The wastelands that stretched before them were known as the Desolate Crescendo—a barren soundscape where music, voice, and even thought seemed to falter. Kiel and Myra had trekked for two days without hearing a single bird, insect, or breeze. The silence was oppressive.
But then the Tower appeared.
It did not rise—it loomed, as if it had always been there, waiting for someone to notice. Made of obsidian and fossilized soundwaves, it vibrated softly, like a giant tuning fork in mourning. From a distance, the Tower of the Forgotten Bell resembled a cracked metronome held upright by invisible strings.
"This is the first Chime?" Myra asked, tightening her grip on her phase-spear.
Kiel nodded. "The Tower holds the first of three. The Chimes are not physical bells… they're moments."
The tower doors were already open. Inside was a spiral stair, and with each step upward, faint whispers filled the air—fragments of lullabies, war chants, funeral dirges. The very memory of sound.
"This place is alive with forgotten echoes," Kiel said, touching a wall. It responded by replaying a child's laughter, followed by abrupt silence.
They reached the summit where an altar stood, and above it, a floating bell made of translucent crystal. It hung suspended in midair, unmoving, unringing.
A guardian waited beneath it—a humanoid figure bound in chains of silence, faceless but emanating grief. It stepped forward and bowed slightly, then raised a flute carved from bone.
The duel began.
With no words exchanged, the guardian played a single note—and the tower trembled.
Kiel stepped forward, arms raised. "I don't want to destroy you."
The guardian replied with another note—a minor chord of sorrow so deep Myra fell to her knees, clutching her ears.
Kiel's glyphs ignited. He drew in the resonance, his hands glowing with ancient frequency. "Then let's sing."
He answered with a pulse of harmonic energy, forming runes mid-air that clashed with the note, creating a burst of phantom winds. The guardian danced between them, flute whirling in a rhythm that made shadows bend.
Myra crawled to the altar. "There's something… written…"
She squinted at the inscription:
"Only one who sings not to be heard, but to be remembered, may ring the Chime."
Kiel hesitated mid-duel.
That was the secret. Not power. Not dominion. Memory.
He closed his eyes and whispered—not in power, but in remembrance—a lullaby his mother had once sung before the Void consumed her.
The melody floated across the chamber. The guardian froze, the flute slipping from its grasp. The bell above shimmered.
Then it rang.
Not with sound, but with emotion—a chord that resonated with loss, hope, and resolve. Myra gasped as time itself seemed to shudder around them.
The guardian bowed once more and dissipated into a mist of song.
The first Chime was his.
---
Outside the tower, a ripple echoed across the world. Across distant realms, beings old and hidden turned their eyes.
One whispered, "He has begun the Restoration."
Another, "He seeks his name."
In the deep dark, a voice laughed. "Then let's remind him why he forgot it in the first place."
---
Kiel stood silently, watching the sky twist with new stars forming in impossible constellations.
"One Chime down," he said, voice steady.
"Two to go," Myra replied. "And something tells me they won't be as welcoming."
"No," Kiel said, smiling bitterly. "But now… I remember why I started."