Arrival in the City of Bells

The road to Lorynth had been swallowed by mist long before the city itself came into view.

Elya Mornshade pressed forward, her boots sinking slightly into the damp earth as she guided her horse along the ancient stone path. The air was thick with the scent of wet leaves, distant chimney smoke, and the metallic sharpness that came before rain. The fog curled around her like ghostly fingers, obscuring the edges of the world until there was nothing but the crunch of her own footsteps and the rhythmic breath of her mount.

Then, the city revealed itself.

Lorynth loomed ahead, its skyline jagged with rooftops that tilted at uneasy angles, as if the buildings had grown weary under the weight of time. The tallest structures were the towers—seven of them, standing at irregular distances across the city, their spires piercing the heavens. Atop each one sat a bell, blackened with age, their immense forms silhouetted against the slate-gray sky.

A chill crawled up Elya's spine. She had seen cities before—grand ones with marble streets, decayed ones with crumbling facades—but nothing quite like Lorynth. This place felt watchful.

As she approached the main gates, she noticed the guards standing beneath the high stone archway. They were motionless, their oil-slicked cloaks glistening with beads of moisture. Their faces were shadowed beneath their hoods, and they did not move to stop her entry.

Elya hesitated. Usually, a city of this size would have guards questioning newcomers, asking their business, searching for hidden weapons or stolen goods. But these men did nothing. They simply stood there, unmoving, as if they were not men at all, but statues worn smooth by years of rain.

She nudged her horse forward. The city swallowed her whole.

⸻

Inside Lorynth, the streets were a labyrinth of uneven cobblestones and twisting alleys. The city had been built upon itself over generations, new structures slumped against the old, forming a tangled mess of architecture. Wooden balconies jutted out at odd angles, some held up by beams so thin they looked ready to snap. Stairs led nowhere, doors were placed impossibly high on the walls, and narrow pathways disappeared into darkness.

But the bells were always visible. No matter where she turned, at least one tower loomed overhead, the immense bronze instrument hanging like a suspended omen.

Elya guided her horse toward the nearest stable, where an old man sat on a low wooden stool, chewing thoughtfully on the stem of a dried herb. His face was lined like an old map, and his hands, though gnarled with age, were steady as he polished a bridle.

"You're new," he said without looking up.

"I am."

The old man took his time before speaking again. "You came for the bell."

It wasn't a question.

Elya dismounted, her boots landing softly on the damp ground. "I came for answers."

The stable master finally looked at her, his eyes dark and unreadable. "Ain't none to find," he muttered. "Just old stories and missing people. Best not to dig too deep, traveler."

Elya tilted her head. "You speak as if the city itself is listening."

The man gave a slow, humorless chuckle. "Perhaps it is."

He reached for the reins of her horse, but hesitated before taking them. "If you hear the bell toll at night, lock your doors. And if you see someone standing outside your window—" He cut himself off, shaking his head. "Just don't look."

Elya studied him carefully. There was no jest in his voice. No attempt to scare a naive traveler for amusement. This was warning, pure and serious.

"I'll keep that in mind," she said.

He scoffed but took her horse without another word.

⸻

Elya made her way through the city with measured steps. The people of Lorynth moved quickly, shoulders hunched, eyes downcast. There was an air of quiet urgency in their every movement, as if they all knew something she did not.

Shops stood with their doors barely open, merchants speaking in hushed tones to their customers. A woman hurried past Elya, her arms full of freshly baked bread, her gaze flicking nervously toward the sky. A group of children played in a narrow alleyway, but even their laughter was subdued, as if it did not belong in a place like this.

The tension in the city was palpable, a weight pressing against the air.

Then she saw it—an old notice board nailed to the side of a building, its wooden surface warped from years of exposure. Sheets of parchment clung to it, some fresh, others peeling at the edges.

She stepped closer.

At first glance, the notices were typical—announcements of lost items, requests for laborers, advertisements for trade. But then her eyes caught a recurring pattern.

Names.

Each written in a careful, steady hand.

Each with a date beneath it.

And all of them, without exception, were spaced exactly seven years apart.

She ran a gloved finger over the most recent name. The ink had dried long ago, but the impression of the quill remained, pressed deep into the parchment as if the writer's hand had trembled.

The date was approaching.

Tomorrow, one more name would be added.

She looked up toward the nearest tower. The bell at its peak remained still, yet she could almost feel the weight of its silence.

Something was coming.

Something inevitable.

And this time, she would be here to witness it.