The shadows surged, but Elara no longer saw them.
The moment she raised the key, the spiral seized her. The bone wall groaned, skulls splitting wider, jaws unhinging. Their whispers became a roar, and the ground cracked open beneath her.
She screamed as the cavern vanished, the world collapsing into crimson light and rushing dark.
Tomas's voice cut across the roar, raw and desperate. "Elara!"
Then even that was gone.
She stood on a river.
Not beside it. On it.
The surface held her like glass, but it was not water beneath her feet—it was time. She could see fragments drifting past: a cradle, a bell tower, chains sinking into the earth, Tomas's hand covered in blood. Every moment shimmered like fish darting through the current.
"Elara."
The voice rippled across the river, deep and endless.
She turned—and saw herself.
Not as she was, but older. Wrinkles cut into her face, her hair white, her eyes hollow. She wore robes stitched with spirals, her hands clasped around the very key Elara held now.
The older Elara smiled faintly. "So. It brings us here again."
Elara's throat tightened. "What… what are you?"
"Choice," the older self whispered. "Past and future. Failure and keeping. I am the path you may walk."
The river trembled beneath them. Shapes loomed under the surface, vast and shadowed, their chains dragging like drowned anchors.
Elara shook her head. "No. This isn't real."
Her older self tilted her head. "Isn't it?"
A sound tore through the red light—steel striking stone.
For a heartbeat, Elara saw Tomas through the river. He fought like a cornered wolf, blade flashing, blood spraying his cheek. Shadows swarmed him, dragging, tearing. He roared her name again, voice raw with fury.
The river swallowed the vision, but his voice lingered.
"Elara!"
Her knees buckled. "He needs me!"
Her older self's smile faded. "He is part of the chain. Just as I was. Just as you are. The boy's fate is bound no matter what you do."
Elara's hand shook, raising the key. The metal pulsed in time with her racing heart.
The river surged, shapes rising closer. She saw faces in the current—Aldric's, Anselm's, even her grandmother's—eyes wide, mouths chanting her name.
Keeper. Anchor. Keeper. Anchor.
She screamed, pressing her hands over her ears. But the voices came from inside her skull.
Then silence.
She was in her grandmother's cottage.
The smell of herbs, smoke from the hearth, the creak of the wooden chair. For a moment, her heart eased.
Her grandmother sat at the table, just as Elara remembered, her silver hair braided neatly, her hands busy grinding herbs. She looked up with kind eyes.
"You're home," she said softly.
Elara stumbled forward, tears in her eyes. "I don't understand. Am I—dead?"
Her grandmother smiled faintly. "No, child. Not yet. You are choosing."
Elara's breath caught. "Then tell me what to do! Tell me how to save them!"
Her grandmother's gaze hardened. "Save them? Or keep them? The river does not care for saving. It only flows. What you call chains are not prisons, but dams. And every dam breaks."
Elara slammed the key on the table. "Then why me? Why now?"
Her grandmother leaned close, her voice lowering to a whisper. "Because you were always meant to drown."
Her face split, skin peeling away, her mouth widening into a spiral of bone. Her voice became many voices, echoing in the small cottage: Anchor. Anchor. Anchor.
Elara screamed—
And woke to fire.
She was back in the cavern, but everything burned red. The spiral writhed, shadows clawed at Tomas, and Aldric stood in the pit's mouth, his arms raised, chains of blood snaking from his body.
"Elara," he crooned, "did you see? Did you understand? The river chose you, not me. All you must do is step forward."
The key blazed like a star in her hand. Her blood felt molten, her veins rivers of fire.
She staggered to her feet, caught between Tomas's hoarse cry—
"Don't you dare give in!"
—and Aldric's whisper, sweet and terrible—
"Be the chain."
The cavern shook, skulls screaming, shadows shrieking. The Silent Hour itself seemed to hold its breath.
And Elara, trembling, bleeding, broken, raised the key.
Elara's arm shook as she raised the key. The weight of it was unbearable, though it was only a fragment of iron and silver. In her palm, it throbbed like a living heart, pulsing heat into her bones.
The spiral pulled. The cavern shuddered.
And she fell again.
This time there was no river, no current.
She stood in a hall of mirrors. Dozens—no, hundreds—of reflections surrounded her, each one showing a different Elara.
Some were her age, faces twisted with terror. Others were children clutching dolls, or mothers cradling infants, or crones stooped and weary. A thousand lifetimes of herself.
Every reflection clutched the key.
Every reflection's lips moved the same words: Anchor. Keeper. Anchor.
Elara spun, her breath ragged. "No! I'm not—"
The mirrors rippled. The reflections turned toward her, eyes empty, mouths stretching too wide. Their voices merged into a roar that cracked the glass.
"You already are."
The mirrors shattered.
Shards cut her skin, but instead of blood, visions spilled out: Aldric laughing, Tomas screaming, Anselm's broken body, her grandmother whispering, the river dragging them all under.
The ground dissolved.
She stood at the bell tower of her village.
The bell swung overhead, silent. The whole world was silent—no wind, no voices, no birds. Only her breath.
Below, the streets stretched into infinity, houses bending and warping, doors swinging open into black.
Tomas stood at the base of the tower, looking up at her. His eyes were hollow, his chest pierced by claws.
"Elara," he whispered, voice broken. "Why didn't you keep me?"
She staggered back. "No! I tried—"
He raised a trembling hand, and shadows poured from his wounds, wrapping his body, dragging him into the open doors of the houses.
Her scream tore her throat raw.
The bell tolled once.
DONG.
The whole world split in half.
She was in the spiral again. But not the cavern of bones — the spiral itself.
It rose and fell around her, infinite, a staircase of bone and shadow winding into eternity. Every step was a mouth, every wall a rib. The air pressed heavy, filled with whispers.
A figure climbed the spiral toward her.
At first she thought it was Aldric, his robes trailing, chains dragging. But as he drew close, she saw it was not him.
It was herself.
Her face. Her eyes. Her hands gripping the key so tightly that blood ran down her wrists.
This Elara smiled faintly, though her teeth were sharp as knives. "You cannot resist forever. The spiral does not end. It only waits."
Elara shook, backing away. "You're not me."
The figure tilted its head. "I am what you will become when the boy fails. When he dies. When you are left alone with the chains."
She lunged forward, seizing Elara's wrist. Her grip was freezing, iron-strong. The key between them burned brighter, both of them screaming as it seared flesh from their hands.
"Choose," the other Elara hissed. "Keep it sealed, and drown. Break it, and drown the world. Either way—you are the Hour."
The spiral screamed, and they both fell.
Elara's body convulsed.
For a breath she was back in the cavern—Tomas roaring as shadows swarmed, Aldric's arms raised, the spiral blazing red.
For a breath she was on the river—her grandmother's face bending into bone, chanting her name.
For a breath she was nowhere, floating in silence, only the key's heartbeat echoing in her chest.
"Elara!"
Tomas's voice cut through the storm, raw, desperate. He was on his knees, shadows dragging at his arms, his sword broken. Blood slicked his face, but his eyes were still his own, locked onto her.
"Don't you leave me!" he bellowed.
The world rippled.
Aldric's voice slid in, cold and soft: "Leave him. He is nothing. You are the chain. You are the Hour. Step forward, Elara, and everything ends."
The spiral pulsed. The key seared her hand. The cavern bent inward like a throat ready to swallow.
And Elara screamed—