Midnight bells echoed across Veylor, hollow and unsteady, as if the towers themselves trembled while striking. Streets lay draped in silence, yet shadows lingered longer than they should, clinging to every wall like stains unwilling to fade.
Elias walked through alleys that felt narrower than memory recalled. Every step returned in echoes too sharp, too many, as though unseen footsteps followed a breath behind him. Inside his coat, the bone quill throbbed faintly, as if alive, each pulse matched by the mark in his palm.
Eyes followed him. Not openly, not bold. A beggar's stare from beneath a hood, the glassy gaze of children huddled by a lantern, even windows high above shutters cracked just wide enough for glints of pale eyes to glimmer. Yet none of them spoke. None blinked.
Veylor had always been a city of noise. Tonight it listened.
At the city's heart, the grand cathedral rose above all roofs, its spires vanishing into the smoke thick sky. Once a place of worship, now it looked more like a mausoleum of stone, ribs of a dead giant clawing at the heavens.
Elias felt the pull before he reached it. The mark in his palm seared, demanding his steps. Doors stood open though midnight reigned, torches burning with flames that did not flicker. He entered.
Pews stretched endlessly, though the cathedral had never been so vast. Rows upon rows of statues lined the walls, saints carved from pale stone yet every face was smooth, eyeless hollows gazing toward him. Hundreds of sockets stared, empty but not blind.
Whispers stirred, faint yet familiar. The same voices from the tower.
He has written.The page is turned.The city remembers.
Elias gripped his coat tighter. His breath clouded though the air was still. Something shifted above the choir loft, once silent for years, hummed with low vibration. Not song, not words, but a resonance that scraped bone.
Torches flared higher. Shadows lengthened into the aisles. At the altar stood a figure draped in robes blacker than soot, face hidden beneath a porcelain mask with no mouth, no eyes. Hands extended, beckoning him forward.
"Welcome, Scribe."
The voice did not echo from the figure. It filled the cathedral itself, spilling from every eyeless statue, from the hollow bells above, from the mark in his hand.
Elias froze, heart hammering, yet the bone quill inside his coat burned with heat, begging to be drawn.
Steps carried Elias forward though his will resisted. Each pew he passed seemed to lean closer, statues twisting subtly in their seats, eyeless faces bending toward him. Stone should not move, yet faint cracks formed, as if they strained to watch more clearly.
At the altar, the robed figure stood unmoving. Mask gleamed pale in the torchlight, smooth and void, yet Elias felt the weight of its gaze pierce him.
"You wrote what was hidden," the cathedral whispered through a thousand mouths that did not exist."You carved the first wound into silence."
Elias forced his voice, though it came raw and unsteady."I never wanted this. I didn't choose."
Shadows quivered. Low laughter slithered from the choir loft, rising like smoke. The robed figure tilted its head.
"Choice was never yours, Scribe. Only the quill chooses. Only the mark speaks."
From the pews, movement stirred. Shapes began to peel away from the statues, forms half flesh, half stone, emerging with sockets gaping wide, hollow yet alive. They filled the aisles in silence, bowing their heads toward Elias as if he were priest, king, and executioner all at once.
The mark in his palm blazed. Runes writhed, rearranging, new symbols etching themselves into skin. Pain stabbed deep, but along with it came clarity he could hear them. Not whispers now, but prayers.
Guide us.Write us back into being.Lead the hollow to fullness.
Elias staggered back. "No… I can't…"
The robed figure extended its hand. From beneath the sleeve, no flesh appeared only ink, dripping endlessly into the stone floor, seeping cracks that spread like veins.
"Take your seat, Scribe. The Cathedral of Hollow Eyes awaits its sermon."
The hollow congregation fell to their knees as one. Bells above wailed a single, endless note, vibrating the very bones of the walls.
Inside his coat, the bone quill writhed, desperate, alive.
Elias could not tell if the cathedral begged or commanded.
Bells screamed without rhythm, a shrill wail that clawed at marrow. The eyeless congregation pressed their foreheads to the stone, waiting, worshiping, pleading.
Elias clutched his chest. The mark seared so fiercely it felt like molten iron beneath his skin. His vision blurred not from weakness, but from words forming in the air before him. Letters burned, suspended in smoke, writing themselves upon the cathedral's vaults.
He tried to look away. His eyes refused.
The message seared into the ceiling
The city will kneel.The Choir will awaken.The Hollow will see through him.
Elias gasped. The words pulsed once, then sank into the stone like blood vanishing into cloth.
The robed figure moved closer. Its mask bent no, split cracking down the center. From the fracture spilled ink that dripped in steady streams, each drop hissing as it touched the floor.
"Your sermon begins," the figure intoned, though no mouth opened.
The congregation raised their heads. Hundreds of sockets gaped toward Elias. Not emptiness now faint glimmers flickered within, like stars caught in a void.
The bone quill leapt from his coat into his hand. He did not grip it it clung to him, binding itself between his fingers. The altar cracked, parchment materialized from shadow, unrolled before him with a snap. Blank, waiting.
"No… I won't" His words broke as his arm jerked forward against his will. The quill touched the parchment.
Shadows erupted from the pews. A roar filled the cathedral not human, not beast, but a chorus of hollow voices shrieking in reverence.
Ink spilled. Words carved themselves in strokes he did not command, yet his hand obeyed without pause.
Page Two.
The cathedral trembled. Statues shattered, revealing more eyeless forms crawling out, chanting his name. Bells above collapsed, but their toll did not end they rang endlessly, even as fragments crashed around him.
The mark on his palm burned black fire, searing veins, threading ink through his blood. He screamed, yet the quill did not stop.
The last word bled across the parchment
Awaken.
Light collapsed. Silence swallowed all.