CHAPTER 120: BELLS OF MOURNING

The bells had stopped tolling, but they left their residue in the air like the aftertaste of burnt copper, the kind that coats the tongue long after you’ve spat the ash from your mouth.

I told myself I wasn’t afraid, because fear was a luxury for men who had time to run. I told myself this with the same conviction I tell myself I’ll stop drinking after the third cup, which is to say not very convincingly.

Fear sits in the marrow; you can sandpaper the words all you like, but the bone remembers. And today, bone and marrow alike seemed to hum with that peculiar brand of anticipation that only comes before something both catastrophic and far too public.

We pressed forward.

The procession looked almost ceremonial if you squinted hard enough—or if you’d recently suffered brain damage and could no longer tell the difference between a parade and a death march.

Salem went first at the Man in White’s flank, a pair of broadswords slung over his shoulders as though he’d just murdered a smithy and decided theft was part of his morning exercise.

He didn’t walk so much as prowl, each step promising to cut the throat of anyone who stepped too close.

Rodrick followed, his shortsword sheathed at his side, posture soldierly, back so straight you could hang a painting on it. He had that look again—the one that said he’d already begun strategizing where to stack the corpses once the killing started.

The knight, naturally, insisted on going bare-fisted again. Because why use a weapon when you could use your naked body to commit felony assault? He walked with a swagger that bordered on the obscene, his knuckles flexing in anticipation, veins standing out like carved rope. Somewhere behind us I heard a young woman giggle as he passed, and promptly decided that civilization was doomed for failure.

Then there was Nara. Poor Nara, clutching his dagger as though it were both keepsake and rosary. His grip was tight enough to bleach his knuckles white, and every few steps his ears twitched as though catching whispers that weren’t there.

He looked fragile enough to break in a stiff breeze, and yet somehow, that fragility carried its own gravity. People stared at him the way one stares at fire—not because it’s powerful, but because it’s dangerous to touch.

Dunny brought up the rear, as always, hands wrapped reverently around what appeared to be a wooden wand. A wand. Not even lacquered. Just a stick that might have been stolen from a nearby broom.

He carried it with the gravity of a man escorting a crown jewel, marking him, as I’d just come to realize, as an excarnic mage, though I’ve yet to see any sign of his ability.

Then there was me, stalking along with a borrowed spear balanced against my shoulder, my pen and stopwatch belted at my side, every ounce of me trying to look casual while internally calculating how long it would take for me to run if the world suddenly collapsed into screaming chaos.

The Man in White led us forward, silent and sure-footed, freshly gathered robes glimmering faintly in the fading light. He had that infuriating poise about him, the kind that made you wonder if he knew the ending of the play while the rest of us were still fumbling with our lines.

The streets were emptier than ever now, the silence pressing heavier than any mob of eyes could have—thick and suffocating, as though the whole city was holding its breath, waiting for the sound of the first scream to give them permission to breathe again.

"Excellent," I muttered, shifting my grip on the borrowed spear. "Nothing like walking through a graveyard that forgot to tell its residents they’re not dead yet."

Rodrick, marching at my left, let out a sharp exhale that might have been a laugh in a better man. "Better empty streets than laughter from balconies."

"Debatable," I said. "At least laughter would mean they’re still human. This? This feels like we’re trespassing in the afterlife."

From up ahead, Salem gave a short bark of amusement. It wasn’t warm. It was the brittle, knife’s-edge kind of laugh, the sort that made you wonder if he’d just found humor in imagining your demise.

As we continued the alleys grew narrower, the walls taller, the air tighter.

The destination was clear.

Above us, the balloons were clustering like carrion birds, their fabric swollen in the last of the sunlight, dangling banners that proclaimed the inevitability of a spectacle.

They all floated toward the center of the city, the market district, as if being tugged by invisible strings. The closer we drew, the more the tension thickened, congealing like grease in the back of the throat.

Nara crept closer to me. "Cecil," he whispered, "this feels wrong. There’s something in the air. It feels like someone’s watching us."

I wanted to reassure him. I wanted to say something comforting, something leaderly, like "don’t worry, it’s fine." Instead, what came out was, "Yes, well, the air has good taste after all. We’re walking straight into a den of demonic nightmares. You can’t expect it to smell like roses."

He frowned, his ears drooping, and I immediately regretted opening my mouth. Rodrick covered with a gruff murmur, "Stay close. Both of you."

The knight yawned. "Hmph. Demonic nightmares. Hope they know how to fight properly. Nothing worse than an enemy with bad form."

"Yes," I said dryly. "That’s the real tragedy of demons. Terrible posture."

The Man in White did not so much as glance back at us. He didn’t need to. His presence kept us tethered to the path.

And then, before I knew it, we stood before the market district gates.

The sun was a bleeding smear on the horizon, painting the stones crimson, as though the city itself had decided to get a head start on the carnage. The gates loomed high and iron-bound, creaking faintly as though even they disliked their job tonight.

And there, at the heart of the pavilion, lay the pile.

Weapons, relics, fragments of lives torn apart and tossed together like an offering to some grotesque altar. Steel glinted in the dying sun, handles jutting at odd angles, a graveyard of instruments waiting to be claimed.

My breath hitched. Because there, among the wreckage, glimmered molten silver, was my spear.

It caught the light as though it knew me, as though it had been waiting, its sheen so bright it burned spots into my vision. My chest tightened, a knot pulling taut. I moved before I realized it, one step closer, then another, like a moth to a flame.

Rodrick’s hand closed firm on my shoulder. "Don’t even think about it"

I blinked, tearing my gaze away. "What?"

"The first to move is the first to die. They’ve set it up like this for a reason. You go for that spear, and you’ll have a hundred blades at your back before you can even breathe," he said, voice low, tone sharp enough to cut.

I swallowed, the knot in my chest coiling tighter. Then I nodded, forcing myself back into stillness, though every nerve in my body screamed at me to lunge forward, rip open the gates, and tear the weapon free from the pile.

The courtyard hushed.

Just then, a whistle cut through the air, jaunty, off-key, the kind of whistle that belongs in taverns and nightmares alike. I let out a deep, longing sigh before pivoting, forcing a smirk onto my lips.

"You know, Fitch, there are more appropriate times to audition for the role of Creepy Street Musician. This isn’t one of them."

And there he was. Fitch, strolling toward us as though he’d been invited for tea, hands tucked casually behind his back, smile sharp enough to draw blood.

But it wasn’t him that froze my heart. It was the figure beside him.

The stitched man.

Every joint, every limb a patchwork quilt of flesh and thread, scars crisscrossing like spiderwebs. His face—if you could call it that—was a ghastly mask of sewn skin, lips tugged too tight in an eternal grimace. Even the air seemed to flinch around him.

Behind the both of them, trailing like stray dogs, came the newest recruits to the Lady of Fangs’ growing menagerie. Their eyes were wide and lost, their necks mottled with fresh bite marks, movements sluggish, as though they’d left pieces of their souls in her teeth.

Fitch offered me his hand as though we were old comrades about to reminisce over ale rather than bitter enemies who had spent half our acquaintance trying to murder each other.

I stared at the hand.

My instinct was to spit in it, stab it, or perhaps both in quick succession. Instead, I took it, because saints forbid I ever get accused of poor manners in the middle of an impending apocalypse. His grip was firm, infuriatingly so. I forced myself not to grimace.

And yet my eyes kept sliding to the hulking shadow at his side, and all the warmth in my bloodstream packing its bags and promptly abandoning me. He seemed docile in posture, but docile in the way a sheathed sword is docile, or a waiting guillotine, wicked maul held in his hand with a vice grip.

My gaze flicked back, and of course, Salem stood there, watching Fitch with the unblinking precision of a hawk sighting prey. His whole body was tense, a storm condensed into muscle and sinew, waiting only for a single wrong move to unleash itself.

And for one brief, glorious moment, I thought maybe I’d get to see Fitch’s head roll across the cobblestones before the night was done.

But then the Man in White stepped smoothly between them, the way only he could—silent as mist, immovable as mountain stone.

His presence filled the square, not loud, not forceful, but suffocating in that subtle way that reminded you who was truly in charge here. "Enough," he said, his voice carrying without effort, the final note in a song that brooked no harmony. Salem froze. Fitch chuckled. I exhaled.

The Man in White turned to us all then, lifting his voice just enough to bind every gaze in the courtyard. "You have been chosen," he began, words deliberate, woven like a net to catch every fear before it could scuttle away. "Not by fortune, but by the sum of your sacrifice, your skill, and your unyielding perseverance. What lies ahead is not a trial, nor a test, but a crucible

. Some of you will be burned by blood. Some of you will emerge sharper than ever before. Others..." His pale eyes swept across us like a blade’s edge. "...will be reduced to ashes in the wind. And yet remember, you march not as individuals, but as a faction. What glory you claim will be shared. What deaths you suffer will be remembered, all in the name of progression."

The others in the faction broke into cheers and whistles at the sound of his words.

I tried not to roll my eyes.

They were stirring words, truly, but I’d been around long enough to know that speeches never stopped the bleeding. Still, I let myself absorb the rhythm of it, the confidence, the inevitability.

He could have been reading me my death sentence, and I’d have still found myself nodding along as though he’d just promised me a medal. That was his curse. Or his gift. I wasn’t sure which at this point.

Before the last echoes of his speech could settle, another sound stole into the square. Footsteps. Dozens. No—hundreds.

They came from the far side of the plaza, steady as a drumbeat, growing louder with each second until the silence of the abandoned city was shattered under the weight of their approach. And then he emerged.

The High Priest of the Southern Sun Cult.

Still clad in that garish golden armor, polished to a shine so bright it seemed to mock the dying sun above us. His face split into a smile too wide, too childish for the body it adorned, as though he’d wandered into this war by accident and was simply delighted to be included.

The sight of him made my stomach drop to the floor.

Behind him came the tide. His robed followers, white as bleached bones, their steps unnervingly in sync, their heads bowed in reverence. An army that moved not like men, but like a single, groveling organism, orbiting their priest as though his grin were the sun itself.

I found myself pressed against the gate before I realized it, spear shaft biting into my palm. The words slipped out before I could stop them. "Nice entrance. Very dramatic. Bit over the top, if you ask me. What’s next, a choir of angels, or do you just skip straight to spontaneous combustion?"

The High Priest said nothing. Not a word, not a glance. Just that smile. Which, of course, was far worse. The silence stretched until my teeth ached with it.

And then came the bells.

They began to toll again, heavier now, louder, as though the very air had been forged into iron and hammered against our ears. The sound rolled through the streets, climbed up the walls, poured into every shuttered home until it felt as though the whole city were crying out in mourning.

Above us, the nobles in their air balloons erupted into cheers, their voices carrying down like the jeers of a pantheon watching mortals bleed for sport. They clapped, they whooped, they roared their approval, deafening, grotesque in their indulgence.

The sound of joy at the edge of carnage.

I glanced upward, letting their revelry wash over me like acid. Saints above, they were loving this. They were loving every drop of blood spilled, every shudder of fear. And in that instant, I wanted nothing more than to see their precious balloons burst into flame and crash screaming into the streets below.

But when my gaze dropped again, my heart stopped.

The gates were opening.

Slowly, creaking, as though on their own volition, bars parting like the jaws of some colossal beast yawning wide. No guards to pull them, no hands upon the chains. Just the invitation, clear and undeniable.

An invitation into hell.