The capital didn’t sleep.

It didn’t breathe.

The storm had moved on, but its shadow lingered—folded into the air, heavy and restless. The streets, still wet with rain, shimmered with faint reflections of distant lightning. People emerged from their homes slowly, uncertain. Doors creaked open. Feet touched stone with caution. No one spoke louder than a whisper.

And then—

The tremor.

It didn’t come from the sky.
It didn’t come from below.
It came from within.

The vibration slithered beneath their feet like a serpent—slow, deliberate. It wrapped around towers and bridges, coiled beneath ancient brick and forgotten tunnels. It was quiet, at first. Barely there. But the stillness made it louder.

Then came the groan.

Not thunder. Not wind.
It was a sound born of metal. Old. Furious.

A low, guttural cry—like something in the earth had remembered it was alive and was furious at being forgotten.

Birds scattered, their wings frantic in the thick air. Banners rippled once, then dropped still. The wind didn’t die.

It hid.

Heads turned. Eyes lifted.

There, rising beyond the courtyards and noble rooftops, the Cathedral of Vayrith-Kaelos stood eternal.

Until it wasn’t.

The twenty-eighth tower—unspoken, unwatched, unremembered—moved.

Not in collapse.

In ascent.

A shadow stirred deep inside its hollow core, long buried by time and willful ignorance. Chains groaned. Dust rained.

And then—metal.

Bronze.

Tarnished. Cracked. Massive.

The bell.

Not a bell of prayer. Not a bell of celebration. A relic. A warning. A secret carved in silence and buried in stone.

And now, it rose.

Chains, each link the size of a man’s torso, strained as they dragged the ancient shape from the dark. The city watched—helpless. Powerless. Captivated by the impossibility before them.

It wasn’t supposed to move.

It couldn’t move.

The gears that pulled it had no operator. No priest. No rite. Their keys were sealed. Their blueprints destroyed.

And yet—here it was.

The bell lifted higher, creaking with every tortured inch, glowing faintly beneath the storm’s dying light. From the palace balcony, the king stared in horror, his fingers carved into the stone railing. He had seen rebellions. He had crushed kingdoms. But this—

This wasn’t politics.

This was prophecy.

The bell breached the top of the tower, fully visible now, scars etched across its surface like memories clawed into flesh. It looked broken. It looked forgotten.

It looked angry.

A whisper passed through the city. It wasn’t spoken. It didn’t need to be.

“It should not move.”

“It cannot move.”

But it did.

And then, the chains gave way.

The bell fell.