The bells did not stop.
Even as dawn's pale light began to creep across the horizon, the tolling rang through the city like a wound that refused to close.
Aelric and Elara slipped through the rubble-strewn streets of the Outer District, moving carefully among the smoke and ruin. The battle against the hollows had pushed the guards outward, leaving pockets of devastation in their wake. Charred homes, broken carts, and blood that had already begun to dry on the cobblestones.
Elara's hand hovered over her dagger as she scanned each alley. "They'll send search parties once the attack dies down. We need to put as much distance between us and the gates as possible."
Aelric nodded, though his mind was far from steady. The shard weighed in his pocket like an anchor, its whispers gone silent, leaving behind an ache as if part of him had been hollowed out. The faces of the forgotten still lingered in his thoughts—their blurred voices, their erased names.
He muttered, almost to himself, "They deserved to be remembered."
Elara glanced at him, her voice softer. "Then remember them. But don't let their ghosts drown you. Right now, we need to stay alive."
Alive. The word felt heavier than it should.
---
They moved north, toward the abandoned watchtowers near the city's edge. These towers had been gutted years ago, after a great breach that left the district uninhabitable. No guard wanted the duty of patrolling them now. That made them the perfect place to hide.
By midday, they reached one of the towers. Its stone base was cracked, and ivy crawled up its sides. The door hung loose on rusted hinges. Inside, dust coated every surface, and the air smelled of damp wood and old smoke.
Elara set down her pack. "We can rest here for a few hours. It's safer than wandering in daylight."
Aelric slumped against the wall. His corrupted arm pulsed faintly, veins glowing just enough to betray the infection still spreading beneath his skin. He bit back a grimace.
Elara noticed. She always noticed. "It's worse, isn't it?"
He forced a crooked smile. "Just another reminder I don't have forever."
Her eyes flashed. "Don't say that."
"Why not? It's the truth." He leaned his head back against the cold stone. "Every night, I fight. Every morning, I wake up a little less me. If the shard hadn't—" He stopped himself, remembering the weight of the forgotten voices.
Elara crouched in front of him. "You're still you. You're Aelric. The boy who cheated death three times in a single night. The one who refuses to quit even when the world spits in his face."
Her voice cracked slightly, but her stare didn't waver. "Don't let the Council, the hollows, or even that corruption tell you who you are. I'll decide that. And you'll decide that. No one else."
For a moment, silence hung between them. Then Aelric let out a low laugh—tired, but real. "You're stubborn, you know that?"
"Someone has to be."
---
The respite didn't last.
Near dusk, faint footsteps echoed from the ruined street outside. Aelric stiffened, hand tightening around his pipe. Elara drew her dagger, moving to the door. They pressed against the wall, holding their breath as the sound grew closer.
Through the crack in the door, Aelric caught sight of two figures. Not guards. Not civilians. Their cloaks were black, their movements precise.
Hunters.
The Council's silent blades, trained to eliminate threats before they ever became public knowledge. If they were here, then Valerius's warning hadn't been mercy—it had been a delay.
One hunter spoke in a low voice, though Aelric barely caught the words. "Tracks end here. They'll surface soon."
The other unsheathed twin blades, the steel glinting even in the fading light. "Orders are clear. No survivors."
Elara's grip tightened on her dagger. Her lips brushed against Aelric's ear. "We can't fight two trained hunters head-on. Not in this state."
"Then we don't," he whispered back. "We make them think we already fled."
---
The tower had a narrow spiral stair leading up to a collapsed floor. Aelric gestured for Elara to climb while he dragged their footprints across the dusty ground, leading toward the back wall. He then smeared blood from a shallow cut on his arm along the trail—bait.
By the time the hunters entered, Aelric and Elara were crouched high in the shadows above, barely breathing.
The hunters followed the false trail immediately, blades ready. Their focus was sharp, their steps deliberate. When they reached the far wall, they slowed, realizing the trail simply ended.
One muttered, "Clever."
The other narrowed his eyes, scanning the room. His gaze swept upward.
For a heartbeat, Aelric thought they were caught.
Then the sound of distant hollows roared through the street. The hunters froze, cursed under their breath, and retreated swiftly. Hollows were the one thing even they wouldn't waste time fighting alone.
When the tower finally fell silent again, Aelric let out a long breath. Sweat slicked his forehead.
"That was too close," Elara whispered.
He nodded, but his mind churned. If hunters were already on their trail, then every hour counted. They weren't just fugitives—they were prey.
---
That night, sleep refused to come. Aelric sat near the cracked window, watching the smoke rise from distant fires. The shard lay in his hand, dim and fragile.
He whispered to it. "What am I supposed to do? Break the cycle? End the Council? Save the city?" His voice dropped. "Or just survive?"
The shard gave no answer. But faintly, almost imperceptibly, he thought he heard the echo of those erased voices. Not words, just a presence, urging him forward.
Behind him, Elara stirred in her sleep, murmuring his name. He turned, watching her with an ache in his chest. She was the only anchor he had left. Without her, the corruption, the whispers, the endless burden of the timer—he knew it would consume him.
He clenched the shard tighter. "I won't let them erase me. I won't let them erase us."
---
At dawn, they left the tower. The city's bells rang again, announcing the end of the hollow attack. Smoke still clung to the air, but the streets had quieted.
Their destination was clear now: the ruins outside the city. Kaelen had hinted that truths lay buried there, remnants of the old mechanisms that predated the Council. If they could find those ruins, maybe the forgotten voices would make sense. Maybe Aelric would finally learn what it meant to be the last timer.
As they stepped into the gray morning light, Aelric felt the shard pulse faintly against his chest. A promise, or a warning—he couldn't tell.
But one thing was certain.
The debt of the forgotten was written in ash, and he had inherited it.
And he intended to pay it in full.