The crypt was quiet again, but it was not peace.
The reforged chain pulsed faintly in the chamber's heart, its glow uneven, each flare stuttering like a sickly heartbeat. The jagged welds burned white-hot, cracks still visible beneath the glow.
Elara could not stop staring. Her palm throbbed where the key had branded her, the skin raw, veins darkened as though ink had seeped into her flesh. Every pulse of the chain echoed in her bones, as if part of her had been bound into it.
Tomas sat beside her, silent, his hand clasping hers as though afraid she might vanish if he let go. His breathing was steady now, but his eyes still held the wild panic of nearly being dragged into the stone.
Anselm leaned against his hammer, his massive shoulders sagging. "Never seen anything like that. Not in war, not in hell. And I fought both."
Father Aldric's face was pale, the torchlight deepening the hollows beneath his eyes. He touched the broken staff at his side, his voice ragged. "This is not hell, Anselm. Hell I would know. This… this is older."
The barefoot child had wandered closer to the cracked chain, tilting their head like a bird studying prey. Their bare toes brushed the dust, their gaze sharp and unblinking. "Not older," they said softly. "Earthen. Buried before your crosses, before your bells. Before your names."
Elara's throat tightened. "What are you?"
The child turned, their silver-bright eyes meeting hers. For a moment, their shape flickered—taller, faceless, shadow-thin—and then they were only a child again, hands clasped behind their back.
"I am what was left behind," they said. "What could not be bound."
Silence thickened. Aldric's hand clenched his staff, knuckles white. "Demon," he hissed.
The child's lips twitched into the faintest smile. "Word for what you do not understand. A word as thin as paper. But I am not your hellspawn, priest. I am of the chain, as you are of flesh."
Elara's chest ached with questions, but the words stuck. She looked back to the chain instead. "If the key warps it every time, then… every reforging makes it weaker?"
The child nodded. "Each keeper bound it with their blood, but blood is not stone. Each mend buys time. Less and less. Until…"
"Until what?" Tomas asked, his voice low.
The child's smile vanished. "Until it cannot be bound again."
They pressed deeper into the crypt, torches lighting on their own as if guiding them. The walls were lined with carvings—worn by centuries but still sharp in places.
Elara slowed, her eyes catching on one. It showed a woman kneeling before the chain, a glowing stone in her hand. Her face was worn away, but the outline was unmistakable. The same posture Elara herself had taken minutes before.
Beside it, another carving—another figure, the key blazing again. Then another. And another. Dozens. Scores. Each one different, each one bearing the same burden.
Her breath caught. "There were more. So many more."
Aldric's face darkened. "A cycle," he whispered. "Each generation, one chosen. A keeper of the key."
Elara touched the carving, her fingers trembling. "My grandmother… she wasn't the first."
The barefoot child's voice was soft, almost kind. "She was the last before you. And you are the last before the end."
The words fell like stones.
In the chamber beyond, the walls changed. No longer simple carvings, but murals—vast, sprawling depictions of a faceless figure bound by chains, its cracks glowing. Around it stood people, their faces carved away, their hands raised in worship or defiance—it was impossible to tell.
A circle of runes surrounded the figure, the same ones etched on the key, on the box, on the Guardian itself.
Anselm spat on the ground. "Old faith. Before your God, Father."
Aldric's lips pressed thin. "Blasphemy carved in stone. The villagers prayed over this place for centuries without knowing."
Elara's hand shook as she traced one rune glowing faintly. "Maybe they did know. And they forgot. Or they chose to forget."
The child's voice cut the air. "Chains do not last forever. Nor does memory."
They lingered in the chamber, exhaustion pressing on them, but Elara could not rest. She kept staring at the murals, at the endless cycle of keepers, at the faceless Guardian etched again and again.
Tomas sat close, his warmth grounding her. "You're shaking," he murmured.
"I can't stop," she whispered. "Every time I close my eyes, I see it. The Guardian… breaking free. Walking."
He pressed her hand tighter. "You won't face it alone. Not while I breathe."
She wanted to believe him.
Then the sound came.
Faint at first, almost imagined. A low hum that crawled along the walls, vibrating in the stone.
DONG.
Elara's stomach dropped. Her head whipped to Aldric.
His face was ashen. "Impossible. It is too soon."
DONG.
The chains trembled. The murals flickered as though alive.
The barefoot child's smile returned, small and sharp. "Time quickens. Your choice hurries to meet you, little keeper."
DONG.
The toll of the bell, echoing in the deep, though no bell hung in the crypt.
Elara clutched the key, its pulse racing in her hand. And she knew—whatever time they thought they had, it was already gone.
The third toll faded into the stone, leaving the crypt trembling as though it had a heartbeat of its own. Dust sifted down from the ceiling, settling in Elara's hair, catching the glow of the torches.
She clutched the key tighter, its rhythm frantic, too fast. "It isn't waiting anymore," she whispered. "It's coming sooner."
Aldric's face was pale, his eyes sunken in the torchlight. He pressed a hand to the wall, his lips moving as if reciting to himself. Finally, his voice found shape:
"And when the chain is marred, the river of time will bend, and the hours shall be devoured by the faceless one."
His companions turned to him, the words echoing in the chamber.
Anselm's brows furrowed. "What did you just say?"
The priest swallowed hard. "Lines from a scripture struck from the canon centuries ago. Apocrypha. Heresy, they said. But the old abbots knew more than they should have. Enough to fear this very place."
Tomas's grip tightened on his blade. "So this—" he gestured to the warped chain pulsing in the dark "—this broke time itself?"
The barefoot child's laugh was soft, almost tender. "Not broke. Bent. Hours fold. Minutes unravel. The feast quickens."
Elara's throat went dry. "If the Hours come faster… we'll have no time to prepare. None."
The child tilted their head. "You never had time. Only choices."
They pressed deeper into the murals, the air growing heavier, the runes brighter with each toll. Elara trailed her fingers along the carved faces of forgotten keepers, each one faceless, nameless—until she found one that made her breath stop.
At the edge of a panel, near the bottom, a single mark was carved into the stone. Not a face, not a figure—just a sigil. A spiral with three intersecting lines. She knew it instantly.
Her grandmother's mark.
The same symbol she had scratched into her walking stick, her door, even into the wooden frame of Elara's childhood bed.
Her knees weakened. "She was here. She stood here."
Tomas steadied her, his voice low. "Then maybe she left something. A message. Guidance."
Elara pressed her palm to the mark. The stone thrummed under her skin, answering the key's pulse. For a heartbeat, she felt her grandmother's hand over hers, warm, steady.
And a whisper in her mind. Do not trust the voices without chains.
She gasped, stumbling back.
The barefoot child's eyes glittered. "Did she speak to you?"
Elara's voice trembled. "She said not to trust you."
The child smiled, serene. "Wise woman. And yet here you are."
The fourth toll rang, louder, closer. The runes flared brighter, casting sharp shadows across their faces.
Anselm swore under his breath. "How many chains are down here?"
"Seven," Aldric whispered. "Always seven. Always have been."
"Then we've reforged one," Tomas said. "Six left."
The priest's eyes darkened. "Six… or none. The binding was not made to be patched this way. Each fracture weakens the whole."
Elara's heart thudded. "Then what do we do?"
The barefoot child answered for him. "You do what every keeper has done. You give yourself to the chain. Or you let it break."
"Not good enough," Anselm snarled. "There has to be another way."
The child's smile cut sharp. "There is always another way. But never a better one."
They retreated to a smaller alcove, a hollow carved with benches long rotted to dust. Torches lit themselves as they entered, their flames steady, almost calm, in contrast to the trembling walls.
Elara sank onto the stone bench, her chest tight, her hands raw. The key pulsed endlessly against her skin, too heavy to hold, too dangerous to put down.
Tomas crouched in front of her. "We'll find a way. You're not doing this alone."
She tried to nod, but the weight of the carvings, the warped chain, the whispers pressed down too hard.
From the shadows of the alcove, Aldric's voice rose, quiet but sharp. "If the chain binds time, then every toll is not a call—but a countdown. When the last chain fails, the Hour will not end. It will be forever."
The silence after his words was worse than the toll.
The barefoot child stepped closer, their small face unreadable. "Then you'd better hurry."
DONG.
The fifth toll rolled through the crypt.
Too soon. Far too soon.