The village of Darnfell woke as it always did: with the sound of the bell.
It tolled seven times, a deep, iron-throated groan rolling through the crooked lanes and timbered cottages. Crows scattered from the steeple. A few dogs barked. And then, as if obeying some invisible script, shutters creaked open and villagers spilled out in tidy sequence—first the baker with his flour-caked apron, then the shepherd boy chasing his bleating goats, then the widow with her two red-haired daughters.
Vey leaned on the wooden fence outside his home and squinted at the scene.
It was too perfect.
"Morning already?" Rex's voice came from behind. His friend strolled up, arms stretching wide, yawning like a lion. His dark hair stuck up in messy tufts, his shirt unbuttoned halfway, as though he hadn't slept so much as collapsed.
Vey didn't answer at once. He was watching the baker. The man shuffled down the street, muttering cheerfully under his breath. But the words snagged in Vey's ears.
"Bread for the morning, bread for the soul. Bread for the morning, bread for the soul."
Over and over. Not a variation. Not a pause. The same cadence, the same tone, as if someone had wound the baker like a clockwork toy.
"Rex," Vey said softly. "Listen."
Rex tilted his head. "What? All I hear is you being creepy at sunrise again."
"The baker. He's—he's repeating himself."
Rex sighed and slapped Vey's shoulder. "He's a baker. What else is he supposed to talk about? You want him to compose poetry about muffins?"
"No, it's not that," Vey muttered. "It's the same words. Exact same. Like he's reading them from a page."
Rex gave him a flat look. "You stayed up all night again, didn't you?"
Vey didn't answer. His eyes stayed fixed on the villagers. And then his skin prickled. Because just as he spoke, the widow appeared with her daughters—except she had already walked past not a minute ago.
Same black dress. Same limp in her left foot. Same scolding hand on her daughters' shoulders.
And she repeated the same line, too.
"Keep close, keep close, or the forest will take you."
The daughters giggled in the same pitch, at the same beat.
Vey felt his mouth dry.
Rex followed his gaze, frowned, then shook his head. "Coincidence. Two widows. Or sisters. Or—you know what? Not our problem." He cracked a grin. "Come on. Breakfast. My stomach's about to eat itself."
But Vey wasn't moving.
"Rex. That's not coincidence." His voice was low, urgent now. "That's the same woman. Twice. Word for word."
Rex rolled his eyes. "Maybe she looped around the block."
"Without changing a single thing about what she said? Without—without breathing differently? Didn't you hear the rhythm?"
"Vey," Rex groaned, rubbing his face. "I love you like a brother, but sometimes you sound like a drunk philosopher. Rhythm? Breathing? Who cares? People are weird. Move on."
Vey's knuckles tightened on the fence. Something inside him was whispering, screaming, that this wasn't just weird. It was wrong.
The bell tolled again.
Only—it shouldn't have.
Seven heavy groans. Then, after a pause, another seven.
The villagers didn't notice. They kept moving like marionettes.
Rex did notice, though. He glanced at the steeple, brows furrowing. "That's… huh. That's strange."
"Strange?" Vey snapped. "It's impossible."
The bell tolled seven. Always seven. He'd lived in this village for twenty years. Never once had it doubled back.
And yet—here it was.
The baker shuffled past again. "Bread for the morning, bread for the soul."
The widow limped by. "Keep close, keep close, or the forest will take you."
This time, Vey grabbed Rex's sleeve. His heart was hammering. "You see it now, don't you? They're repeating. Not just similar—repeating."
Rex didn't answer right away. His grin had faded, replaced by unease. His eyes darted from the baker to the widow to the bell. Then he gave a nervous laugh.
"Okay. That's… weird. I'll give you that. But maybe—we drank too much last night. Maybe—"
"Rex." Vey's voice was sharp. "They're stuck."
"Stuck?"
"Like lines in a play. Like someone pressed—pressed rewind."
Rex hesitated. His usual bravado flickered. Then he shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged. "So what? Let's say you're right. What are we supposed to do? Tell the baker, 'hey, you're a puppet'? He'll think we're insane."
"Maybe we are insane." Vey's laugh was short, bitter. "Or maybe someone's—writing this."
Rex blinked. "Writing?"
"Like—like a story."
There was a silence. Only the crows cawing on the steeple.
Then Rex barked a laugh. "Gods, Vey, you need sleep. Nobody's writing us. We're not—"
A voice cut him off.
Clear. Cold. Distant.
But not from anyone in the street.
It came from above. From nowhere. From everywhere.
> "And Vey knew, in that moment, that he was wrong."
Vey froze. His breath hitched.
"Rex," he whispered. "Did you hear that?"
Rex's face had gone pale. His grin was gone. He looked like he'd seen a ghost. "I—I don't—"
The voice came again.
> "Rex tried to laugh, but the sound broke in his throat."
And Rex did.
He tried to laugh. It came out strangled, cracked, exactly as the voice had said.
His eyes widened in horror.
"Vey—what the f**k—"
The voice pressed on.
> "And then the ground trembled beneath their feet."
The cobblestones shuddered. Dust rained from the rooftops.
Villagers stumbled, but their faces didn't change. The baker still muttered, "Bread for the morning, bread for the soul." The widow still hissed, "Keep close, keep close, or the forest will take you."
Unbroken. Unaware.
Rex grabbed Vey's arm. His hand was shaking. "This—this isn't real. It can't be real."
Vey's pulse thundered. His mouth was dry. But a strange, terrible clarity had settled in him.
"It's written," he said. "We're written."
The voice paused. Then—like ink bleeding across parchment—it whispered again.
> "And Vey realized he was not supposed to know."
And the world went still.
Every villager froze mid-step. The bell halted mid-swing. Even the wind stopped moving.
Only Vey and Rex breathed.
And then, from the corner of the street, a figure stepped out.
His cloak was tattered, ink stains blotching his skin. His face was scarred, features blurred, like half-finished sketches. His eyes were black pools with threads of silver.
The baker and widow didn't glance his way. They didn't see him at all.
But Vey did.
And Rex did.
The figure smiled—a jagged, broken thing.
"You hear it too," he rasped. His voice was layered, cracked, as if spoken through torn parchment. "The words. The pen. The one who writes."
Vey's throat worked. "Who are you?"
The man bowed his head. Ink dripped from his lips.
"I," he said, "am Inkbound."