The road did not forgive him.
It stretched forward in dull, uneven lines, stones biting through thin soles, dust clinging to his clothes like something trying to claim him. The town vanished behind a bend, swallowed by trees and low hills, as if it had never existed at all.
That was how it always went.
Saved places forgot quickly.
Condemned ones lingered.
Night crept in without ceremony. The sky dimmed from bruised purple to black, stars emerging one by one like cautious witnesses. He walked until his legs ached—not from exhaustion, but from restraint. From the constant effort of not reaching too far inward.
The box at his side was heavier now.
Not physically.
Aware.
He stopped near a shallow depression off the road, where the earth dipped just enough to break the wind. Sparse grass struggled through dry soil. No fire. No shelter. He knelt anyway, setting the box down carefully, as if it could feel disrespect.
For a moment, there was peace.
Then the ground shifted.
Not violently. Not suddenly.
Deliberately.
He froze.
The distortion returned—not overhead this time, not distant. It crept low, crawling beneath sensation, threading through the earth like a slow pulse. Not the same presence as before. This one was smaller.
Closer.
Human.
Footsteps crunched behind him.
He did not turn.
"Don't move," a voice said. Rough. Nervous. Too young to be steady.
Another voice joined it. Then another. He counted five sets of feet by sound alone. They spread out, forming a loose ring. Torches flared, sudden light stabbing into the dark.
Villagers.
Not from the town he'd left.
Different faces. Same fear.
"You," someone said. "You came from the bells' town."
He rose slowly, hands empty, posture open. No blade. No threat.
"Yes."
A murmur rippled through them.
"He admitted it."
"He's the one they chained."
"They said he called something."
"They said the thing followed him."
Fear sharpened. Took shape.
A man stepped forward, older than the rest, jaw tight like it had learned to clench often. "We saw what happened to the road behind you. The ground's cracked. Trees broken like twigs."
"That wasn't me," the boy said calmly.
"That's what they all say."
Someone laughed—short, hysterical.
"You bring death with you," a woman hissed. "Or worse."
The distortion beneath the soil pulsed again, faint but eager.
He felt it react to their fear.
"No," he said. "It follows fear. Not me."
Silence.
Then the old man spoke again. "Then you won't mind helping us feel safe."
Hands grabbed him before he could finish exhaling.
Rope bit into his wrists, rough and hurried. Someone struck him in the ribs—not hard, but enough to warn. He didn't resist. Didn't fight back. The box was kicked aside, skidding through dirt until it struck stone.
"Wait," he said sharply.
A boot pressed into his shoulder, forcing him down. "Quiet."
They dragged him to the depression he'd chosen to rest in.
Only now did he understand why it had felt wrong.
Shovels appeared.
Not new. Not clean. Tools already familiar with this work.
"You don't have to do this," he said, voice steady despite the pressure building beneath his skin.
"We do," the woman replied. "Before it comes back."
The first shovel of dirt struck his leg.
Then another.
Cold earth piled against him, heavy and damp. The ropes cut deeper as he shifted, runes flaring faintly along his skin—suppression magic, crude but effective. Someone knew enough to be afraid properly.
Dirt reached his waist.
His chest.
He looked up at them, faces lit by torchlight, eyes reflecting flame and terror in equal measure.
"This won't save you," he said—not as a threat. As fact.
The old man hesitated.
For half a second, mercy flickered.
Then the ground pulsed again.
Fear won.
"Finish it!"
So they did.
The last thing he saw was the sky—a narrow strip of stars—before darkness closed over him. Dirt filled his mouth. Pressed against his face. Stole breath inch by inch.
The ropes tightened.
The runes burned.
The distortion below surged, excited now.
Buried alive.
Again.
His heart slowed—not from panic, but from calculation. From memory. From knowing exactly how much he could endure before the body failed.
He reached inward.
Deeper this time.
Not to the sleeping thing.
Not to the forge of endless blades.
Just enough.
Steel sang softly in the dark.
The earth trembled.
And somewhere above, the villagers felt the ground grow warm beneath their feet—like a warning they were too late to understand.
The grave was shallow.
And he was not finished yet.