The frost had not yet melted when the rumors began.
By morning, the village square buzzed with whispers like gnats. Elara felt them clinging to her skin as she walked, Tomas at her side, Father Aldric trailing behind with his staff. Doors cracked open as they passed; eyes peered out, quick to vanish when she turned her head.
"She screamed, they said.""She carries her grandmother's curse.""She brought it down on us all."
Each word stung sharper than the last.
Tomas muttered under his breath, "Let them talk." His hand brushed hers briefly, steadying her. But his jaw was tight, his eyes darting at every sneer, every half-hidden glare.
Father Aldric was less patient. He rapped his staff against the cobblestones, the sound cracking through the murmurs. "Ignorant fools," he hissed, though his voice was low. "They fear what they don't understand. And yet… fear has a way of turning neighbor against neighbor."
Elara said nothing. She clutched the scorched bundle of her grandmother's pages close. They smelled faintly of smoke now, as though the shadows had left their mark.
It wasn't until they reached the forge that the tension broke.
The blacksmith, Anselm, stood waiting. A broad-shouldered man with soot on his arms and fire still glowing in the forge behind him. His face was weathered, his eyes dark, but there was something in his stance that steadied her—a strength that did not flinch.
He looked at her, at the priest, then at Tomas. And finally, without speaking, he reached into his apron and drew something from his pocket.
A shard of stone.
Elara gasped. It was pale, jagged, etched with a faint numeral: XI. Eleven.
Tomas swore softly. Father Aldric stiffened.
"You've seen it too," Anselm said, his voice low, gravelly. "Not just the statue as it stands. It cracks, it breaks, and it sheds these. I found this outside the forge last night, after the bell."
Elara's hand trembled as she reached out. The shard was warm to the touch, almost pulsing faintly. "It's part of the Guardian," she whispered.
Anselm nodded grimly. "And if it's breaking… then so are we."
The weight of his words settled heavy in her chest. But before she could speak, another voice cut through the air—high, lilting.
"You're all too slow."
The child stood in the doorway of the forge, barefoot, hair wild, eyes far too calm. No one had seen them enter.
Anselm recoiled, muttering a curse under his breath. "Whose brat is this? Why's it here?"
"They're not from here," Elara said quickly.
The child only smiled. "You don't have much time left. You argue and whisper while the Hour eats more of you. Soon, it won't just freeze. It will take."
The forge fire popped. A gust of cold air swept through, chilling them all.
Elara's stomach twisted. "Take? What do you mean?"
The child tilted their head. Their voice dropped to a whisper, almost a sing-song chant. "One for every mark. One for every toll. That's how it begins."
The four of them stared, breath caught. The words felt like prophecy—or curse.
Father Aldric's grip whitened on his staff. "God help us," he murmured.
And then the bell rang.
DONG.
"No," Elara breathed. "Not now—"
DONG.
The square outside stilled. Villagers froze mid-step, conversations cut short, chickens caught mid-strut. Time fractured, folding in on itself.
The Silent Hour had come again.
Shadows spilled into the forge, black and writhing, slipping through cracks where no light should pass. Elara's heart pounded as Tomas seized her arm, pulling her back. Anselm grabbed a hammer from the bench, raising it with both hands. The priest clutched his staff, whispering furious prayers.
The child only watched, smiling faintly.
The shadows circled, whispering in their hollow voices. Not just You are the key. Something different this time.
We hunger. We claim.
And then, before Elara could cry out, one shadow surged—not toward her, not toward the priest, not toward Tomas.
It struck a villager outside the forge.
A woman frozen mid-step, carrying a loaf of bread.
The shadow poured into her like smoke into glass. Her body shuddered, her mouth opened in a silent scream. For one terrible heartbeat, her eyes glowed pale like the statue's cracks. Then—
She was gone.
Not collapsed, not lifeless—gone. Her body melted into ash, scattering soundlessly on the frost.
Elara screamed. Tomas pulled her back as the shadows writhed, shrieking in silent ecstasy. The villagers around the square remained frozen, unaware.
The statue groaned.
A new mark seared into its stone.
XVI.
Sixteen.
The Hour ended.
Air rushed back. The forge fire hissed. Villagers stumbled, blinking, shaking their heads as if waking from sleep. None noticed the missing woman. None saw the pile of ash.
Only Elara. Only Tomas. Only Aldric, Anselm, and the child.
And the shadows, retreating into cracks, whispering as they went:
One for every toll.
The ash scattered soundlessly across the frost.
Elara's lungs burned as she tried to breathe, as if the world itself had forgotten how to carry air. She staggered forward, her hand outstretched, but Tomas caught her arm and held her fast.
"She's gone," he whispered hoarsely. "Don't—don't touch it."
But Elara couldn't look away. Only moments ago, the woman had been alive, carrying bread home. Now nothing remained but a dark smear on the ground.
And no one else noticed.
The villagers blinked, shook their heads, muttered about strange chills and lost seconds. Children cried because they thought they'd missed supper. Men cursed because their tools had slipped. None of them saw the empty space where the woman had been. None of them saw the ash at their feet.
Elara's heart pounded painfully in her chest. Her voice cracked as she whispered to Aldric, "Why don't they see her?"
The priest's face was ashen, his lips trembling with prayers he couldn't finish. "Because the Hour hides its feast. Only those marked by it see the truth." His gaze fell on Elara, Tomas, and Anselm in turn. "And now we are cursed to watch."
Anselm's hand tightened around his hammer, his knuckles white. "If that thing will keep taking one of us each time—" His jaw clenched. "We'll be gone before the month ends."
The barefoot child stepped lightly into the square, unbothered by the frost. Their eyes sparkled with a knowing too old for their face. "Not all," they said, almost cheerfully. "Some are taken. Some are left. And one… one must decide."
Elara's throat closed. "Me."
The child tilted their head. "The key must turn. Seal, or break. You've heard it already."
"But what does it mean?" she begged, her voice rising, cracking. "Seal what? Break what?"
The child only smiled, sharp and secretive. "If I told you, there would be no choice. And the Hour loves a choice."
Elara's knees nearly buckled. Tomas caught her, steadying her against his side. He glared at the child. "Enough riddles. If you know something, say it plainly!"
But the child simply hummed a strange, tuneless song, skipping barefoot across the square.
Then the murmurs began.
"Where's Liora?"
"She was just here, wasn't she?"
"I saw her with bread—she should be home by now."
Villagers began looking around, confusion shading into unease. A man called his wife's name, his voice cracking. A young boy tugged on his father's sleeve, insisting he'd seen her moments ago.
But she was gone.
And Elara knew the truth.
Panic prickled the back of her throat. She wanted to shout, to tell them all what she'd seen. But when she opened her mouth, Father Aldric's staff struck the ground sharply beside her.
"Not a word," he hissed. His eyes bored into hers, urgent, desperate. "Do you want them to tear you apart before the Hour does?"
Elara's voice caught. She looked at Tomas, at Anselm. Both men's faces were grim, lips pressed tight.
The crowd's murmurs grew louder, harsher. "She's vanished.""Maybe she went into the woods.""No, no one walks the woods at night.""Then where is she?"
Eyes turned, searching. And some—Elara felt it like needles on her skin—landed on her.
"She screamed, last night.""She was with the priest, with the forge-man, with that boy.""She brings bad luck."
The whispers slithered closer, darker. Fear had already begun to twist into suspicion.
Elara clutched the scorched bundle of pages to her chest. Her grandmother's words echoed like a drumbeat in her skull: To seal is to suffer. To break is to burn.
The fifteenth and sixteenth marks glowed faintly on the Guardian's stone.
And the shadows were still hungry.