growled—a strange sound coming from something with clockwork bones. "It's not theirs."
One of the Wardens tilted his head at the fox, then reached slowly for a spear tipped with something that pulsed faintly blue.
The Courier finally moved—just one step, but enough to block me from view.
"No," he said.
And that's when the bridge… shifted.
Not just the surface this time. The whole thing. The green light above warped, the hum twisted into a scream, and I realized the bridge wasn't just a road—it was a living thing deciding who got to cross.
The Wardens broke into a run.
Chapter Seventeen – The First Blow
The Courier shoved me sideways, and for a sickening second my foot slipped off the edge—nothing but an ocean of rolling white fog below. I caught the railing, heart hammering, just in time to see the first Warden swing his spear.
The Courier met it mid-swing with something I hadn't seen before—an object that unfolded from his palm into a long, bone-handled blade. The sound it made hitting the spear wasn't metal-on-metal. It was like stone cracking against ice.
The fox leapt at the second Warden, claws screeching against his armor. Sparks flew—not orange, but green, like it had clawed through the light itself.
One Warden pushed toward me. I stumbled backward, clutching the bundle to my chest like it might protect me from the world. He lunged, and I ducked under his spear just as the bridge's hum spiked.
And then… his foot went straight through the floor.
No shattering, no breaking—just gone. The bridge swallowed it up to the knee. He screamed, a muffled, underwater sound, before the rest of him sank into the glassy surface. No trace left behind.
The others hesitated.
The Courier didn't.
He grabbed my arm. "Run."
Chapter Eighteen – The Edge
We sprinted toward the far end. The bridge was no longer still—it rippled under us like it was turning liquid. Each step felt like my feet might sink in and never come back up.
Behind us, the Wardens gave chase. The fox darted between us and them, snapping at any hand or weapon that came too close.
The green light above flared. Shapes moved within it—massive, slow things, like fish in deep water. One of them opened an eye.
The Courier's grip tightened on my arm. "Don't look up."
Naturally, I looked up.
The eye was the size of a barn door. Gold iris, slit pupil, unblinking. It wasn't in the light—it was the light.
The bridge buckled. A crack opened just ahead, and through it I saw not the fog below, but another place entirely: a barren, black desert under a red sky.
The Courier didn't slow. He jumped the gap and yanked me after him.
Chapter Nineteen – The Breath Between Worlds
We landed hard, the bundle still clutched against my ribs. The bridge behind us gave a final groan, then went silent. No more Wardens. No more humming.
Just air. Cold, sharp air that bit at my lungs like frost.
I straightened up. We were still on a bridge, but it was no longer the same one. This one was narrow, wooden, strung between two cliffs, with ropes swaying in the wind. Below us: an impossible drop, the fog replaced by jagged peaks.
The fox padded forward, sniffing the planks. "This place smells wrong."
The Courier didn't answer. He was staring at the far end of the bridge, where a figure in a heavy cloak stood, leaning on a staff. They didn't move as we approached, but the wind seemed to coil around them.
When we were ten steps away, they lifted their head. The face beneath was pale, eyes ringed in black—not paint, not shadow, but like something had been burned into the skin.
"You've crossed without permission," the figure said. Their voice wasn't loud, but it carried.
The Courier spoke first. "We had company."
The figure's eyes shifted to me. Then to the bundle.
"You've brought it here. Dangerous."
I was starting to get real tired of everyone talking about it like I wasn't holding it.
Chapter Twenty – The Rope Trial
The figure gestured to the far side. "If you wish to leave this span alive, you'll answer my question."
"What if we don't?" I asked, voice sharper than I intended.
The figure smiled. It wasn't nice. "Then the bridge decides."
I looked over the edge again. The wind howled like it wanted to strip the flesh from my bones.
The Courier nodded once. "Ask."
The figure's eyes locked onto mine. "Who do you believe gave you that package?"
My throat tightened. Easy answer: The Courier did. But the moment I thought it, I saw flashes—other hands, other faces, all blurred. Someone bending over me while I slept. Someone whistling a tune I almost recognized. The smell of cedarwood and rain.
"I… don't know," I admitted.
The figure's smile widened. "Honest. Good."
They turned their staff sideways and struck the planks once. The ropes went taut under our feet, and the wind eased. "Pass."
The Courier didn't thank them. He just walked. I followed, gripping the bundle tighter than ever.
Chapter Twenty-One – The Other Side
The bridge ended at a carved archway in the rock. Beyond it was a tunnel lit by veins of glowing mineral running through the stone. The air smelled damp, but warm—like summer rain.
The Courier finally slowed. "You did well back there."
I almost laughed. "Did well? We were almost killed twice."
He glanced at me, unreadable. "That was a quiet day."
The fox trotted ahead, tail swaying. "Not quiet for long."
The tunnel opened into a cavern so massive I couldn't see the far wall. The floor was covered in water, ankle-deep, and the ceiling glimmered with light from thousands of tiny, moving points. Fireflies, I thought—until one flew close and I saw it had wings made of crystal.
The Courier knelt and dipped a hand in the water. "Drink. It'll keep you from… slipping."
"Slipping?"
"Between places."
I knelt too. The water was cold at first, then warm, then neither. It tasted like nothing at all, and yet I couldn't stop thinking of my grandmother's kitchen.
Chapter Twenty-Two – The Red Sky
We left the cavern through another tunnel, and this time when we emerged, it was into a world that made my stomach turn.
The sky was red, but not sunset red—blood red, stretched flat and endless. The ground was black glass, cracked in places to reveal molten light underneath. The air shimmered with heat, but there was no sun.
Far away, something moved. It was too big to be a person, too small to be a mountain. It moved like a living thing, but each step echoed like a hammer.
The Courier looked at me, then at the bundle. "We're close now."
"Close to what?"
He didn't answer.
The fox stopped, ears pricking. "They're following."
I turned. There, on the horizon where the glass met the red sky, were dark shapes—tall, rigid, and far too familiar.
The Wardens had found us.
Chapter Twenty-Three – The Sky Below
The moment my boots hit the bridge's far edge, the air changed.Not in temperature — though it did feel warmer — but in weight. It pressed on my shoulders like invisible hands, tugging down, testing my balance.
The Courier was already a few paces ahead, coat flapping in the wind that wasn't really wind. His shadow stretched unnaturally long across the slick, green-lit stone beneath our feet, but when I glanced up, the light source wasn't the sun. It was… moving.
Above — or maybe below — us swam something enormous. The sky wasn't empty; it was liquid, dense, holding the shapes of vast creatures with fins like drifting banners. They glided slow, deliberate, like they were in no hurry to get anywhere. One passed directly overhead, its underbelly glowing with a lattice of soft gold patterns. My breath caught in my throat.
"What… are those?" I whispered.
"Not ours," the Courier said without turning.
The fox trotted between us, its mechanical paws clicking softly. "Don't look at them too long. They'll notice."
The urge to keep staring was almost overwhelming — like the creatures were magnets and my eyes were iron filings. But when one turned slightly, I saw its "face" — not animal, not human — and I jerked my gaze away so fast it made me dizzy.
We walked in silence for a while, the hum of the bridge vibrating up through the soles of my boots. The surface beneath us seemed solid, but every so often it would ripple faintly, like a pebble had been tossed into it somewhere far away.
My mouth was dry. "You said they're not ours. Then whose are they?"
"Old neighbors," the Courier said. His voice was calm, but I didn't miss the way his hand stayed near the strap of his satchel. "Some bridges lead to other towns, other markets. This one? It leads to a place that's been watching us for a long time."
A shape flickered in the green haze ahead — three figures, barely visible through the shimmer. Their outlines didn't move like people. Too straight. Too… anchored.
The fox stopped dead, tail stiff. "We need to move faster."
But the bridge seemed to have other ideas. The hum deepened, and my feet felt heavier with each step. The stone beneath me grew warmer, almost hot. Somewhere deep in that heat was a pulse. Not mine. Not human.
Chapter Twenty-Four – The Watchers
The figures ahead didn't walk.They tilted forward, leaning into the space between steps as if the air itself was their road. The shimmer in the green haze made it hard to track their movements — one second they seemed far, the next almost close enough to touch.
I slowed, but the Courier didn't. He had that same measured gait he'd kept since the bridge, like every pace was exactly the length it needed to be. Not faster, not slower.
The fox circled back to me. "Keep your eyes low."
"Why?" I asked, lowering my voice without thinking.
"Because if you meet their gaze," it said, "you might not leave it."
The hum of the bridge was louder now, vibrating in my teeth. I forced my eyes down to my boots, but couldn't stop the occasional flick of my gaze toward the three shapes. I told myself I wasn't looking at them, just past them — the way you do when you're pretending someone isn't watching you.
One of the figures moved. Not forward, not back. Just… shifted, as if its outline had been redrawn slightly. My pulse thudded in my ears.
The Courier finally spoke. "They're not hostile unless provoked."
"And what provokes them?" I asked.
He hesitated just long enough for the fox to answer instead. "Your voice. Your eyes. Your name."
The middle figure tilted its head. A long, slow angle, like the hinge of a door creaking open. The shimmer around it thickened, swallowing more of the bridge between us.
The Courier picked up his pace.
I followed, my boots slapping harder against the stone. The warmth underfoot was rising, the pulse in it matching my own heartbeat now. The edges of the bridge blurred, and I had the strange, vertiginous sense that if I leaned even slightly left or right, I'd fall into a sky full of swimming giants.
The fox stayed close to my ankle, whispering low. "Once we pass them, you'll feel lighter. Don't look back."
Chapter Twenty-Five – The Crossing Price
We passed the first of the Watchers.Its outline was human only in the broadest sense — shoulders where shoulders should be, a head above, arms hanging at its sides — but there was no real flesh, no cloth, no face.Instead, it was as if a shape had been carved out of the world, leaving a gap where something else bled through: a storm of faint silver motes swirling inside the absence.
My eyes flicked up just once — a mistake.The motes slowed, almost in recognition, and for a heartbeat I saw my own reflection floating there… except it was wrong. My reflection wasn't standing on the bridge. It was standing beside me, its hand brushing my sleeve.I wrenched my gaze away, breath coming sharp.
The Courier didn't break stride. "That's once," he said.
"Once?" I asked, voice tight.
"You get three mistakes before they take notice."
The second Watcher stood closer to the bridge's edge. As we approached, the hum beneath my boots deepened into something almost like a voice — a low, syllable-less chant vibrating up through the soles of my feet into my bones. My fingers twitched toward my satchel. I didn't carry weapons like the Courier, but the urge to hold something was primal.
The fox moved ahead now, tail stiff and ears back. "Keep your pace. Even if it feels like you're walking into syrup."
It did feel like syrup — not sticky, but thick. Each step felt a fraction too long, as if the bridge wanted to hold my boots a moment before letting go.
When the second Watcher loomed close, I kept my eyes fixed on the exact point where the stone of the bridge met its shimmering outline. The not-being exhaled, or maybe inhaled, and the temperature dropped by several degrees. My teeth ached from it.
"That's twice," the Courier said once we'd passed.
"I didn't look!" I protested.
"You listened," the fox said without looking back. "Listening counts."
The third Watcher stood directly in the center of the path ahead, no way to go around without brushing against it. This close, the shimmer around it was so thick I could barely see the Courier's boots as he stepped through.
For half a second, he vanished.
Then he was on the other side, already walking, as if nothing had happened.
The fox darted through next — its outline blurred for a heartbeat, and I swore I heard the faint sound of claws on glass — and then it was gone too.
I was alone in front of the Watcher.
The hum was deafening now, a physical pressure in my chest. I took a breath, fixed my eyes on my boots, and stepped forward. The shimmer closed over me like the surface of a lake.
Inside, there was no bridge. No Courier. No fox.Only endless green haze, and faint shapes moving in it — some slow and vast, others small and darting. The motes inside the Watcher swirled around me, brushing my skin like cold ash.
And then a voice — not in my ears, but directly in my head — said my name.Not the one I'd given the Courier.The real one.
Chapter Twenty-Six – The Name
It wasn't possible for it to know.I hadn't spoken that name aloud in years — not since the day I left the hills behind, when I'd buried it deep enough that even my own reflection seemed to forget it.
But hearing it here, inside the shimmer, was like having a hidden scar ripped open.The voice didn't echo; it pressed. Not with sound, but with a kind of certainty that made me shiver.
You have carried it far, the voice said. Too far for one who swore to leave it behind.
My legs kept moving, though the haze around me shifted as if I were walking through a dream where every step happened half a second later than I made it.
"What do you want?" I asked, though I wasn't sure if I'd spoken out loud or only in my head.
The motes drew closer, spinning faster. A price, the voice said. For crossing.
"I thought the Courier already paid."
The motes pulsed once, and I realized this was my price — separate from his. I thought of the fox's warning: three mistakes. My name had been the third. I'd been noticed.
The haze ahead thinned. I could see the outline of the bridge again, the Courier's back just a few steps away. But my foot wouldn't lift.
Leave it here, the voice said. And you may go.
"Leave… my name?"
The motes swirled faster, then slowed in a way that felt like a nod. Without it, you'll pass unseen. But you will never speak it again. No one will know you by it, not even you.
The thought landed heavy. That name was the last thread tying me to where I'd come from, to the people who might still remember me. But keeping it here, in this void, might mean survival.
I made the choice without saying it — I just let the memory of the name loosen, let it float into the motes. The ache in my chest eased. My foot lifted.
And then I was stepping back onto the warm stone of the bridge. The Courier didn't turn, didn't slow, but I felt his glance in the way his shoulders shifted.
"You paid," he said.
Chapter Twenty-Seven – The Last Span
Once we'd cleared the Watchers, the air changed.The green haze thinned into a pale gold mist, and for the first time since setting foot on the bridge, I felt the pull of the earth again — as though the weight that had been pressing from above finally lifted.
The fox shook itself, its fur puffing as if shedding some invisible dust. "I hate that part," it muttered.
The stone beneath us became smoother, worn not by water but by countless footsteps over centuries. Carvings appeared along the rails — spirals, eyes, and strange birds whose wings curled inward like seashells.
"These markings," I said, running a hand over one, "what do they mean?"
"Waypoints," the Courier said. "They tell travelers what's ahead. But you have to know the code."
He traced one with a fingertip — a spiral ending in a broken line. "This means a gate. Old. Guarded."
The bridge narrowed as we approached the far end. The hum faded into silence, replaced by the low rush of wind. I could see the shape of an arch ahead — black stone veined with veins of glowing blue, like frozen lightning.
Beyond it lay the far side of the gorge. But between us and the gate stood a figure in pale robes, their hood drawn low, both hands resting on a staff planted firmly in the center of the path.
"They're not a Watcher," the fox said, ears flicking forward. "Worse."
Chapter Twenty-Eight – The Gatekeeper
The Gatekeeper didn't move as we drew near.The closer we came, the more I realized how still they were — not just in body, but in everything. The wind tugged at their robes, but the fabric didn't ripple. Even the folds seemed frozen.
The Courier stopped six paces away. "I have passage."
The Gatekeeper's head lifted slowly. Beneath the hood was not a face, but a black, glassy surface, like polished obsidian. My own reflection stared back at me — except it still had my name. My old name.
"No passage," the Gatekeeper said, though their mouth never moved. The voice came from the reflection.
The Courier reached into his coat and drew out a small metal token, engraved with the spiral and broken line we'd seen earlier. "This should—"
The Gatekeeper's staff struck the stone once, sharp as a crack of ice. "The toll is not yours to pay, Courier. The companion must answer."
My throat went dry. "Answer what?"
The reflection in the Gatekeeper's face smiled. I didn't.
Why did you leave?
It was the last question I wanted to answer — not here, not now. But something in the air pressed for it, a pressure that made my tongue itch with words.
"I had to," I said, the truth heavy in my voice. "Because staying would've meant becoming someone I couldn't live with."
The reflection nodded, slow. "Truth enough," it said. And then the Gatekeeper stepped aside.
Chapter Twenty-Nine – Across the Gorge
We stepped through the arch, and the air shifted again — not warmer or colder, but clearer, as if I'd been breathing through a veil until now.
The land beyond the gorge spread out in terraces of deep green, dotted with silver pools that caught the dim light. Trees grew in spirals, their branches twisting upward into crowns of leaves like scales. Somewhere far below, a river wound through the terraces, its surface so still it looked like glass.
"This isn't mapped," I said.
"Not on paper," the Courier replied. "But it's on the routes."
The fox leapt onto a low wall, tail high. "And it's not empty."
It wasn't.From the trees came movement — shapes darting between trunks, low murmurs in a language I didn't know. The feeling of being watched was immediate and total.
The Courier didn't slow. "Eyes forward. We'll reach the next post before dark."
"What happens if we don't?"
The fox looked back at me with a grin that didn't reach its eyes. "You don't want to know."
Chapter Thirty – The First Welcome
The post was a cluster of stone huts at the edge of a clearing. Smoke curled from one, carrying the smell of something sharp and herbal. A figure waited at the largest hut's door — short, broad-shouldered, with skin the color of deep clay and hair woven into tight braids that caught the light.
They smiled as we approached. "Courier. You've been a long time."
"Routes are slower these days," he said.
Their eyes shifted to me. "And this one?"
"New," the Courier said simply.
The figure's gaze lingered on me longer than I liked, then they stepped aside, gesturing us in. "You'll want to eat before the council calls. They've heard of your crossing."
The fox padded past with a low chuckle. "Told you it wasn't empty."
Inside, the air was warm, the walls lined with shelves of jars and carved wooden masks. I didn't know yet whether this place was safe. But it was different. And after the bridge, that was enough.
Chapter Thirty-One – Council Shadows
The "council" turned out not to be in a grand hall but in a sunken pit at the center of the village, ringed by tall poles topped with swaying lanterns. The air was thick with the smell of burning resin, sharp enough to make my eyes water.
Around the pit, seven figures sat cross-legged on woven mats. They wore no crowns, no robes — just plain tunics and armlets carved from the same black stone as the Gatekeeper's staff. Their faces were unreadable, but their eyes… every one of them was fixed on me.
The Courier stood at my side, hands clasped loosely behind his back, as if this were nothing unusual. The fox sat a few paces behind, tail flicking slow arcs in the dirt.
A woman with braided silver hair spoke first."You crossed the bridge without name."
The statement made my stomach twist. "I—yes," I admitted.
"And you answered the Gatekeeper."
"Yes."
Her gaze didn't soften. "Few come that far without losing more."
I didn't know what to say to that. My throat felt tight.
Another council member, this one with eyes as pale as river stone, leaned forward. "The old routes stir again. That is why we have called you."
I frowned. "Me? I'm just—"
The Courier cut in, his tone firm. "Not 'just.' The bridge wouldn't have let them through otherwise."
The silver-haired woman tilted her head. "You will go deeper. South, through the terrace paths. There is something waking there, something that has already sent its reach across the gorge."
I wanted to ask why me?, but I already knew the answer: I'd been noticed. The Watchers, the Gatekeeper — none of that was random. And if I turned back now, whatever had taken interest would follow.
So I nodded. "All right. I'll go."
The fox gave a sharp little snort. "And here I thought you might choose the sensible path."
Chapter Thirty-Two – The Warning Feast
That night, the village held a feast. It wasn't celebratory — not exactly — but there was food, and after the long crossing, the smell of grilled fish and spiced roots made my stomach growl.
We sat on low benches around wide platters while drummers tapped a slow rhythm in the background. The villagers spoke in low voices, never raising them above the beat. It gave the whole meal a strange undercurrent, as though the conversation was happening in a language too old for me to catch.
Midway through, the silver-haired woman sat beside me, holding a clay cup of bitter-smelling tea.
"South is not like here," she said, eyes fixed ahead. "The terraces narrow. Shadows gather earlier. Some of the pools… are not water."
I waited for her to elaborate. She didn't.
"You think I won't come back," I said finally.
She sipped her tea, set the cup down, and rose. "I think you will come back changed."
Chapter Thirty-Three – Southbound
At dawn, the Courier, the fox, and I left the village by a narrow path that wound down through the terraces. Mist clung to the air, thicker than before, muffling every sound.
The ground was damp, our boots sinking slightly into moss. Here and there, carved stones jutted from the earth — markers, the Courier said, though the symbols on them were unlike the ones on the bridge. These were sharper, almost claw-like.
"You ever been this way?" I asked.
"Once," he said. "Didn't get far."
The fox trotted ahead, nose low to the ground. "There's something in the air. Metallic."
By midday, the path led us to a pool that stretched like a mirror between the terraces. The water was so clear it reflected not just the sky, but shapes moving beneath its surface — shapes that didn't match the stillness of the surface at all.
"We're not drinking from that," the Courier said flatly.
I didn't argue.
Chapter Thirty-Four – The Pool That Listens
We tried to go around the pool, but every turn seemed to lead us back to its edge. The trees leaned in, their branches creaking as though following us.
The fox stopped suddenly, ears pricked. "It's not the water," it said. "It's what's under it."
The reflection of the sky shifted. A face appeared — featureless but for two deep hollows where eyes should have been. Its mouth didn't move, but I heard it all the same:
Stay.
The word slid into my mind like a cold hand. I stumbled back, but the Courier grabbed my arm. "Don't answer it."
The water rippled, and the hollow eyes turned toward him. You carry more than you admit.
He pulled me away, his grip unshakable. "Keep walking."
The air grew lighter once the pool was out of sight, but the image of that face followed me, lingering at the edge of thought.
Chapter Thirty-Five – Stone Teeth
We reached a narrow pass late in the day. The walls on either side were jagged, studded with black rocks that jutted like teeth. The fox stopped at the entrance, fur bristling.
"This place closes," it said.
"What do you mean—"
The ground trembled. A low grinding sound echoed through the pass, and the 'teeth' began to shift, grinding together like a jaw.
"Run!" the Courier barked.
We sprinted through, the stone walls inching closer with each second. Dust rained down in choking clouds. I could feel the rough edge of one rock scrape my shoulder as I squeezed through the narrowing space.
We burst out into open air just as the passage slammed shut behind us with a deafening clack.
The fox's tongue lolled as it panted. "South is trying to eat us. I hate being right."
Chapter Thirty-Six – Fire in the Terrace
We made camp near a cluster of wind-worn stones. The Courier kept the fire small, feeding it with slow-burning resin that gave off little smoke.
In the quiet, I finally asked the question that had been building since the pool. "What did it mean — that you 'carry more than you admit'?"
He didn't look up from the fire. "We all do."
"That's not an answer."
The fox yawned. "It's the only one you're going to get."
The night stayed still until just before dawn, when a strange light flickered in the distance. Not sunrise — this was too sharp, too orange. Fire.
The Courier stood, already packing. "It's on our path. We'll have to go through it."
Chapter Thirty-Seven – The Burning Grove
The terraces ahead were lit by flames crawling along the ground, weaving between the spiral trees without burning them. The fire moved like a living thing, curling away when we approached, only to reappear on another terrace.
In the center of the largest blaze stood a figure wreathed in flame but untouched by it. They turned as we neared, and the fire dimmed enough for me to see their face — lined, weathered, but with eyes like burning embers.
"You carry the bridge's scent," they said to me.
I swallowed hard. "And if I do?"
"Then you'll pass. But not without leaving something."
I was too tired for riddles. "What?"
Their gaze sharpened. "A memory you still need."
My skin went cold. "If I give it, I'll forget—"
"You'll forget why you walk south," they said. "And that will save you."
I didn't answer. Couldn't. But I knew the decision would have to come before the flames let us through.
Chapter Thirty-Eight – The Memory Bargain
The firekeeper's eyes never left mine.The heat around us pulsed like a heartbeat, slow and deliberate.
"If you refuse," they said, "the fire will lead you back the way you came. You'll walk until your feet give out, and the terraces will close behind you."
The Courier stood silent, letting the weight of the choice fall entirely on me. The fox just stared at the flames, ears low, tail still.
"What happens to the memory?" I asked.
"It stays here," the firekeeper said. "Burning, until the terraces end."
I closed my eyes and sifted through my mind like flipping through pages. Faces, places, voices. Which one could I lose? Which one could I afford? Then I landed on it — the night I left home, standing at the bus station in the rain. The ache in my chest, the way the air smelled of rust and wet earth.
I didn't want to give it up. But I knew I could.
When I opened my eyes, I nodded. "Take it."
The firekeeper stepped forward and touched my forehead with two fingers. Heat flared behind my eyes, and the memory tore away so cleanly it left no trace — except the knowledge that something was gone.
"Walk," they said.
The flames parted, and the terraces opened to the south.
Chapter Thirty-Nine – The Hollow Wind
We followed the terraces deeper until the air grew sharp and cold. The mist here wasn't mist — it was a slow swirl of fine ash, clinging to our skin like powdered bone.
Somewhere far off, a deep note hummed through the ground, so low it was more felt than heard. The fox bristled, looking over its shoulder. "We're being followed."
I turned. Nothing but shifting ash.
The Courier kept walking. "It's not behind us. It's under us."
Before I could ask what he meant, the terrace under my feet trembled. A seam cracked open just wide enough for a column of that ash to rise like a ghost, coiling in the air.
It didn't take shape. Didn't have to. I felt its attention — ancient, patient, and cold.
"You've come far," it whispered without sound. "Far enough to be claimed."
Chapter Forty – The Claim
The ash surged toward me, fast as a wave. The Courier shoved me aside, stepping between me and the rising column. His staff — I didn't remember him having one before — slammed into the terrace, sending a ripple through the stone.
The ash hissed, retreating slightly. But not enough.
The fox darted forward, its tail bursting into sudden flame. It leapt straight through the ash, scattering it in a spray of glowing sparks. The thing screamed without sound, the vibration rattling my teeth.
The ash re-formed higher, blotting out the pale sky. This wasn't going to stop. Not here.
The Courier grabbed my arm. "Run!"
We sprinted across the terraces as the thing gave chase, each column of ash bursting up ahead of us, trying to cut us off. We dodged, leapt, scraped our hands on stone. The hum in the ground grew louder, closer, until—
The terraces ended.
Chapter Forty-One – The Edge of South
The path stopped at a sheer cliff, its far side lost in rolling clouds. But there was something in the air — a pull, like gravity tilted sideways.
The ash surged behind us, and for a heartbeat, I saw a face in it — the same hollow-eyed shape from the pool, but sharper now, smiling without lips.
The Courier looked at me, eyes hard. "You can step forward, or you can turn back. But if you step forward—"
"We're not coming back the same," I finished for him.
The fox sat at the cliff's edge, watching the clouds. "It's your choice. But you should know — whatever's waiting down there already knows your name."
The hum became a roar. The ash reached the terrace edge, coiling like a serpent ready to strike.
I took a deep breath. And stepped into the clouds.
End of Volume One
To be continued in Volume Two: "The Terrace Below."