The chimes that marked the dawn in Corinth didn't so much ring as pricked the quiet. Each note, struck from some unseen, perfectly calibrated tower presumably ordained by Xellos himself, was meticulously pitched, perfectly timed, a shard of pure sound cutting through the lingering lake mist with a clarity that felt less like a gentle awakening and more like a summons, a subtle command woven into the very air.

There was no cheerful, chaotic overlap of forge hammers finding their rhythm, distant livestock complaining about the morning chill, and shouting children already deep in games of dubious rules that characterized Ebonheim's awakening.

Here, the sounds were measured, rationed: the rhythmic, almost metronomic click of guards' boots on stone flags swept unnervingly clean of even yesterday's dust, the low, pervasive hum from the geothermal vents Xellos had 'guided' the settlers to harness—a constant, subterranean sigh beneath the town—the polite, almost hushed murmur of voices exchanging necessary, pre-approved greetings in the market square as shutters opened in perfect synchronicity.

It was the sound of order, scraped clean of life's messy, unpredictable edges, leaving behind a silence that felt heavier than noise.

Rhys felt the chime's precision deep in his bones, a dull, resonant ache that seemed to have settled there sometime in the last few years, a counterpoint to the old aches from sword-work and hard marches. He swung his legs over the side of the simple, sturdy bedframe—identical, he knew, down to the grain pattern in the wood, to every other bedframe in their designated housing block—the floorboards cool and unnaturally smooth beneath his bare feet.

Ten years ago, he'd followed Gareth and Miriam into this valley, dreaming of open land, of soil he could turn with his own hands and call his own, of escaping the metallic tang of blood and the bone-deep weariness of mercenary life.

He had land now, a plot assigned with crisp efficiency by the Corinth council (whose decisions always, always seemed to perfectly mirror Xellos's subtly voiced suggestions during the Evening Devotions), fertile enough, yielding harvests predictable down to the last bushel.

Yet, the soil felt… borrowed. Rented from some unseen landlord. The air, clean as it was, scrubbed free of Ebonheim's rich, chaotic scents, felt thin, sterile, lacking the vital tang of wild growth and decay.

He pulled on his tunic—plain, grey, serviceable, the color mandated for this season's work cycle, like all the tunics distributed from the communal stores—the roughspun fabric scratching faintly against his skin, a constant, minor irritation.

Miriam was already moving in the small cottage's main room, a space defined by its stark functionality, her movements economical, practiced, honed by years of habit into something that lacked any wasted motion. Her blacksmith's hands, hands that could coax stubborn beauty and unyielding strength from raw, protesting iron, hands he remembered wielding a hammer with fierce joy, now moved with a quiet, almost painful restraint as she stoked the small, neatly contained hearth fire.

The calluses were still there, thick and familiar on her palms, but the fire in her eyes, the one that had first drawn him to her amidst the deafening clangor and soaring heat of Redmoor's forges, seemed banked low, carefully guarded behind a placid surface.

"Morning," he murmured, the word feeling intrusive, too loud in the carefully regulated quiet of the cottage.

Miriam turned, offering a smile that arrived on her face with perfect timing but felt… constructed. Assembled. Perfectly pleasant, perfectly symmetrical, lacking the old, easy warmth that used to crinkle the corners of her eyes and make her whole face light up. "Morning, Rhys. The porridge is ready. Thom's already eaten, gone to the irrigation fields." She gestured vaguely towards the small, cramped loft space above. "Aleya… still abed. Needs her rest."

The last words held a faint tremor, quickly suppressed.

Rhys poured himself a bowl of the thick, greyish porridge from the pot hanging over the fire. It steamed obligingly, releasing a scent that was merely… warm. It tasted, as always, perfectly adequate. Nourishing, filling, calculated for sustenance, and utterly devoid of character or spice. Like Corinth itself.

He ate standing by the single, perfectly square window, looking out not at the charming, haphazard sprawl of Ebonheim with its unexpected gardens and leaning fences, but at neat, unrelenting rows of identical cottages. Each possessed its precisely tended patch of grey-green, unnaturally uniform moss for a lawn—real grass, apparently, was too unpredictable, too prone to weeds. Each chimney emitted a perfectly regulated plume of pale smoke, dissipating quickly into the clean air.

Order. Efficiency.

Xellos's gifts, they were constantly reminded during the Evening Devotions. Gifts that felt increasingly like chains.

He remembered Redmoor—noisy, yes, thick with the stench of coal smoke and unwashed bodies, dangerous in its shadowed alleys—but undeniably alive. A glorious, unpredictable, sprawling mess of shouting vendors hawking dubious wares, clashing guilds vying for contracts and territory, sudden, brutal brawls erupting over spilled ale or perceived insults, and just as sudden, unexpected kindnesses offered by strangers.

Here, kindness felt scheduled, distributed according to need as assessed by the council. Politeness was mandated, a social lubricant applied to ensure smooth function, devoid of genuine warmth. Even the weather seemed hesitant to deviate from predictable patterns—fewer sudden storms, less biting frost, a general smoothing out of extremes since Xellos's influence had solidified over the valley's subtle energies.

A muffled thump from the loft announced Aleya's awakening. She descended the ladder, her movements lacking the coltish, unpredictable energy she'd possessed even a year ago.

At eighteen, her face, which still held the ghost of her childhood roundness, bore a seriousness, a quiet resignation, that didn't quite sit right on her young features. Her eyes, once bright with a fierce, sometimes challenging curiosity that reminded him so much of Miriam, now held a placid, almost vacant sheen that Rhys found deeply, profoundly unsettling.

It was like looking at polished water with no current beneath. She wore the same plain tunic as her parents, her dark hair, once worn in wild braids, pulled back severely from her face, emphasizing the starkness of her expression.

"Good morning, Father. Mother," she intoned, her voice flat, devoid of inflection. She moved directly to the table, poured herself a bowl of porridge, sat, and began eating at a measured pace.

No complaints about the taste, no sleepy chatter about strange dreams or plans for the day.

Just… eating. Filling a need.

Rhys's hand, halfway to his own bowl for a second helping he didn't really want, paused mid-air. He caught Miriam's eye across the small room; her knuckles were white where she gripped the hearth brush, just for a second, a flash of fierce maternal pain, before her grip loosened and the usual placid mask slid back into place.

Thom, their son, now twenty and fully integrated into the Corinthian system, had embraced the town's order with an unnerving, unquestioning enthusiasm. He excelled in the communal fields, followed every directive from the council overseers without demur, and spoke often, with genuine conviction, of Xellos's wisdom and foresight in guiding their community.

He seemed genuinely content, thriving in the rigid structure that chafed so badly against Rhys's own nature. But Aleya… she seemed to be fading, her vibrant, sometimes contrary spirit smoothed away day by day, like a bright river stone worn down by the relentless, polishing current.

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"Aleya," Rhys began, forcing lightness into his voice, a cheerfulness that felt brittle. "Helping your mother with the mending today? I saw that pile growing rather large."

Aleya finished a spoonful, swallowed precisely, before answering, her gaze still fixed on the whorls in the wooden table. "Yes, Father. As scheduled. Communal Mending Circle, third bell. Then communal weaving practice, fifth bell. Followed by the Evening Devotion." Each item was ticked off like entries in a ledger.

The Evening Devotion. Every single night.

Attendance wasn't officially mandatory, Xellos had assured them with his silken smile, but the social pressure was immense. Those who missed it, even for genuine illness, found themselves subtly ostracized, their neighbors suddenly distant and preoccupied, their requests for supplies from the communal stores or assistance with heavy tasks mysteriously delayed or overlooked.

Xellos himself often presided, his unsettlingly smooth voice weaving hypnotic tales of order, necessity, communal harmony, and the quiet, profound joys of submission to a greater, wiser plan.

Rhys usually found urgent excuses to be working late in the farthest fields during those times. Miriam often claimed debilitating fatigue. Thom never missed one, his face rapt with attention. Aleya went, her face blank, her eyes distant.

Miriam placed a hand on Aleya's shoulder, a brief, warm pressure. "Perhaps after weaving, you could visit the dye vats? Old Elara mentioned needing help sorting the pigments yesterday. Her eyes aren't what they used to be."

Aleya looked up, and for a fleeting instant, Rhys saw a flicker of something – confusion? Hope? A spark of the old Aleya? – in her eyes. "But… that is not on the schedule, Mother."

"A small deviation," Miriam said, her voice soft but carrying an unusual firmness, a quiet rebellion Rhys hadn't heard in months. "A necessary service to the community, to help an elder. Xellos teaches us the value of communal support, does he not? Elara requires aid."

Aleya hesitated, her brow furrowing slightly as she processed this unscheduled possibility. Then, she gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. "Yes, Mother. Communal support." The brief spark in her eyes dimmed again, extinguished by the weight of routine.

Rhys finished his porridge, the bland, vaguely oaten taste lingering like ash on his tongue. He rinsed his bowl in the basin, the water running unnervingly clear and tasting faintly of ozone from the Magitech faucet—another of Xellos's much-lauded 'improvements'. He grabbed his worn cloak, its familiar weight a small comfort, and his farming tools, pausing at the door, his hand on the perfectly smooth latch.

"I'll be late tonight," he said, his gaze sliding past Miriam's, unable to meet the question he knew was in her eyes. "Checking the southern irrigation channels again. Make sure the flow is optimal."

Miriam nodded, the understanding passing between them unspoken, a silent conspiracy against the town's suffocating order. "Be safe, Rhys."

He stepped outside into the perfectly ordered street. Neighbors emerged from identical cottages at precisely the same moment, offering perfectly polite, perfectly synchronized greetings as they headed towards their assigned morning tasks.

"Blessings of Xellos upon your day, Neighbor Rhys."

"And upon yours, Neighbor Elms."

The words felt hollow, rehearsed, stripped of any genuine warmth or spontaneity. Like lines spoken by actors in a play they hadn't chosen.

He walked towards the fields, deliberately avoiding the central plaza. But even from a distance, he could feel its presence, the cold weight of the obsidian altar at its heart—smooth, featureless, absorbing the light, cold to the touch even on the warmest summer days.

No carvings adorned it, no offerings of wildflowers or hand-carved tokens like at Ebonheim's vibrant shrine. Just the stark, imposing presence of the black stone, where citizens left small, uniform tokens of prescribed gratitude—perfectly polished river stones arranged in neat patterns, perfectly woven strands of identical grey-green grass.

Above it, suspended by unseen forces that seemed to draw the eye inward, pulsed the sphere of shifting grey light—Xellos's focal point, they were told, his ever-watchful eye, through which he observed them, guided them, ensured their harmony.

Rhys always felt its gaze, a cold, dispassionate weight on the back of his neck, like the scrutiny of an insect collector pinning a specimen.

He saw Gareth standing near the altar, overseeing the morning guard change.

The former mercenary captain, the man Rhys had bled alongside, laughed alongside, looked older now, his face harder, etched with lines of duty rather than mirth. The easy camaraderie Rhys remembered, the rough-and-ready spirit of their old band, was gone, replaced by a stern, unwavering efficiency. His armor was immaculate, polished to a mirror shine, his movements precise, economical.

He still led the town guard, but they felt less like protectors and more like enforcers now, their eyes constantly scanning the populace, noting any deviation from the norm – a tunic slightly askew, a step out of sync with the morning procession, a conversation that lasted a moment too long. Their gazes lingered, assessing, judging.

Rhys kept his head down, focusing on the perfectly spaced cobblestones beneath his boots, and continued towards the fields. The crops grew in perfect, unnerving rows, unnaturally uniform in height and color, as if painted onto the landscape.

The irrigation system, designed with input from Xellos himself during one of his 'guidance sessions' with the council, delivered water through hidden conduits.

Harvests were predictable, bountiful, easily meeting the town's needs, with the surplus managed efficiently, centrally, by the council.

There was no blight, no unexpected frost snapping tender shoots, no sudden, worrying drought. It should have been reassuring, a testament to stability and foresight.

Instead, it felt… dead. Sterile. Like the wildness, the unpredictable, messy vitality of life, had been carefully, methodically pruned away, leaving only perfect, lifeless order.

He spent the day working the soil, the familiar rhythm of the labor—the turn of the spade, the pull of weeds (though there were suspiciously few), the ache in his shoulders—a small, grounding comfort in the pervasive strangeness. He spoke little with the other farmers, their conversations limited to necessary exchanges about tools, water levels, or the precise timing of the next nutrient distribution cycle.

There was none of the easy banter about weather or wives, none of the shared jokes passed down through generations, none of the companionable grumbling about aching backs or stubborn mules that he remembered from his brief time helping in Ebonheim's chaotic, vibrant fields years ago.

Here, work was work.

Efficient. Silent. Productive. Joyless.

As dusk began to paint the sky in muted, predictable tones of grey and purple, Rhys finished his supposed work on the southern channels. He deliberately took the long way back, skirting the edge of the woods that bordered Corinth, the trees here still retaining a semblance of their wild nature, resisting the town's encroaching order.

He needed the quiet, the relative wildness, the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, to clear the oppressive weight of Corinth from his head before facing another Evening Devotion he couldn't bring himself to attend, another night of feigned fatigue or fabricated excuses.

He paused by the stream, the water chuckling and gurgling over moss-slick stones—one of the few natural, unpredictable, living sounds left near the town. He knelt, splashing the cool, clean water on his face, letting it sting his eyes.

As he looked up, blinking away the droplets, he saw it again—a flicker of movement in the deepening shadows of the trees across the stream. Not an animal this time, he was sure. Something… humanoid, cloaked and moving with unnatural silence.

His hand instinctively went to the sturdy utility knife he always carried tucked in his belt. He stayed low, hidden by the riverside reeds, watching, listening. The figure moved again, a brief silhouette against the darkening woods, cloaked and masked, melting back into the shadows with practiced ease.

A guard patrol? No, their movements were too precise, too… furtive, too skilled at blending in.

Was it one of Xellos's own agents, his unseen enforcers ensuring compliance even out here? Or something else entirely, drawn to the strange energies of Corinth?

The figure was gone.

Rhys waited, straining his ears, listening past the gentle murmur of the stream, but heard nothing but the sigh of the wind through the pines and the distant, insistent chime calling the faithful to devotion. He rose slowly, his muscles tense, his earlier unease returning tenfold, sharper now, more defined.

Corinth felt safe, orderly, predictable on its surface. But perhaps that was just another carefully constructed veneer, polished smooth and bright to hide the rot, the shadows, the unseen watchers lurking just beneath the surface.

He turned back towards the town, towards the perfectly aligned cottages lined up like teeth in a too-perfect, unnerving smile, the cold obsidian altar waiting in the plaza like an unblinking eye. The weight in the twilight air wasn't just unspoken questions anymore; it felt like dust settling on something already dead, something hollowed out and waiting.

The perfectly pitched chimes began to sound for the Evening Devotion, each note falling sharp and precise, like pins dropped onto glass, demanding attention, demanding compliance.

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