The sound of the Bell echoed in Nima's mind long after she released it.
The vibrations rippled through her, threading into her very soul, making her limbs tremble with the weight of something ancient, something too vast to comprehend. She stood there, her hand still on the cold metal, as the woman beside the Bell watched her in silence, her eyes glowing faintly.
For a moment, Nima thought she had gone mad. The world around her felt unreal, like a dream that might vanish when she woke. The Song—it filled her mind, the endless hum that throbbed beneath her thoughts. And yet, beneath it, she heard something else: whispers.
Faint, ethereal voices, speaking in languages she couldn't understand. They twisted and wove through her, like threads of light in the dark. Each word felt like a memory, but not one of her own.
The woman beside the Bell tilted her head, studying Nima with a knowing gaze. "You have heard it now," she said softly. "You have heard the Song."
Nima took a slow, shuddering breath. "I hear it," she said, her voice hoarse. "But I don't understand it."
The woman smiled, though there was no warmth in it. "You are not meant to understand. Understanding is an illusion, a fleeting thing. The Song calls to those who are ready to listen, and you—"
She paused, her gaze lingering on Nima's face. "You are more ready than you think."
Nima didn't know what to say to that. Her thoughts were fragmented, spinning in a dizzying circle. The Bell, the Song, the voices in her head—it was all too much, too overwhelming.
But Dmitri, standing just behind her, broke the silence. His voice was low, tinged with fear. "What is this place? What is it that you want from us?"
The woman turned her gaze to Dmitri, and for a moment, her expression softened, as though something about him intrigued her. "What I want," she said slowly, "is nothing. What you want, however, is everything."
Dmitri's brow furrowed. "I don't want anything."
The woman's smile deepened, but there was no joy in it. "You think you do not want, but everyone who comes here does. The Bell calls to your deepest desires, your most buried longings. It knows you, Dmitri. It has always known you."
Nima felt a chill crawl down her spine. Dmitri didn't respond, but his eyes widened, and his breath hitched as though something had struck him.
"You know my name," Dmitri whispered. "How?"
"Names are not important," the woman replied, her voice as soft as the rustling of leaves. "It is the Song that speaks, not me. And it speaks to those who are destined to hear it."
The room grew quieter, the hum of the Bell the only sound that filled the air, and yet Nima couldn't shake the feeling that something else was waiting to emerge, hidden just beneath the surface of everything.
The woman stepped closer to Nima, her movements slow and deliberate. "I am the Weaver," she said, her voice now resonating with a quiet power. "I am the one who guides the Song, the one who shapes the threads of fate that bind you to this world."
Nima frowned, trying to piece together the fragments of what was being said. "Fate?" she echoed. "You're saying the Bell has something to do with fate?"
The Weaver nodded. "Not just the Bell. The Song itself is the thread that weaves the fates of all things. Past, present, future—it is all bound together by the Song. And you, Nima, are part of that thread."
Nima stepped back, shaking her head. "I don't understand. How can I be a part of something so… so massive?"
"The Bell does not choose its listeners," the Weaver said softly. "It calls to those who are already woven into the pattern. The Song is older than the world itself, older than time. It has always been. And you, Nima, are part of it."
Dmitri shifted behind her, his unease palpable. "So what happens now?" His voice trembled. "What are we supposed to do?"
The Weaver's eyes flickered, and for a moment, something darker passed across her face. "What happens now is not for me to decide. The Bell will choose. It always does."
Nima's heart pounded in her chest. "Choose what?"
"Choose you," the Weaver replied, her tone final. "The Bell calls for the chosen. Those who answer it are given the chance to fulfill their purpose. To live or to die, to rise or to fall—it is all in the Song. The Bell knows your soul. It knows what you need."
Nima swallowed, her mouth dry. "And if we don't answer?"
The Weaver's lips parted, but no sound came out, only the echo of the Song. Her expression remained unreadable, like a mask forged from stone. "The Song does not ask permission," she said, her voice a soft whisper. "It does not wait. And you cannot escape it."
Nima's mind whirled as the weight of the Weaver's words pressed down on her. This was not what she had imagined. This was not what she had expected. She thought she had come here to find answers, to confront whatever darkness was spreading through the land, but now… now it felt as though the questions had multiplied, shifting and twisting into something far more complex.
The Weaver turned toward the Bell, her hands outstretched, and for a moment, Nima thought she might begin to sing. But the Song did not come from her. It came from the Bell, deep and resonant, vibrating the very air around them.
Nima stepped forward, her heart racing. "What does the Bell want from us? What is the price?"
The Weaver did not look at her. She simply stood there, her gaze fixed on the Bell. "The price," she said quietly, "is always the same. The Song demands a soul."
A soul.
Nima's blood turned cold.
Dmitri took a step back, his face pale. "A soul? But… but it's just a Bell. It can't…"
The Weaver turned to him, her expression unreadable. "It is not just a Bell. It is the gate. The Song does not care for the lives it touches. It is beyond that. The Bell calls, and those who answer will give their soul in exchange for the truth."
"The truth?" Nima asked, the words heavy with dread.
"The truth of everything," the Weaver said, her voice like silk. "The truth of the world, of the dead, of the endless cycle that binds you all. But be warned—once you hear the Song, once you answer the Bell, there is no turning back. The path will be set before you, and you will follow it until the end."
Nima's mind raced. She had come so far, and yet she didn't feel any closer to understanding what was happening. The Song, the Bell, the Weaver—what was it all leading to?
"Is that all?" she asked, her voice trembling with frustration. "Is that all there is to this? A choice between life and death?"
The Weaver did not answer at first. She simply stared at Nima, her gaze piercing, as though searching for something deep within her. And then, at last, she spoke.
"There is always more to the story, Nima. But first, you must listen."
The Bell tolled again.
And Nima felt her soul tremble.