The bell rang only once.But its echo traveled for hours.
Not through air.
Through memory.
The girl froze halfway up the ridge.Her eyes glazed.
Mouth opened.
But no words came out.
Only names.
Spilling like blood from her lips.
None of them hers.
None of them real.
The boy grabbed her shoulders.
Shook her.
"Come back."
She blinked.
Just once.
Then whispered:
"He's inside me."
They reached the shrine by dusk.
It wasn't built.It grew.
From bones.From broken thoughts.From prayers never meant to be answered.
The walls bled scripture.Letters twisted and wrong.
Every name carved into stone was his.
The Prophet.
Not a man.Not a god.
A mistake.
A dream left unchecked.
A thought too powerful to forget.
They found him kneeling in the center.
Back to them.Cloaked in parchment.
Hands dripping ink.
He was writing—
on air.
Every stroke bled into the world.
Etching new truths.
New chains.
New names.
He didn't look up.
Didn't need to.
"You've brought her back," he said.
His voice was quiet madness.
Not loud.But final.
The girl stepped back.
Her hands trembled.
The boy moved between them.
Sword ready.
The Prophet chuckled.
"You came without a name."
"Bold."
"Empty."
"Correct."
The shrine pulsed.
Reality flickered.
The trees outside became doors.
The sky rewrote itself.
The girl gasped.
"I—I remember this place."
The boy frowned.
"You were born here?"
She nodded.
"No. Worse."
"I was named here."
The Prophet rose.
He had no face.
Only a mouth.
Stitched into a grin.
From ear to ear.
He held a book.
No cover.
No spine.
Just a thousand pages—each one bound in someone else's memory.
He offered it to the boy.
"Write your name."
"Be real."
"Or be forgotten."
The girl whispered, "Don't. That's how he traps them."
But the boy stepped forward.
Held the book.
Felt it writhe.
It whispered names in his voice.
All the ones he might've been.
He set it down.
Unopened.
Looked the Prophet in his stitched smile.
And said:
"I'm not yours."
The Prophet hissed.
Ink exploded from his sleeves.
Words turned to snakes.
Scripture to chains.
The shrine howled.
The boy moved.
The blade cut.
But the chains dodged into the wound.
They knew him.
Knew where he bled.Where he broke.
Where he still doubted.
The girl screamed.
The Prophet laughed.
And the sky cracked open.
A name fell out.
His.
The boy's real name.
Burned into the sky like a curse.
Not spoken.
Revealed.
He dropped to his knees.
Breath caught in his throat.
He remembered everything.
The chains.The Vaults.The girl.
Himself.
His hand tightened on the blade.
He whispered the name.
Not for power.
For closure.
And the sword answered:
"That is enough."
The name burned out.
Erased.
The sky healed.
And the Prophet shrieked.
His scripture unwrote itself.
His book caught flame.
Pages turned to ash.
One by one.
Until none remained.
When it ended—
only the boy and girl stood.
The shrine gone.
The air still.
No chains.No ink.No names.
Just silence.
She looked at him.
Eyes wide.
"You remembered."
He nodded.
She asked:
"What did it cost?"
He looked down at his hands.
Fading at the edges.
"I don't think I exist the same way anymore."
But she touched him.
Held his face.
And whispered:
"You exist to me."
And for now—
that was enough.
Far in the west—
another Vault opened.
This one wept flowers.
Each petal a different scream.
The blade pulsed.
And whispered:
"The garden has awakened."
To be continued…