Chapter Five: The Bells That Would Not Ring

The first thing Arlo noticed was how quiet the town was.

It had no name, at least none that remained. A crumbled stone slab marked the crossroads into it, and though Charter Marks once curled across its surface, they had long since faded, worn smooth by wind, rain, and time. The town lay folded into a shallow valley, ringed by bare-branch trees and early spring snow that melted in slow trickles down stone gutters.

They crossed a collapsed wooden bridge into the main square. Arlo looked around, trying to sense what made him uneasy. There were no corpses, no signs of fire or siege. The buildings—modest, practical—had weathered time better than most in the north. Some even had intact roofs.

But the town felt empty, in a way that went beyond people.

“Where is everyone?” Arlo asked, hugging his coat tighter. The wind gusted, sharp and dry.

Callan stopped beside him, one hand resting on the Charter-carved hilt of his belt knife. His eyes narrowed at a crooked bell tower that leaned slightly over the square. “Gone. Long ago, by the look of things. But not all at once.”

He pointed at the ground. Arlo followed his gaze.

Footprints—dozens of them—pressed into the mud around the square. Some were small, some not. But all led one direction: away from the tower.

Arlo stepped closer to it. The tower was made of old stone and wood beams, reinforced in places with strips of iron. Charter Marks had been carved into its frame—protection runes, mostly—but they’d been half-scratched away, as if something had clawed at the walls from the inside.

Callan gave a low whistle. “Something bad happened here. But not loud, not sudden. Quiet. Like rot.”

They set up camp in the lower level of a long-abandoned tavern. The fire pit still had ashes in it, though they were long cold. Arlo pulled Doggy—the wooden, Charter-marked dog charm he carried everywhere—from his coat and sat near the hearth while Callan laid wards around the windows.

“Do you think there are Dead here?” Arlo asked.

Callan glanced up. “Not sure. I didn’t feel anything coming in, and there weren’t any Binding Stones nearby. But this place…” He trailed off. “It has the stink of Free Magic.”

That made Arlo go quiet.

He hated Free Magic. It made his head ache, and once it had nearly torn a Charter mark right off his skin.

As night fell, they made a small fire from salvaged wood and shared dried meat and oatcakes. Arlo tried to sleep, but just before he drifted off, he heard it.

A bell.
Faint.
Far away.
One soft toll.

He sat up, heart pounding. “Dad—did you hear that?”

Callan was already standing.

“Yes,” he said. “It shouldn’t be ringing. That tower was broken.”

They left the tavern cautiously, weapons drawn.

The moon had risen behind a patch of clouds, casting the square in cold silver. Snow crackled underfoot as they made their way to the tower. Arlo kept Doggy clutched in one hand, his thumb tracing the carved marks in its back.

The door to the bell tower groaned open.

Inside was only darkness and dust—until Arlo’s fingers brushed something wet.

Callan struck a Charter light. The spell glowed amber in his palm, casting soft illumination around the circular stairwell.

Blood. Dried, yes, but newer than anything else they’d seen in town. A smear on the stone wall, and farther up, a drag trail.

Callan’s voice went tight. “Stay close.”

Arlo nodded. He wanted to be brave—he really did—but his legs shook as they climbed.

Halfway up the tower, they found the rope that once rang the bell. It had snapped and lay coiled on the floor like a discarded snake. But above them, the bell swayed slightly. There was no wind.

Something moved.

Not in the air. In the stone.

A crack formed on the inside wall, shaped like a crooked spiral. Arlo’s head throbbed as a pulse of wrongness pushed out from it, like a heartbeat.

The spiral deepened.

Callan whispered a Charter spell under his breath and flung it at the wall. The stone shuddered—but the spiral drank the magic, swallowing it in silence.

“Back,” he growled. “Now.”

They turned to flee, but the bell rang again.

This time, the sound wasn’t from above—it came from beneath.

Back in the square, Callan knelt and placed his palm to the earth. Charter Marks flowed from his fingers like molten gold, sinking into the ground.

Something resisted.

“Something’s buried here,” he said. “Bound by old Charterwork—and recently disturbed.”

“Is it Dead?” Arlo asked.

“No.” Callan frowned. “Worse. It’s unfinished. Like a spell that’s still being written.”

Then, just beyond the square, a scream rose into the air.

They both turned.

A figure stood at the edge of the ruined bridge. It was cloaked in rags, one arm trailing like it was broken. Charter Marks floated above its head, flickering and dying.

Its mouth opened—too wide—and it spoke in three voices at once.

“The bell has tolled. The guardian fails. The Cairn is listening.”

And then it fell apart, as though it had only ever been smoke.

Callan looked shaken.

“That was no Dead thing. That was a spell-projection.”

Arlo swallowed. “From who?”

But he already knew.

The Cairn.

Something in the soil. Something not alive, but not quite dead. Something built.

Callan rose, his voice hard. “We’re leaving. Now. We need to reach Nestowe, find a Charter stronghold. Whatever that thing was, it’s waking something old.”

Arlo nodded, clinging to Doggy.

He didn’t know what the Wurm-Cairn really was—not yet—but he could feel it watching him.

And somewhere in his bones, something remembered the shape of that spiral.