The morning after the cottage ordeal dawned pale and brittle, the kind of light that made every shadow sharper, every face more hollow. Word had spread through the village—though no one said it directly, everyone knew. Liora was missing. Others, too.
At first, excuses filled the air like smoke. She'd gone into the woods. She'd fled the village. She'd taken sick and hidden. But the excuses wore thin quickly. By noon, voices had turned shrill, fists had been shaken, and names whispered like curses.
And Elara's was always among them.
She felt the stares follow her as she crossed the square with Tomas, Aldric, and Anselm. Mothers clutched their children tighter. Men paused at their work, hammers suspended mid-air. The baker refused to meet her eyes.
"They think I did it," she whispered, her throat raw.
Tomas tightened his grip on her hand. "Let them think what they want. We know the truth."
But did they? Elara wasn't sure. The key weighed heavy in her satchel, pulsing like a second heartbeat. She hadn't let it out of her sight since the night before. It scared her—and yet she couldn't let go.
By mid-afternoon, the square was choked with bodies. A meeting had been called. Villagers gathered, their voices a rising tide of fear. The mayor, a stout woman named Marta, stood on the fountain steps, her hands raised for silence.
"Three gone," she declared, her voice shaking. "Three gone in as many nights. We cannot pretend any longer. Something walks with us when the bell tolls. Something takes our own."
A murmur swept the crowd. People shifted, muttered, clutched at charms and crosses.
Marta's gaze hardened. "We will find the cause. We will root it out."
Eyes turned. Too many, too quickly. Toward Elara.
She felt her stomach drop.
"She was with Liora before she vanished," someone shouted."Her grandmother was cursed.""She screams at night!"
The crowd pressed closer. Fear twisted into anger, sharp and dangerous.
Tomas stepped in front of her, his fists clenched. Anselm hefted his hammer, his jaw set. Father Aldric raised his staff, voice booming: "You fools! You think this girl brings the darkness? She has fought it! You would rather burn the innocent than face the truth before your eyes!"
But his words fell into the tide of panic. The villagers surged closer, voices rising.
And then—
DONG.
The world stopped.
Screams froze in throats. Hands halted mid-grab. The crowd hung suspended in terror. Only Elara, Tomas, Aldric, Anselm—and the barefoot child, standing unseen on the fountain's rim—remained awake.
Shadows poured into the square like floodwater. They slithered through the crowd, brushing against frozen faces, curling around limbs, tasting the fear they could not yet consume.
Elara's heart thundered. "There are too many," she gasped.
Anselm swung his hammer blindly, scattering shadows into dust that reformed instantly. Tomas pulled Elara close, eyes wild. "The key—use the key!"
She fumbled in her satchel, pulling it free. The stone glowed faintly, its pulse syncing with the tolls. The shadows recoiled, but only slightly, as though mocking its weakened light.
The barefoot child's voice drifted through the silence, eerie and calm. "They're hungry. They won't stop now. Not with so many to choose from."
The shadows struck.
They surged into the crowd, seeping into mouths and eyes, filling bodies like vessels. Villagers convulsed, their faces twisting in silent horror before collapsing into heaps of ash.
Elara screamed—but the sound never came.
She raised the key high. Light burst forth, pale and searing. It carved a circle around her, Tomas, Aldric, and Anselm. The shadows shrieked, writhing against the barrier.
But the strain was unbearable. Elara's vision blurred. Her arms shook. Each pulse of the key felt like it was tearing something from her chest.
Through the haze, she saw movement.
The Guardian.
The statue in the square groaned, stone grinding against stone. Its faceless head turned, slow and deliberate, until its blank gaze fell directly upon her. Cracks spiderwebbed across its surface, glowing white. The numerals along its body flared brighter.
Seventeen. Eighteen.
The ground trembled. Chains rattled beneath the earth, a deep thunder no one else seemed to hear.
"Elara!" Tomas shouted, though she barely heard him. His hand gripped hers, grounding her, keeping her upright.
She forced the key higher. The light surged, stronger, forcing shadows back. Villagers frozen mid-motion began to twitch, their eyes flickering with faint awareness. Some gasped as if waking from a nightmare, glimpsing the horror around them.
And then—
One shadow slipped through.
It struck a child near the fountain, a girl with hair in braids. Her body convulsed, her eyes wide with terror.
"No!" Elara stumbled forward, thrusting the key toward her. Light flared, burning the shadow away—but too late. The girl collapsed, lifeless ash scattering across the stones.
The silence roared. Elara's knees gave way. The key burned in her palm.
DONG.
The Hour ended.
Sound returned in a rush: screams, wails, sobs. Villagers fell to the ground, clutching their heads, some staring in horror at the piles of ash where loved ones had stood. The square erupted into chaos.
And above it all, the Guardian loomed—its head still turned, its faceless gaze locked on Elara.
Screams tore through the night.
The villagers stumbled to their knees, clutching their heads, their lungs heaving as though they'd been drowning. Then the wailing began—sharp, broken cries that echoed off the stone square.
Mothers shrieked for children who no longer stood beside them. Men roared names of wives, brothers, friends. Some clawed at the piles of ash scattered across the cobbles, as if they could piece loved ones back together.
The air stank of burned flesh, though no flame had touched them.
Elara staggered, the stone key slipping from her hand. Tomas caught her before she collapsed, his arms trembling as much as hers. Her skin felt scorched where the key had burned against her palm.
"They're gone," she whispered, her voice raw. "All of them… gone."
The Guardian loomed behind the fountain, silent and faceless, but its new cracks glowed faintly in the dark. Elara swore she heard it breathe.
Seventeen. Eighteen.
The barefoot child perched atop the fountain rim, untouched by grief. Their small face was grave now, their smile gone. "The chain frays faster," they murmured. "It wakes quicker with each feast."
"Quicker?" Aldric rasped. His face was gray, sweat soaking his robes. "God preserve us… it will not wait for midnight much longer."
The crowd shifted. A hundred eyes turned as one, red with tears, black with fear. And then came the words Elara dreaded most.
"She holds the key.""She called the light.""It followed her.""She killed them."
Marta, the mayor, pushed forward, her face streaked with ash and tears. "Tell me it isn't true, girl. Tell me you didn't bring this on us."
Elara's mouth opened—but no words came. What could she say? The truth would damn her. A lie would taste like ash.
"I—I tried to stop it," she managed at last, her voice breaking. "The key—my grandmother left it—I don't understand all of it, but I'm trying—"
"Your grandmother cursed us!" someone spat. "Now her blood finishes the work!"
The murmur swelled, hungry, dangerous.
Tomas stepped in front of her, fists clenched, voice raw with fury. "She saved you! You'd all be ash already if not for her!"
"Saved us?" another voice snarled. "And who burned the girl on the fountain? Who drew the shadows here?"
The villagers pressed closer. Anselm lifted his hammer, standing at Elara's side, his voice a rumble: "Back off. Or you'll lose more than words tonight."
Aldric raised his staff, though it shook in his hands. "Enough! She is not the cause—she is the bearer. And if she falls, so do you all."
But his words bounced off stone hearts. Fear had already festered into hatred.
The barefoot child's eyes flicked to Elara, their voice a thread only she seemed to hear: "They'll never forgive what they saw. Not you. Not the key. Run, little keeper. Run before they chain you instead."
Elara's chest tightened. She looked at Tomas, Anselm, Aldric—three faces turned to her, each marked by the Hour, each scarred already. None of them could hold off the mob forever.
The mayor's voice cracked like a whip: "Seize her!"
The square erupted.
Men surged forward, grief and rage twisting their faces. Women shouted curses, brandishing kitchen knives and stones. Even children joined the cry, their eyes wide with inherited terror.
Anselm swung his hammer, smashing it into the cobbles at their feet. Sparks flew, forcing them back. Tomas dragged Elara toward the edge of the square, shoving through bodies. Aldric's staff glowed faintly as he whispered prayers, forcing gaps in the crowd with sheer faith.
But the villagers pressed closer, driven by desperation.
Elara's breath came in ragged sobs. The key pulsed in her satchel, begging to be used—but she couldn't. Not again. It had nearly torn her apart last time.
"Tomas," she gasped. "I can't—"
"Yes, you can," he growled, his hand crushing hers. "Just hold on."
They burst free of the square, stumbling into the narrow lanes. Behind them, the mob roared, torches flaring, boots pounding the stones. The village itself seemed to howl with them.
"Where?" Anselm shouted, his voice a thunderclap in the chaos. "Where do we go?"
Elara's mind raced. The woods were too dangerous. The cottages too near. The church—maybe. Her grandmother's writings had mentioned a place beneath its altar, a sealed door older than the village itself.
"The church!" she cried. "There's something under the church!"
They ran.
The mob thundered after them, voices echoing off the walls: "Witch!" "Cursed!" "Burn her!"
The barefoot child followed unseen, their small laughter trailing like a knife.
Elara stumbled but Tomas pulled her upright, never letting go. Aldric's face was a mask of grim determination, his staff blazing faintly with each step. Anselm brought up the rear, his hammer dripping blood from those who'd dared too close.
The church loomed at the hill's crest, its black spire stabbing the night. Its doors were shut, its windows dark.
They reached the steps just as the mob poured into the square below. Torches flared, a wave of fire and fury climbing after them.
Elara slammed her hands against the doors. "Please—open—"
The wood groaned. The doors swung inward.
No one had touched them.
Elara froze. The air inside the church was colder than the night, the shadows deeper than the square.
The child's whisper brushed her ear. "Chains beneath."