The first bell rang at midnight.
Vael Ardent stopped in his tracks, heart pounding against his ribs. The sound was deep, ancient, like the very bones of the city were groaning. He turned his gaze toward the distant spires of Ebonfall, where the ruined cathedral stood silhouetted against the eternal night sky.
The bell never rang.
Not for the living.
The streets were silent, save for the whispering wind that carried the scent of rain and old blood. His gloved fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword. Every instinct screamed at him to run, but he had no time for fear. Not now.
He stepped forward.
The second bell rang.
The cobblestones beneath him trembled, cracks spidering outward, and the air turned heavy. He looked up—above the city, the sky had split. A rift, dark as ink and pulsing with unnatural energy, yawned open like a gaping wound. From within, something stirred.
Vael exhaled sharply. He had seen many horrors in his exile, but this was new.
A voice, soft as breath, slithered through the air. "Marked… Claimed… Chosen…"
The third bell rang.
Shadows spilled from the rift like liquid night, pooling into the streets, moving against the laws of nature. Shapes twisted and formed—elongated limbs, hollow eyes, grins stretched too wide to be human. The Taken.
Vael drew his sword just as the first one lunged.
Its skeletal fingers raked the air where his throat had been a second ago. He pivoted, slashing upward—his cursed blade, Vesperfang, hummed as it cleaved through the creature's form. A scream, high and piercing, echoed as the shadow dissolved into nothingness.
More came.
Vael backed against a crumbling wall, scanning the alley for an escape. The Taken moved with eerie silence, their jagged bodies shifting like smoke. He could fight, but not forever.
Then, from the rooftops, a voice.
"Get down!"
A bolt of silver light shot past him, striking one of the creatures. The rune-etched projectile burned as it struck home, sending the Taken screeching into oblivion.
Vael turned just in time to see a cloaked figure drop down beside him.
Lyra Veilthorne.
Her silver hair caught the dim glow of the lanterns, her emerald eyes sharp with urgency. She held a tome in one hand, its pages glowing with shifting runes. "You heard the bells," she said, breathless. "You know what this means."
Vael nodded. "The city wakes."
Lyra clenched her jaw. "Then we need to get to the cathedral. Before it's too late."
The fourth bell rang.
And Ebonfall began to scream.
Vael and Lyra sprinted through the winding streets of Ebonfall, their footsteps echoing off the ancient stone walls. The screams of the city's inhabitants grew louder, a cacophony of terror that seemed to come from every direction.
"We're running out of time," Lyra panted, her tome clutched tightly to her chest. "The rift is widening with each toll of the bell."
Vael glanced skyward, his stomach churning at the sight of the pulsing tear in the night sky. It had nearly doubled in size since they'd begun their mad dash towards the cathedral. "How many more tolls before—"
"Five," Lyra cut him off. "Five more, and the veil between worlds will shatter completely."
They rounded a corner, only to find their path blocked by a writhing mass of shadows. The Taken swarmed like a dark tide, their hollow eyes fixed upon the two warriors.
Vael raised Vesperfang, the cursed blade glowing with an eerie blue light. "We don't have time for this."
Lyra's fingers danced across the pages of her tome, intricate sigils appearing in the air before her. "Then we make time," she growled.
The fifth bell rang.
As one, they struck. Vael's blade sang as it carved through the shadows, each swing leaving trails of ethereal fire in its wake. Lyra's spells erupted in bursts of searing light, banishing the darkness with each thunderous impact.
They fought in perfect synchronization, a dance of steel and sorcery that cut a swath through the horde of Taken. But for each creature they felled, two more seemed to take its place.
"This isn't working," Vael shouted over the din of battle. "We need to—"
His words were cut short as a tendril of shadow wrapped around his ankle, yanking him off his feet. He hit the cobblestones hard, the air driven from his lungs.
"Vael!" Lyra cried out, her voice tinged with panic.
The sixth bell rang.
The world seemed to tilt on its axis. The rift in the sky pulsed, and a wave of pure darkness swept through the streets. Vael felt it wash over him, cold as the grave and heavy with malevolence.
When it passed, the Taken were gone. But in their place stood something far worse.
A figure, cloaked in shadows and crowned with twisted horns, materialized before them. Its eyes burned like twin embers in the darkness, fixed upon Vael with terrible hunger.
"The Marked One," it hissed, its voice a symphony of whispers. "At last."
Lyra helped Vael to his feet, her face pale with recognition. "The Void Prince," she whispered. "We're too late."
The seventh bell began to toll.
The seventh bell's toll reverberated through Ebonfall like the death knell of the world itself. Vael felt it in his bones, a dreadful resonance that threatened to tear him apart. The Void Prince stepped forward, his form wreathed in shifting darkness, the edges of his body dissolving into the night as though he were not entirely bound to this world.
"Marked One," the entity mused, voice curling through the air like smoke. "Did you truly think you could stop this?"
Vael tightened his grip on Vesperfang, but his hands trembled. He had faced nightmares before—had slain creatures that lurked beyond the veil of sanity—but nothing like this. Lyra moved beside him, her tome open, her fingers glowing with raw arcane power.
"We're not done yet," she hissed, hurling a lance of silver light at the Void Prince.
The magic struck true—only to be swallowed by the darkness surrounding him. The shadows absorbed it, rippling outward like ink in water. The Void Prince laughed, a sound like glass breaking.
Lyra's breath caught. "That should have—"
"It did nothing," Vael finished, his voice grim.
The eighth bell rang.
The sky split wider. The rift, once a wound, was now a gaping chasm, pouring darkness into the world. Ghostly shapes swam in its depths—things with too many limbs, too many eyes, too much hunger. They pressed against the barrier of reality, eager to slip through.
"We need to move," Vael said. "Now."
But the Void Prince merely lifted a hand. The world around them twisted, the air thickening, warping. Shadows stretched unnaturally, forming a circle around them—no, not shadows. Chains.
Vael lunged forward, Vesperfang flashing in an arc. The cursed blade hummed as it struck the first chain, slicing through it like brittle bone. But as fast as he cut one, another replaced it, slithering from the ground like living tendrils.
"Lyra!" he barked.
"I'm trying!" she shot back, pages flipping in her tome. Her voice wove ancient words into the night, but the magic faltered. The darkness was too deep, too strong.
The ninth bell rang.
A wave of force erupted from the rift, slamming into the city. Buildings cracked, towers crumbled, and screams of the dying filled the air.
Vael's vision blurred. The chains coiled tighter.
The Void Prince loomed over him, whispering, "It is futile. You were chosen long before this night."
Then, a new sound—a sharp, ringing chime, different from the cathedral's doom-laden bells. It cut through the dark like a blade of pure light.
The chains recoiled.
Vael gasped as they loosened just enough for him to move. He turned—
And saw her.
A figure stood at the entrance of the ruined square. Cloaked in tattered midnight blue, a hood shadowing her face. But even in the dim light, Vael could see the faint glow of her eyes—silver, like moonlight on a dagger's edge.
She raised her hand. Another chime rang out. The air shuddered, and the darkness recoiled.
The Void Prince stilled. For the first time, its form flickered.
Vael forced himself upright, panting. "Who—"
The woman stepped forward, lowering her hood.
"I am Seraphine Duskborne," she said. "And I'm here to finish what I started."
The tenth bell rang.
The world shattered.