The Horse on Hollow Street

The streets whispered beneath her boots.

Elya moved through the tangled alleys of Lorynth with quiet precision, her senses alert to every flicker of movement, every shift in the mist. The air clung to her skin, thick and cool, laced with the damp scent of old stone and the faint, distant bite of something metallic—something like rust, or blood.

She was being followed.

Not by footsteps. Not by shadows.

But by something deeper.

The presence had been there since she left the marketplace, lingering at the edge of her awareness, weightless yet inescapable. It did not move as a person would. It did not breathe. But it watched.

The city of Lorynth had eyes.

She turned onto a narrow street, its cobblestones slick with mist. The buildings here were hunched and old, their wooden beams swollen from years of damp air, their windows shut tight against the night. Some were missing doors, their empty thresholds gaping like broken mouths.

One house stood apart from the rest.

It was taller than its neighbors, its roof slanting at an unnatural angle, as if the structure had begun to sag under the weight of something unseen. The shutters on its second-floor windows hung askew, the wood splintered where nails had once held them in place. A single lantern burned beside the door, its flame flickering wildly, casting restless shadows across the warped façade.

She did not know why she had come here.

Only that she must.

Elya stepped forward, the sound of her boots swallowed instantly by the silence. The mist coiled at her ankles, parting reluctantly as she approached the door. The wood was dark, warped with age, the brass handle dulled to a lifeless gray.

She knocked once.

The sound barely echoed before the door creaked open.

Not from the wind.

Not from a hand.

It simply opened.

The lantern guttered. The street behind her seemed to pull away, the air thickening as if the city itself was holding its breath.

She stepped inside.

⸻

The house was not empty.

It was still. Too still.

Elya's fingers grazed the hilt of her dagger as she let the door close behind her. The walls were lined with dark wooden paneling, the air thick with the scent of old parchment and melted wax. A staircase curled upward into the shadows, its banister worn smooth from years of use.

At the far end of the hallway, a single candle burned atop a low table, its flame motionless despite the draft that had followed her inside.

She moved forward.

The floorboards beneath her creaked—just once, then fell silent, as if they, too, were holding something back. The wallpaper here was faded, peeling in places to reveal the rough stone beneath. The house had been abandoned for some time, but it did not feel unoccupied.

She reached the table.

A book lay open beside the candle, its pages yellowed and curling at the edges. Ink trailed across the paper in delicate strokes, the handwriting precise but hurried.

She ran her fingers lightly over the text. The ink was dry, but the indentation in the paper was deep—as if the writer's hand had trembled with urgency.

Her eyes narrowed.

They are taken, but they are not gone.

The same words she had found scrawled beneath the notice board.

Beneath it, another line:

Do not look when the bell tolls. Do not follow. Do not listen.

Elya's pulse quickened. She flipped the page, but the rest of the book was blank.

She frowned.

Something rustled behind her.

Not the house settling.

Not the wind.

Something else.

Elya turned sharply, her grip tightening on her dagger.

The staircase.

The shadows there were wrong.

Not natural. Not the absence of light, but something deeper—something that moved, though there was nothing to cast it. The banister gleamed faintly in the candlelight, but beyond that, the darkness was absolute.

She took a slow step backward.

The shadows did not move.

She exhaled, forcing herself to steady her breathing.

Then—

A creak.

From upstairs.

Not the groan of an old house.

A footstep.

Slow. Measured.

Elya's blood went cold.

Another step. Closer.

She reached for the candle, her fingers curling around the base. The warmth of the flame pulsed against her skin, grounding her, reminding her that she was still here. Still real.

Then she heard it.

A whisper.

Soft, like breath against her ear.

But it did not come from the stairs.

It came from right behind her.

Elya moved.

She spun, slamming the candle down onto the table, its wax splattering as the flame sputtered. The dagger was in her hand before she had time to think, her pulse hammering against her ribs.

The hallway was empty.

No one stood behind her.

But the air had shifted.

The presence was stronger now. Closer.

The shadows at the base of the stairs thickened, curling upward, tendrils of darkness reaching, stretching—

The candle died.

The house plunged into blackness.

And then—

The sound of a bell.

Not loud. Not ringing from above.

But close.

Inside the house.

Elya's breath hitched. The air around her shifted, pressing against her skin, against her ribs, as if something unseen had filled the space.

She took a step back.

A whisper brushed against the nape of her neck.

She did not turn.

She could feel something behind her now, inches away, unseen but there, its presence cold as stone, heavy as the weight of the city itself.

Another bell chime.

Low. Distant.

Then—

Silence.

The pressure lifted. The air thinned.

The candle sputtered back to life.

Elya exhaled sharply, her pulse still racing.

The room was as it had been before. The table. The book. The staircase.

But the book was now closed.

And on the cover, something had been carved into the leather.

A symbol.

A door.

She stared at it, her breath uneven.

She had come to Lorynth searching for answers.

She had not expected them to find her first.