Chapter 9: Chapter 9 – The Soundless Village
They left the Woundscape by midday.
The girl didn't speak at first.
Neither did he.
The silence between them wasn't empty — it was full of echoes. Of screams that never quite made sound. Of shadows that bled. Of a blade that now belonged to her.
She kept staring at it.
Not because it was beautiful.
Because it had listened.
⸻
"Where are we going?" she finally asked.
He didn't look back.
"East. Toward the old riverlines."
"What's there?"
He paused.
Then:
"Things that forgot how to die."
⸻
They passed through low brush, into a dead grove of barkless trees.
Then over a ridge where a single wooden sign stood, carved in old tongue.
The girl squinted. "What's it say?"
"No Mourning Here."
She frowned. "Creepy."
He stepped past it.
"Worse than creepy."
⸻
They found the village an hour later.
Not ruins. Not burned.
Just… silent.
No voices. No birds. No footsteps.
The buildings stood tall, intact, untouched by time — but the doors were all open, and not a single window was broken.
As if the people had simply stood up and vanished.
⸻
The girl whispered, "What is this place?"
He answered without turning.
"Venn Hollow."
"You know it?"
"I buried someone here."
She paused. "Who?"
He didn't answer.
⸻
They walked between the buildings. No signs of struggle. No blood. Just absence.
And the bells.
Dozens of them, hung on threads, above every doorframe.
Not moving.
Not even in the wind.
She reached up to touch one.
He grabbed her wrist.
"Don't."
She blinked. "Why?"
"If the bells ring," he said slowly, "they remember we were here."
They passed under the arch of an old smithy.
The anvil was still warm.
No coals.
No fire.
Just… warmth.
The girl's hand hovered near it.
"Someone's still here."
"No," he said.
"They just haven't finished leaving."
⸻
They set up a mock circle in the center of the village square. No spectators. Just bell ropes hanging around them like loose nooses.
He drew a dull blade and tossed one to her.
It clattered at her feet.
"Pick it up."
She frowned. "What are we doing?"
He pulled his scarf tighter. "You need to learn to move. Real combat isn't swings and stances. It's instinct."
She raised her blade awkwardly. "What if I mess up?"
He gestured to the bells.
"Then they'll hear us."
⸻
The first strike came fast.
Too fast.
She ducked — barely — the blade kissing air above her shoulder.
Then again.
And again.
Each movement forced her inward — no time to think, only react.
⸻
Her back bumped a hanging bell.
It didn't ring.
But it swayed.
She froze.
He didn't.
He swept her leg and dropped her flat on her back.
"Why'd you stop?"
"The bell—"
"If you freeze, you die."
She glared up at him. "Easy for you to say."
"No," he said. "It's never easy. That's the point."
⸻
They reset.
Again.
And again.
Until she stopped hesitating.
Until the bell swayed — and she didn't even blink.
Until her blade caught his, sparks flying in the silence like tiny screams.
Until she knocked him back three steps, panting.
⸻
He lowered his guard.
Nodded once.
"Better."
Then his eyes narrowed.
He turned.
And looked toward the chapel.
⸻
Smoke rose.
But not fire.
Not warmth.
A cold gray vapor drifting from the chapel doors — like breath from a mouth long dead.
The bells there were already ringing.
No wind.
No movement.
Just the sound of remembrance.
⸻
The Ashwalker stepped between her and the sound.
"We're not alone."
She gripped her practice blade tighter. "Ashwatchers?"
"No," he said quietly.
"Something older."
The bell tones thickened.
Not louder — just closer.
The girl felt it in her chest, not her ears.
A pressure behind her heartbeat.
The chapel doors creaked open.
And something stepped out.
⸻
Not a person.
Not anymore.
A sentinel wrapped in prayer ropes.
Skin like lacquered wood.
No face — just a bronze bell where the head should be, etched with sigils long abandoned by the eastern scriptlords.
It moved with purpose, but no speed.
It wasn't hunting.
It was checking.
For what?
Intruders.
⸻
The Ashwalker whispered, "Don't speak. Don't breathe unless I say."
The girl nodded.
He stepped forward, knelt before the bellmarked figure, and placed his right hand over his own chest.
Then over his mouth.
Then over the ground.
Three signs.
Ancient.
Binding.
The sentinel paused.
⸻
The bell atop its shoulders rang once — not with sound, but light.
A pale pulse.
It flowed over the Ashwalker.
Over the girl.
Then stopped.
⸻
The Ashwalker turned.
Kneeling before the girl now, he drew a dagger and cut a shallow line across his palm.
She tensed.
"Give me your hand."
"What—"
"Now."
She obeyed.
He did the same — a shallow cut — and pressed their hands together.
His blood into hers.
Hers into his.
Then he spoke in the old tongue:
"I name you under ash, under breath, under bound oath.
You are of the wind. You are of the silence.
You are mine — not to own, but to carry."
The sentinel watched.
Then turned.
And walked back into the chapel.
The doors closed.
The bells stopped.
Only ash remained.
⸻
The girl stared at him, breath unsteady.
"What did you do?"
He stood, wiping his hand clean.
"I named you."
"I have a name."
He shook his head.
"Not one the old world recognizes."
She frowned. "And now?"
He looked her dead in the eyes.
"Now they can't take you."