Elara barely remembered the walk back to the village square. Her legs carried her out of the cottage, across the frost-stiff grass, with Tomas's grip firm on her arm as though afraid she might vanish.
But the statue kept her tethered. Its faceless head was angled toward her, the cracks deepening, the fourteenth mark raw and pale against the stone. She wanted to look away, but her eyes returned again and again, drawn by some sick compulsion.
"Tomas," she whispered. "It's counting faster."
"I see it," he muttered. His jaw was set, his breath clouding in the night air.
They weren't alone.
A lantern swung at the edge of the square. Father Aldric approached, his stooped form haloed by the glow. He leaned on his walking staff, his white beard gleaming faintly in the light. The priest rarely came out this late, but his eyes were sharp, unclouded, when he saw where they stood.
"The two of you shouldn't be here," Aldric said. His voice was low, measured, but something in it struck Elara as rehearsed. "Especially you, child." His gaze lingered on her, heavy, searching.
Elara clutched the bundle of pages tighter. "You know what this is, don't you?" she blurted, surprising even herself.
The old man's eyes narrowed. "I know enough to warn you away."
Tomas stepped forward. "No. No more warnings, no more whispers. We've seen it—seen the shadows, heard the thirteenth chime. You can't deny it."
The priest's staff struck the frozen earth with a sharp crack. The lantern flame jumped. "Fools," Aldric hissed. "You've entangled yourselves deeper than you realize."
Elara's chest tightened. "Then tell me how to untangle it. Tell me what I'm supposed to do!"
For a moment, silence. The lantern hissed faintly. Then Aldric sighed, his shoulders sagging, as though the weight of years had pressed suddenly heavier.
"There are truths buried for good reason," he said. "Truths that eat the soul if you stare too long. Your grandmother learned them. It consumed her. And now you follow her path."
Her grandmother. The pages in her arms seemed to burn.
"Please," Elara whispered. "She wrote about the key. About sealing or breaking. Is it true?"
The priest's lips pressed into a thin line. He did not answer at once, but his eyes flicked—just briefly—toward the statue. The motion was small, but enough.
"You already know it is," Tomas said flatly.
Aldric's staff trembled faintly in his hand. His lantern light flickered against the statue's marks. Finally, he muttered: "The Guardian does not protect us. It binds what cannot be destroyed. And it demands a keeper. A key."
The words pierced Elara like ice.
"And if the key fails?" Tomas pressed.
The priest's eyes, hollow and weary, turned to them both. "Then silence takes us all."
The air thickened. Elara's throat closed. Silence—like the Hour, stretching forever. She swayed on her feet, clutching Tomas's sleeve for balance.
A soft voice broke through.
"It's already begun."
They turned.
At the edge of the square stood a child. Barefoot in the frost, hair tangled like dark seaweed, eyes far too old for their face. Elara's breath caught—she had never seen them before, not among the village children.
The priest stiffened. His grip on the staff whitened. "You shouldn't be here."
The child tilted their head. Their voice was soft, almost singsong. "I can hear the bells before they ring. They're louder now." Their gaze fixed on Elara. "They like you best."
Elara's stomach lurched. "What—who are you?"
The child only smiled faintly, then shivered, bare feet leaving no prints in the frost.
And then the bell struck.
DONG.
Elara flinched violently. Her pulse hammered in her skull.
DONG.
The lantern flame sputtered. Aldric's lips moved in a prayer, whispered too fast to follow.
DONG.
The air folded in. Villagers in nearby cottages stirred, some opening shutters, others stumbling into the square, muttering in confusion. For the first time, the Hour had not come in secrecy—it came with witnesses.
DONG.
The world slowed. Elara's ears rang.
The fourteenth chime.
And the silence fell.
The crowd froze mid-breath. Mothers clutched their children, mouths open in half-spoken questions. Dogs hung mid-bark, their jaws suspended. A villager carrying water stood with the bucket mid-swing, droplets hanging like glass beads in the air.
All still.
All trapped.
Except Elara. Except Tomas. Except Father Aldric—his prayer caught in his throat as his eyes widened.
And the child.
The child smiled, eyes reflecting pale fire. "See? They're awake now."
Shadows oozed across the square, spilling from doorframes, windows, the cracks of the statue itself. Faceless, countless, circling the frozen villagers. Their whispers rose—not words this time, but a low, hungry hum.
Elara's heart crashed against her ribs. Her grandmother's pages fluttered in her grip, their edges blackening as though the shadows themselves devoured the ink. She pressed them to her chest, fighting the urge to scream.
The statue groaned. Stone cracked, loud as thunder. A new mark seared itself into its surface.
XV.
Fifteen.
Tomas grabbed her hand. "We need to move!"
But the shadows were closing, curling around the frozen villagers, their faceless heads tilting toward Elara as one.
You are the key.
The voices slammed into her mind, louder than ever.
The child's smile widened, eerie and knowing. "They're waiting for you."
Elara's knees buckled. Tomas dragged her backward, the priest stumbling beside them. Shadows lunged, stretching like liquid spears. The frozen villagers remained statues themselves, unaware, unbreathing, caught in the Hour.
Elara's scream ripped through the silence.
The scream tore from Elara's throat, raw and desperate, echoing into the frozen night.
And then—
The world lurched.
Air rushed back into her lungs. The villagers gasped as though waking from drowning. Dogs barked, children wailed, buckets of water splashed to the ground. The silence shattered like glass, leaving only confusion in its place.
Elara staggered forward, clutching Tomas's arm for balance. Her legs trembled violently. The pages were still in her grip, their edges blackened as if scorched, though no flame had touched them.
"What happened?"
"Did you see—"
"I couldn't breathe—"
The square erupted in frightened voices. Villagers clutched one another, eyes wide, their gazes darting from neighbor to neighbor. None seemed to have noticed the shadows. None had seen the statue's mark.
But some had noticed her.
"Elara." A woman's voice cut through the crowd, sharp, accusing. "She screamed. Just before it ended."
Heads turned. Faces, pale in the lantern light, swung toward her.
Elara's stomach clenched.
"She's her grandmother's blood," another muttered. "Always muttering about strange things. Maybe she caused this."
"No," Tomas barked, stepping in front of her. His shoulders squared, his jaw set. "She didn't cause anything."
"She knows something," the first villager pressed. "She's hiding it."
Elara shrank back. The words clawed at her chest. The crowd's unease shifted toward hostility, a tide she couldn't hold back.
Then Father Aldric raised his staff. The crack of wood against stone rang out. Silence followed, uneasy but immediate.
"Enough," the priest said, his voice steady. "Fear breeds foolishness. What happened tonight was no child's trick, no woman's curse. It is older than all of us." His eyes, sharp beneath his brows, swept across the crowd. "Do not waste your anger on her."
The villagers murmured, some nodding reluctantly, others looking away, but the suspicion lingered in their eyes.
Elara's hands shook. She pressed the scorched pages tighter against her chest. If Aldric hadn't spoken, would they have turned on her?
The child still stood at the edge of the square, small and barefoot in the frost. No one seemed to notice them but Elara. Their eyes glowed faintly in the lantern light, and when Elara met their gaze, her breath hitched.
They mouthed words silently.
They're listening.
A chill ran through her spine.
She tore her eyes away, forcing her breath steady.
The priest lowered his staff. "Go to your homes," he commanded the villagers. "Bolt your doors. Pray if you must. But leave this place before the bell tolls again."
Slowly, reluctantly, the crowd dispersed. Mothers pulled children close, men muttered to one another, doors slammed one after another. Soon the square was nearly empty—save for Elara, Tomas, Father Aldric, and the child.
The priest's shoulders sagged. He looked older than ever, the lantern's flame painting deep hollows in his face. "It spreads faster than I feared," he murmured.
Elara stepped closer, her voice low. "What's happening to the statue?"
He hesitated, then said: "Each mark is an hour stolen. Not of our world, but of theirs. When it reaches its end, the chain will break."
"Theirs?" Tomas demanded. "Whose?"
The priest's lips pressed thin. His silence was answer enough.
The child tilted their head, humming softly. "They're hungry. They've waited so long. Fifteen marks means they're close now."
Tomas frowned at them. "Who are you?"
The child only smiled, baring teeth too sharp for comfort. "You'll see."
Elara shivered. She could not tell if the child was warning them or mocking them.
She turned back to the priest. "What do I do?" Her voice broke. "If I'm the key—how do I stop it?"
Aldric's gaze softened, for the briefest moment. "You don't stop it. You endure it. As the ones before you did."
Her throat tightened. "And if I can't?"
His eyes flicked toward the statue, then back to her. "Then may God have mercy on us all."
The lantern sputtered. The square seemed colder, emptier.
Tomas placed a hand on her shoulder. "We'll find a way," he said firmly, his voice cutting through the despair. "We won't let it take the village."
Elara wanted to believe him. She wanted to cling to that certainty, to hold fast against the tide of terror rising in her chest. But as her eyes drifted back to the statue, its cracks spreading like veins across its body, her hope wavered.
The fifteenth mark glowed faintly.
And deep within, she thought she heard the faintest stir of stone grinding again, as if the sixteenth was already waiting.