The bells did not stop.
They rang without rhythm, without mercy—metal screaming against metal as if sound alone could drive the thing away. Footsteps pounded overhead. Doors slammed. Someone shouted orders that dissolved into panic halfway through the words.
The boy stood in the dark and listened.
The distortion thickened.
It pressed against the edges of the world like a bruise forming beneath the skin—heavy, deliberate, patient. Whatever had come was not rushing. It did not need to. Fear was already doing its work for it.
The chains bit into his wrists as he moved.
Runes flared, dull red, suppressing the flow beneath his skin. Not enough to stop him—just enough to slow him. Enough to remind him that someone had planned for this.
Above him, something passed through the streets.
Not walked.
Passed.
Stone groaned. Wood cracked. A presence slid across the town like a shadow cast by something too large to see all at once. People screamed when it drew close, voices snapping into silence as it moved on.
He exhaled slowly.
So it had noticed.
Not him.
The town.
A sound thundered overhead—something collapsing. The lantern on the wall flickered violently, then steadied, throwing warped shadows across the stone.
He closed his eyes.
This was always how it began.
Footsteps returned, faster now. Desperate. The lock at the top of the stairs rattled as someone fumbled with it.
"Get it open—now!"
The door burst inward, slamming against the wall. The mayor stood there, pale, hands shaking so badly he could barely hold the keys. Behind him were the guards. The woman. Others he recognized.
All of them afraid.
"Please," someone said. Not to him. To the situation. To anything listening.
The mayor's voice cracked. "We need your help."
He looked at them.
Really looked.
No apology. No explanation. Just need.
"I told you," he said quietly. "I wouldn't hurt you."
The mayor swallowed. "We were wrong."
That, at least, was honest.
The chains glowed brighter as he stood. The runes fought him, digging in like thorns. He endured it without a sound. When he reached out, the iron did not shatter—it gave, bending under pressure it was never meant to withstand.
Metal clattered to the floor.
No explosion. No flare of power.
Just inevitability.
The people recoiled anyway.
He stepped past them, moving up into the street.
The town was already broken.
A section of wall lay collapsed inward, stone blocks strewn like dice across the road. A house near the square had folded in on itself, roof caved, timbers splintered as if crushed by something that had not bothered to stop. Windows were shattered everywhere, glass crunching beneath his feet.
But there were no bodies.
Not yet.
The presence lingered at the edge of his senses—circling. Testing. It had tasted the fear here and found it ripe.
He stepped into the open square.
Wind rose suddenly, spiraling outward from nothing. Dust lifted. Debris dragged across the ground in long, scraping arcs.
Something moved at the far end of the street.
Not fully seen.
Not fully hidden.
The air bent around it, refusing to hold a clear shape. For an instant, he thought he saw something reflective—an eye, maybe, or a surface that drank light instead of reflecting it.
He did not draw a weapon.
Instead, he reached inward.
Not deep.
Not enough to call forth what slept there.
Just enough to remember.
His stance shifted. Weight settled. Breath aligned. The world slowed—not magically, but because his mind had learned how to move inside chaos.
A blade took shape in his hand.
Simple. Functional. Something he had held a thousand times in memories that were not his.
The ground cracked as the presence surged forward—
—and then stopped.
It felt him then.
Not his strength.
His intent.
The distortion recoiled, pulling back as though burned. The wind collapsed inward, throwing dust and debris back to the ground. A sound rippled through the air—not a roar, not a voice—something like displeasure.
It withdrew.
Not fleeing.
Withdrawing.
As if marking something for later.
The pressure vanished all at once.
Silence followed, heavy and stunned.
People emerged slowly from hiding. From behind walls. From cellars. From doorways they had sworn they would never leave.
They looked at the destruction.
Then at him.
Someone laughed weakly. Someone else fell to their knees.
"You scared it off," a guard said, awe and terror tangled together.
He said nothing.
The woman stepped forward. "You saved us."
"No," he replied. "It wasn't here for me."
That unsettled them more than gratitude would have.
The mayor approached, stopping several steps away. "You could stay," he offered, too quickly. "We can rebuild. We'll make room."
The boy looked past him, down the broken street, toward the road that led away from the town.
"It'll come back," he said.
The mayor stiffened. "What?"
"It doesn't forget," he continued calmly. "And now it knows this place exists."
Panic stirred again.
"You should fortify," he added. "Evacuate if you can. And don't wait for help."
"You're leaving," the woman said, realization dawning.
"Yes."
"After everything—?"
He met her eyes. There was no anger there. No resentment.
Only distance.
"If I stay," he said, "you'll fear me again. And next time, you won't hesitate."
No one argued.
Because they knew it was true.
He walked toward the gate. No one tried to stop him this time. No one followed.
Behind him, the town began the slow work of surviving.
Ahead of him, the road stretched empty and unforgiving.
The distortion lingered faintly at the edge of his awareness—retreating, but not gone. Like a promise.
He tightened his grip around the box at his side, feeling the quiet weight of the card within.
One Sin had already fallen.
Another had taken notice.
And humanity had shown him, once again, exactly how far its trust reached.
He stepped onto the road and did not look back.
There was no place left to rest.