The bells rang out once more—dull and hollow this time, as if the iron itself had grown weary.

  Caelan stood on the steps of the town hall, his gaze locked on the flickering torches that lined the main street. Each one cast long, shifting shadows, but none reached the alleyways where the first scream had come from. The silence that followed was worse than the sound. It wasn’t just the absence of noise; it was the expectation of it. Like the town itself was holding its breath.

  The lockdown had begun hours earlier. The town’s outer gates were sealed, archers posted along the wooden palisades, and the streets patrolled by volunteers too stubborn or too afraid to stay in their homes. Inside every house, shutters were drawn tight, lamps dimmed. Even the animals seemed to understand something was wrong. No dogs barked. No horses neighed. Just the creak of wood and the distant hiss of wind pushing through narrow alleys.

  Caelan turned as Lieutenant Joras approached, cloak flapping behind him.

  “Report,” Caelan said, not taking his eyes off the street.

  “No sighting of the beast, but we found something,” Joras said, holding out a bloodied scrap of fabric. “It’s not torn—cut clean. And not by a blade.”

  Caelan took it, frowning. “Then by what?”

  Joras hesitated. “We’re not sure. But something’s off. Tracks lead nowhere. And…” He leaned closer. “Sir, the ground under the well. It’s warm.”

  Caelan blinked. “Come again?”

  “Like something’s burning beneath it. No smoke. No smell. But you can feel it. The stone is warm to the touch.”

  A pause.

  Then Caelan handed the fabric back. “Get everyone out of the square. Now.”

  The square cleared with practiced urgency. No shouts, no scrambling. Just the quiet tension of men who knew too well what silence could mean.

  Caelan moved with Joras toward the well. Its stone ring stood undisturbed—unchipped, unmoved—but as they stepped closer, the change in temperature became unmistakable. A subtle heat radiated upward through the soles of their boots.

  Joras crouched beside it, hand hovering over the stone. “No embers. No coals. Nothing burning. But it’s not just warm—it’s pulsing.”

  Caelan knelt, pressed his hand to the rim. He felt it then: a slow throb, like a heartbeat buried beneath layers of earth.

  “Underground tunnel?” he asked.

  “We checked for hollows. No voids directly beneath it.” Joras stood. “But Captain Eren mentioned something odd. Old records—before the town’s charter. Said Verdainne was built over something older. A village that vanished.”

  Caelan frowned. “And no one thought that worth mentioning when the screaming started?”

  “It was dismissed as superstition. Locals called it a ‘root-sunken place.’ Said the ground here remembers things.”

  Caelan’s jaw tightened. “We start digging. Carefully. Remove the outer stones first. I want no one near the well unless they’re wearing armor and tethered.”

  The work began slowly. Shovels, crowbars, and caution. The outer stones were pried away, revealing tightly packed soil beneath. As the second ring of stone was lifted, a scent rose from the hole—faint, sour, and old. Not rot, exactly. More like damp iron and mold.

  Then something shifted.

  One of the diggers froze. “Sir…”

  A faint clicking sound echoed from within the dark shaft. Sharp and mechanical, but irregular—like broken clockwork winding itself without purpose.

  Caelan stepped forward, peering down.

  Blackness. Then, a glint.

  It vanished just as quickly.

  He stood upright. “Everyone back. Now.”

  Joras narrowed his eyes. “What was it?”

  “I don’t know,” Caelan muttered. “But it saw us first.”

  POV Shift: Lucien

  The torches crackled in the cold wind, but Lucien’s hand remained steady as he raised two fingers—signal for the outer post to check in.

  “North side clear,” came the quiet confirmation from a shadow near the garrison wall. Another voice echoed from the west. All accounted for.

  Good.

  Lucien turned his eyes back toward the town square. The well loomed in the distance, surrounded by Caelan’s crew, who worked in a cautious circle of lamplight. Lucien couldn’t see Caelan directly—not from this angle—but he didn’t need to. He knew the man’s silhouette by instinct now. The slight tilt of his head when thinking. The hand resting near his belt when something felt off.

  He trusted no one in this town. And no one here had earned the right to be trusted.

  Caelan shouldn’t even be walking, let alone coordinating operations. But that was Caelan—stubborn as a locked jaw, alive only because Emeline had poured days of her life into his body in a matter of hours. Lucien had seen healing magic before. What Emeline did wasn’t normal.

  And that bothered him more than he wanted to admit.

  He scanned the buildings again—rooftops, windows, alleys. Montrevelle was old stone and cheap wood. Too many corners. Too many vantage points. Perfect for something patient.

  “Set the outer lights,” Lucien ordered quietly. A group of volunteers moved quickly, placing oil-lamps in a wide ring. Each light threw long shadows behind them, exaggerating the movement of every figure who passed.

  Still too many blind spots.

  Lucien tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword.

  “You feel that?” asked one of the younger guards beside him, voice a notch too high.

  Lucien nodded without turning. “Don’t talk about it. It’ll notice.”

  The younger man went quiet.

  Then something changed. A cold breeze that didn’t match the night’s wind pressed through the square. Lucien turned immediately toward the well—and froze.

  All torches around it flickered at once.

  The air shifted. He didn’t know how else to explain it. Like reality itself had pulled taut for a second—then snapped back.

  “Everyone—hold positions!” he barked, drawing his blade. “Nothing gets in. Nothing gets out. If you see movement, call it—but do not engage.”

  He moved fast, slipping through the crowd until he reached the first inner ring near the well. Joras met him halfway.

  “What happened?” Lucien asked.

  Joras’s face was pale. “Something’s beneath the well. We hit a stone chamber—or something like it. It's not natural. The heat spiked. Caelan sent men to clear out the last layer.”

  Lucien didn’t wait. He pushed forward, ignoring the sharp warnings.

  And there was Caelan—standing at the edge of the open pit now, staring down into darkness that seemed to breathe.

  Lucien’s voice was quiet. “You should be resting.”

  “I’m fine,” Caelan replied, eyes still fixed below. “It’s not just a tunnel. There’s structure. Pillars. Arches. Worked stone.”

  Lucien took a slow breath. “This town has no records of any such thing.”

  “Exactly,” Caelan said. “That’s the problem.”

  Below, the clicking began again.

  Not metal. Not claws.

  Teeth.

  Lucien didn’t like the way the pit breathed. There was no other word for it. Each time the wind shifted, the air from below carried a faint pulse—like the exhale of something asleep and far too large.

  Caelan stepped closer to the edge. His hand extended, steady.

  “Don’t,” Lucien said, voice tight. “We don’t know what’s down there.”

  “That’s why I’m checking,” Caelan replied quietly. His fingers moved in a short, precise pattern—wrist flick, palm forward, thumb brushing the inside of his ring finger. “Lumen.”

  A small orb of golden light blinked into existence above his palm, no bigger than a fist. Then another. And another. They hovered in the air like gentle embers, casting a soft glow on the faces of the gathered men.

  Lucien said nothing, but his jaw tightened. Caelan had been practicing.

  The orbs hovered, then slowly began to descend into the dark. Caelan moved his hand, controlling their drift with deliberate calm. The well swallowed them one by one, until only the faint glimmers remained visible—small suns floating down a throat of stone.

  The light hit something.

  Lucien leaned forward with the others, squinting into the shaft.

  Arches.

  Not natural rock, but carved stone, thick with lichen and cracked with age. The ceiling below the surface sloped outward, a dome, supported by pillars that stretched into the dark.

  The Lumen orbs slowed as they neared the floor.

  Then the light revealed more: carvings.

  Deep reliefs on the walls—unfamiliar, looping patterns—some geometric, some… organic. Too intricate to be random. Too purposeful to be ornamental. They weren’t glyphs or runes Lucien recognized. Not of the Empire. Not of any school he'd studied. But they meant something. He could feel it, the same way a soldier knows the feel of steel even when blindfolded.

  Caelan exhaled, a sharp breath of awe and warning.

  “I think we just found the part of Verdainne no one talks about.”

  One of the orbs drifted farther down—too far—and flickered. Just once.

  Then it blinked out.

  “Retrieve it,” Lucien said immediately.

  “I can’t,” Caelan replied. “Something took it.”

  Caelan didn’t speak immediately.

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  He folded his arms across his chest, one hand rising to rest under his chin. Fingers tapped once, then twice. He didn’t look at anyone, not even Lucien. His eyes stayed fixed on the hole where the last Lumen had vanished.

  The remaining orbs floated above the structure’s edge now, pulsing gently like distant stars caught in a slow breath. But the blackness beneath them was different. Thicker. Watching.

  Lucien stood a few paces away, blade still sheathed, but his posture coiled tight like a bowstring.

  “You know we really shouldn’t go down there,” he said. “Not if what you said is true—about something taking that light.”

  Caelan didn’t answer right away.

  Lucien stepped closer. “That wasn’t mana interference. That wasn’t distance loss. That was intent.”

  Caelan’s jaw shifted. “I know.”

  “Then say it.”

  Caelan sighed and finally looked up. “Something intelligent is down there.”

  Lucien nodded once. “Right. Which means we don’t go stumbling into its den just because we’re curious.”

  Caelan dropped his arms, turning slightly. “And what—leave it? Hope it decides not to come out again?”

  “I’d rather have that than watch you get gutted a second time,” Lucien said. His voice was steady, but the heat behind it was real. “We don’t even know what this place is. We’re not from here. We’ve got no support, no maps, and no exit plan if things go bad.”

  Caelan's gaze held his for a moment. Then he looked back at the hole.

  “No. We don’t. But we also don’t have time to wait for answers to come to us. You saw what happened in Beaucourt. You saw what it did to me.” His voice dropped, just above a whisper. “Whatever’s down there... it’s connected. I can feel it.”

  Lucien glanced toward the silent townsfolk gathered just outside the square, some gripping pitchforks, others hugging coats tight to their frames. All of them looked like they were waiting for someone to make a decision—for someone to pretend to know what they were doing.

  “Then we don’t go blind,” Lucien said. “We send a probe. Rope. Lantern. Measure the layout. Chart it first. You want to go down there, fine—but I’m going first.”

  Caelan didn’t argue.

  Which worried Lucien more than anything else.

  Lucien waited, expecting an order to retreat or deploy the probe.

  Instead, Caelan raised a hand. “Hold. I have a plan.”

  Lucien gave him a look. “That’s what you always say before doing something reckless.”

  Caelan didn’t respond. He turned to Lieutenant Joras, who stepped in quickly, boots crunching over loose gravel.

  “First,” Caelan began, his voice firm, clipped, every word landing with purpose, “we need a containment structure. A cage—iron bars or whatever we can weld together. Secure it over the well mouth. Nothing gets in. Nothing gets out.”

  Joras nodded, already turning. “We’ll have to cannibalize the livestock pens and reinforce them.”

  “Do it. Second, I want you to send runners to the garrison. Quietly. No noise, no panic. Have them pull as much gunpowder and flammable oil from the storage vaults as they can carry. Bring it here. Full barrels if possible.”

  Joras blinked, then gave a slow nod. “Understood.”

  “Third,” Caelan continued, eyes hard now, “we need cannons. Four, minimum. Spares from the wall stockpile—wheel mounts, full rotation clearance. Position them around the square.”

  Lucien tilted his head. “You’re planning for a siege.”

  “I’m planning for an unknown that might climb out of a well in the middle of our camp.”

  “…Fair.”

  “Fourth,” Caelan went on, pacing now, “we build a fire line. Elevated barricades. No overlapping fields of fire—if something breaches the circle, we don’t want to be shooting each other in the confusion. Assign sectors.”

  “Done.”

  “Fifth,” Caelan stopped and pointed to the buildings surrounding the square, “get the townsfolk out of the area. I want every home within fifty paces of this square cleared. Move them to the garrison's western yard or the chapel if needed.”

  Joras gave a sharp salute and moved out.

  Lucien stepped up beside Caelan, glancing at the orb lights still hanging over the pit.

  “Buying time?”

  “Until morning,” Caelan said. “We hold the square until the sun gives us something this pit can’t take away.”

  Lucien looked down the hole again. The darkness didn’t move. But it felt heavier now. Tighter.

  And behind it, something waited.

  Orders moved faster than the wind.

  Officers fanned out from the square like crows from a shaken tree, barking sharp commands with the urgency of men who didn’t yet know what they feared—but knew it was close.

  Sector One: The Perimeter Cage

  Sparks flew in the southern end of the square where blacksmiths had been roused from their sleep. Their apprentices worked with wild eyes, hands blistering from the rush. Old livestock pens were dragged and stripped for usable iron, the bars reforged into sharp lattice pieces under roaring fires. Soot blackened the air.

  One smith cursed as his sleeve caught an ember. Another worked with eerie calm, his hammer ringing out a slow rhythm—metal made into prison walls.

  Children watched from behind shuttered stalls, their faces pale in the torchlight. A woman pulled her son away by the collar before he asked what the cage was for.

  Sector Two: Ammunition Retrieval

  Near the garrison gates, runners arrived breathless. The guards on night watch hesitated, confusion furrowing their brows—until they heard why the barrels were needed. Gunpowder was handled like glass, wrapped in cloth, lashed tight in pairs and wheeled on carts as though the barrels themselves could hear the whispers about what was coming.

  The smell of oil thickened the air as open containers were carefully stacked beside the well under watchful eyes. No one touched them without gloves. No one asked what they were for. They just knew.

  Sector Three: Cannon Setup

  Creaking wheels broke the quiet on the eastern end, where four cannons were dragged from the armory yard by six men apiece. The old war machines hadn’t been used in years—dusted, but functional. Wood frames groaned under their weight as they were rolled into place, each one angled precisely outward from the well.

  A pair of soldiers argued over field of fire until Joras barked them into silence. They adjusted positions without another word.

  From a rooftop, one of Caelan’s scouts watched the scene unfold like pieces on a board. His hand never left the hilt of his crossbow.

  Sector Four: Fire Lines and Defensive Posts

  Barrels, planks, overturned carts—anything that could serve as cover was transformed into a barricade. Sandbags from the mill storerooms were hauled in heaps to create staggered positions. Lines of sight were measured and marked, chalked on the cobblestones.

  Soldiers checked and rechecked angles, muttering under their breath. Each team was responsible for one direction. No overlaps. No accidents.

  Lucien supervised quietly, his eyes scanning for gaps. There were always gaps.

  Sector Five: Civilian Evacuation

  Town criers—under armed escort—moved door to door, firm but calm.

  “There’s no immediate danger. This is a precautionary measure.”

  “We ask you to leave your homes for the night.”

  “Bring what you need and follow the guards to the chapel or the garrison's west side.”

  Some resisted. Old men with bad legs. Mothers with crying infants. But the presence of steel quieted doubts. One look at the firelight dancing on the cannon barrels, and people moved. Because if the soldiers were preparing for war in their own streets… something was wrong.

  Inside one shuttered inn, a young girl looked out and whispered, “Mama, are we going to die?”

  Her mother didn’t answer.

  Back in the square, Caelan stood at the center, arms folded again.

  The well was caged now. The light orbs still floated just above it—motionless, flickering gently in the dark. He watched them, eyes narrowed, as the town braced itself around him like a fist clenching before impact.

  They had until morning.

  And something beneath them was waiting for the dark to last just a little longer.

  Midnight crept in slow.

  The square no longer looked like a town center. It looked like a frontline. A standoff with something that hadn’t shown its face yet—but already felt like it had the high ground.

  Caelan, now seated on a crate near the edge of the command circle, stared into the dying embers of a field brazier. His coat was open, hands bare despite the chill. His posture was too still—thinking posture, not resting.

  Lucien approached and handed him a small metal cup. Steam rose from it.

  “Tea,” Lucien said, voice low. “Or something that used to be tea. I’m not sure.”

  Caelan gave a faint huff and took a sip. “Tastes like rope.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Lucien leaned against the makeshift table they’d turned into a command post. “This setup… it's tight. You did good work.”

  Caelan didn’t look up. “It’s not good enough if it doesn’t hold.”

  “It will. You planned this like you’ve done it before.”

  “Doesn’t matter how good the plan is,” Caelan said, quieter now. “We’re building walls against something we can’t see, can’t name, and don’t understand. That kind of threat isn’t stopped by position markers.”

  Lucien didn’t argue. He knew Caelan wasn’t just thinking about tonight. He was thinking about Beaucourt, about the claw marks across his ribs, about whatever it was that took his light down in the black.

  They sat in silence for a while, letting the cold air and the quiet work its way between them.

  Elsewhere, Joras moved among the cannon crews, checking lines of sight again. He pointed out a minor overlap between the northwest barricade and the adjacent firing lane. It would’ve risked friendly fire if someone panicked and turned the wheel too far.

  “Realign this arc. Shift the south piece ten paces west,” he said, and the men got to work. No pushback. Just grim determination.

  In the civilian zone, Emeline moved through the evacuees, calming nerves and checking on those too old or frail to move quickly. Her presence was subtle but effective. People didn’t fear the dark quite as much when she was around.

  She passed a child curled against her mother’s cloak and paused.

  “You’ll be safe,” she said gently, brushing the girl’s forehead. “We’ve made sure of it.”

  The mother gave her a tired smile. Emeline didn’t smile back.

  Back in the square, Caelan finally spoke again.

  “We can’t stay reactive forever,” he said. “Tomorrow, I want scouting parties ready. If this place has history, I want to know it. Old maps. Folklore. Anything.”

  Lucien raised an eyebrow. “You still think this ties back to Selene?”

  “I think nothing about this is random,” Caelan replied. “And people like her don’t show up without purpose.”

  Lucien crossed his arms. “You’re planning something deeper than just guarding a hole.”

  Caelan met his eyes. “I’m not just guarding it. I’m baiting it.”

  Scene Shift: Selene

  Selene’s hands moved with practiced quiet as she packed the last of her belongings into a leather satchel—no wasted motion, no second thoughts. The inn room she’d rented was already stripped of signs she’d been there. Even the mattress looked untouched.

  Dawn hadn’t broken yet, but she wouldn’t wait for sunlight. Not anymore.

  She’d lingered in Montrevelle too long.

  She tied the bag shut, slung it over one shoulder, and paused at the window. The sky was still heavy with night, but she could feel it—the weight of something unnatural pressing in from the edges of the town.

  Something was very, very wrong.

  Selene wasn’t a mage. Not exactly. But years of crawling through empire ruins and prying secrets from dusty places had taught her to listen when the air shifted. And Montrevelle’s air had gone still in the wrong way. Like a cave just before a collapse.

  This town wasn’t supposed to matter. Just a minor dot under baronial control, sleepy and insignificant.

  But then came the signs.

  First, the rumors of beasts in the Verdainne forest—real ones, not folklore smoke. Big, fast, and smart enough to leave no tracks. That would’ve been enough to mark the place interesting.

  Then, the Duke’s arrival—unannounced, unplanned, with a full retinue and a son too injured to sit a horse. She hadn’t seen the son until later, and she didn’t recognize him at first. But when she realized it was Caelan, the Duke’s heir—and when she learned he was taking control of town defenses?

  That’s when she knew Montrevelle was more than a footnote.

  But the final push? That had come last night.

  The sound.

  Low, metallic, echoing from the ground itself. Locals said it came from one of the wells in the square. She hadn’t gone to check. She didn’t need to. Selene made a living off information—but she wasn’t foolish enough to trade her life for it.

  This was no longer an opportunity. It was a trap. And she wasn’t staying to see who—or what—sprung it.

  Still, as she fastened her cloak and turned to leave, something pulled at the back of her mind.

  A memory.

  A passage from an old book, one she’d found rotting in a flooded ruin west of the Black Hills. A local tale, marked in red ink.

  "Where Verdainne drinks the sky and bleeds the stone, the mouth of the old ones shall open once more. And the silent shall speak."

  She hadn’t thought much of it then. But now? Now the forest drank blood, the stones were warm, and something deep had started to whisper.

  Selene left the room and disappeared into the shadows of the alley without a backward glance.

  Montrevelle Square

  Just before first light

  Caelan stood still as stone near the cage. The Lumen orbs hovered motionless above the well’s mouth, casting pale gold over the now-completed defenses. Around him, the square was a living thing—silent but breathing. Soldiers held their positions. Cannons were aimed and locked. The oil barrels glinted dully in the half-dark, waiting.

  But it wasn’t the light that warned him.

  It was the sound.

  Faint at first—barely audible under the wind. Then louder. Layered. Not a single thing, but many. Grinding. Clicking. Whispering. Almost rhythmic.

  He stepped forward.

  “Lucien,” he said flatly.

  Already moving, Lucien was at his side in moments. “I hear it.”

  The sounds weren’t coming from above. They were rising—from within the well. Not climbing, not rushing. Just... pressing closer. As if whatever lay beneath had finally decided to acknowledge their presence.

  Then it stopped.

  For three long seconds, nothing moved.

  Then a flare streaked into the sky—red-orange, arcing from the southern wall, its smoke curling like a warning claw in the dim sky.

  Shouts echoed down from the battlements.

  Caelan turned just as a rider thundered into the square from the eastern alley. Mud kicked from the horse’s hooves, its flanks lathered, the rider barely seated.

  “Commander!” the young scout called, breath ragged, eyes wide.

  Caelan didn’t wait. “Report.”

  “Movement—south wall, forest edge! Trees swaying—fast and wide. At least a dozen... no, more. Whatever they are, they’re coming this way!”

  Lucien’s hand was already on his sword. “It’s starting.”

  Caelan looked toward the forest, then back at the well. The sounds had stopped—but not the dread.

  He exhaled once.

  “Positions.”

  And just as the second flare lit the sky—

  End of Chapter 21