CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

The Mind Splinters

The Obelisk's secret clung to me like damp ash, the knowledge that people had died there—recently, silently. Somewhere a lone bell tolled the wrong hour, hollow and distant, and I never discovered where the bell was hung. The voices of the dead never stopped, a relentless tide of whispers, screams, and sobs, blending human and beast until I couldn't tell one from another.

They drowned out the living. When a guard greeted me outside the market his voice warped into a plea, and for a blink his face wore a stiff paper mask that vanished the moment I focused. My mind bent under the weight, and knowing it was slipping was the worst part, like watching rope fray strand by strand, unable to stop it. The voices were everywhere, inescapable, driving me to flee their grasp.

I hid in District 97's shadows, Hazeveil cloaking me, my mist locked tight but trembling to escape. The Prophet's Tongue, still in its cracked jar, pulsed in my Storage Ring. Each day the fissure widened, glass groaning under an unseen pressure. When I lifted the jar my fingertips tingled as if I were touching a live tooth, wrong and electric.

I hadn't slept in weeks—my body let me go days without rest, but even I had limits, and I'd passed them long ago. My eyes burned, my hands shook, and my tentacles twitched, ready to strike at threats that weren't there. Every creak, every gust, set my instincts ablaze, my body locked in a fighting stance, expecting beasts or blades. I felt exposed, raw, like the fog itself was watching.

Visions came unbidden—silhouettes in doorways, shadows slithering across walls, reflections in windows showing faces that weren't mine. The dead walked District 97, translucent and bold, drifting beside the living who didn't see them.

A woman lingered by a bakery, her hands reaching for a child who laughed, oblivious. A guard's echo trailed a patrol, its head bowed, as if mourning its own end. They tried to speak, to touch, their gestures desperate but silent, and I was their only witness.

As the fissure spidered, the ghosts acquired weight and colour. Their laments knotted into a warped playground rhyme, a dozen children chanting through cracked throats:

"Skrit… skrat… tongue of glass—

crack and spill, let daylight pass."

The sing-song cadence braided with adult screams, sweet and sick in the same breath. I mashed my palms over my ears; frost burst beneath my boots, yet the chorus slid between my fingers like splinters. "You left us. You let it break." The jar throbbed inside the ring, each pulse begging the crack to open wider.

One figure stood apart, towering over the rest, one that seemed more like some kind of priest. Over seven feet tall, gaunt and swaying, its translucent form shimmered, woven from fog, its tattered robes trailing like smoke.

The glyphs on its mantle glowed faintly, pulsing in time with my crimson core, and its hood hid all but a shadowed jaw and hollow eyes, pinpricks of white light burning with sorrow. It followed me everywhere, materializing in alleys or in the outer streets where the breach's toll was heaviest.

Its skeletal hands clutched an invisible object, and a low hum—like distant bells, trailed it, chilling my bones. The other dead faded when it appeared, their voices dimming as its cut through, clear and mournful.

"The glass frays, the veil thins," it whispered, circling me in a ruined plaza, its robes brushing Hazeveil without touch. "Seal it, or all is lost." Its eyes gleamed, heavy with grief, as if it carried every death in District 97.

I ignored it at first, retreating to a crumbling rooftop, the jar in my hands. The crack was wider now, a jagged wound, the tongue inside twitching violently, slick and black, pulsing like a heart. I'd tried everything—tape, resin, new jars, but nothing held it like this glass, plain yet unnatural.

The more I searched for answers, the more I imagined hurling the artifact into the fog, letting it sink into the endless bridge or someplace similar. But my instincts flared, a deep dread warning that freeing it would unleash something worse—something the fog might claim and twist. The tongue bridged the living and the dead, its power clear in every scream, every vision, and I was its keeper, cursed or not.

I recharged Wulric almost daily, perched on the Frost Titan's shoulder, his icy form a cold comfort. Below, the dead walked openly, their translucent shapes weaving through District 97's streets.

A man lingered by a forge, his hands mimicking a hammer's swing, unseen by workers. A child's echo clutched a rag doll, trailing a woman who didn't look back. They gestured to me, pointing at ruins, their mouths moving in silent pleas. Some reached for the living, fingers passing through shoulders, faces crumpling in despair. Were they echoes, or something more? I didn't know.

They followed me, their numbers growing, their forms clearer as the jar's crack widened, glass creaking in my hands.

I fled to reclusion, avoiding streets, hiding in abandoned sheds or high perches. The district changed around me; people stopped walking at night, their lanterns dim, their faces pale. Alleys where the dead lingered were avoided, doors bolted, whispers of "haunted" grounds spreading.

Guards reported shadows moving, workers swore they felt eyes in empty rooms. They saw less than I did, faint glimpses of what I drowned in, but it was enough. The tongue's influence was spreading.

The Priest was relentless, its presence a constant weight. It materialized near a breached wall, its robes swaying, glyphs glowing. "The glass splinters, the veil frays," it whispered, its voice layered, mournful, cutting through the other dead's screams. The dead stilled, their eyes fixed on it, reverent, as if it spoke their pain. "Ash to broth, broth to breath, breath to birth. Seal it, or the realms bleed." Its hollow eyes bore into me, sorrow etched in every line, a priest who'd failed his own flock.

I tried to argue, crouched in a derelict shed, the jar trembling in my grip. "I've tried everything," I rasped, my voice raw from disuse. "New jars, seals, but nothing works."

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"The glass splinters," it intoned, circling me, its hum rattling my bones. "Seek the truth to bind it."

"What truth?" I snapped, mist leaking, frosting the shed's walls. The Priest didn't answer, its robes brushing Hazeveil, amplifying the tongue's whispers. Exhaustion clawed at me, my consciousness slipping, brief blackouts stealing minutes before the voices yanked me back. The dead crowded closer, a chainrunner's echo with a slashed throat, a woman's shade clutching a broken locket, their eyes pleading. The Priest loomed largest, its warnings a litany. "The veil frays, the tongue unbound," it said, over and over, until I wanted to scream. Its words weren't mine alone to bear; the district felt the curse's weight too.

Others noticed now, guards muttering about cold spots, workers swearing they saw shapes in fog. Night patrols dwindled, streets emptying after dusk, the district huddling in fear. The tongue's crack was a chasm now, the glass barely holding, the tongue writhing, its pulse syncing with my core.

In a ruined plaza, surrounded by the dead, I pulled the jar out, the tongue's whispers deafening, screams layered with sobs. "I'll destroy it," I spat, glaring at the Priest, its form flickering, the dead silent, watching it with awe. "If I can't contain it, I'll burn it, crush it, anything."

The Priest froze, its limbs stiffening, eyes flaring bright. For a moment, I thought it was angry, its reverence for the tongue clear in every glance. It had guarded it, maybe, in that cathedral long ago. But then it spoke, its voice clear, riddled yet simple. "Shatter to shape, end to birth. The cycle spins—break to forge anew." Its robes glowed, glyphs pulsing, sorrow softening its gaze, as if it saw hope in ruin.

I stared, my core surging, the idea taking root. Destruction was the path forward. The Priest's words echoed, the cycle of break and renewal stirring my thoughts. "Yes," I muttered. "Destruction… end to begin. Time to forge anew."

***

Crafting had always been a spark of joy, from my days hammering at Jharim's forge to the hours spent sketching Lucious' schematics, each rune and alloy a puzzle to solve. But now, crouched on a dark rooftop in District 97, the Prophet's Tongue clutched in trembling hands, that joy was gone.

The dead bunched along the tiles. They mouthed the same lilting rhyme, soft enough that meaning slithered rather than sounded:

"Skrit… skrat… stitch the cut,

silence the chat."

One shade no higher than my waist cocked its head and whispered straight into the marrow of my skull: "Break us clean, maker, bind us, or be bound." Ice webbed from my shaking knuckles. I could no longer tell whether the cold belonged to my mist or to them.

The idea of destroying the tongue had opened a door—destruction as renewal, the Priest's words echoing: Break to shape, end to birth. Melting the jar to reforge it seemed simple, but the crack's cause was a mystery.

If it broke once, it could again, its strange glass defying logic. Then it hit me: merge them. If this jar, plain yet unnatural, was the only thing containing the tongue's power, I'd fuse them—glass and flesh, artifact and curse—into one. The thought was absurd, almost laughable, if I weren't so desperate, my mind fraying under weeks without sleep, my core burning to act.

I started small, collecting glass fragments from the crack's edge, their edges sharp enough to cut my fingers, blood mixing with mist. In an empty alley, I ground them with a pestle, expecting brittle shards, but the glass resisted, unnervingly resilient, like bone under stone.

It yielded only after hours, reduced to a fine powder that glinted oddly, as if holding light no glass should. My tests confirmed it; chemically identical to common glass, yet its structure defied normal tools, bending before breaking.

The tongue was worse. I sliced slivers with a knife, each cut regenerating almost instantly, the flesh pulsing, mana flaring in wild arcs that scorched the ground. The dead crowded closer, silent but watching.

Lucious' workshop was my only refuge, its forges a familiar hum against the voices. I waited for night, when the workers left, their lanterns dim, the district huddling against the growing dread. Lucious caught me at dusk; I had become much noisier, unable to discern real sounds and visions from unreal ones.

His hazel eyes narrowing as I slipped in, Hazeveil trailing mist. "You're welcome to the space," he said, his voice warm but edged with worry, ink-stained hands pausing over a schematic. "Someone who gets art like you? Always. But, kid, you look like you haven't slept in a month."

His face flickered, melting before my eyes, cheeks sliding, eyes pooling into black. I blinked, hard, my core steadying. It wasn't real, just another hallucination, like the shadows twisting in mirrors. My mind library held firm, a fragile anchor against the tongue's madness, but susceptible to it.

"Thanks," I muttered, avoiding his gaze, my hollow eyes and gaunt face impossible to hide. Lucious was one of the few I faced since the crack widened, his workshop a rare haven. He didn't press, just nodded, leaving me to the forges as he tidied his bench, muttering about runes. The dead lingered outside, their forms faint through the workshop's windows, watching, waiting.

I worked in the dark, the forge's glow casting long shadows, the tongue's jar on a steel table, its crack wider, glass creaking. I cut more slivers, each regenerating, mana sparking unpredictably, singeing my cloak.

Tools misbehaved. The hammer rang two notes at once, tongs sweated beads of water that hissed away, crucibles dripped clear liquid before resuming molten red. I forced focus.

The glass powder, mixed with beast blood, Vyrithax's, scavenged from breach remains, formed a viscous paste, its mana stable but volatile, perfect for an alchemical catalyst.

The reek of iron should have grounded me; instead it became the back-beat of their chant. "Tear and turn, shape and burn," the choir lilted, every line a child's giggle peeled of warmth. The cadence timed my hammer-strokes, steering my hands even as I swore I wasn't listening. The paste echoed the rhythm, dull light throbbing beneath the forge like a trapped heart.

I worked fast, testing the tongue's limits, its mana flaring in waves I couldn't control. The glass paste held promise, binding mana briefly before sparking, but it wasn't enough. I needed more, something to stabilize the merge.

My grand design took shape in sketches, scrawled in charcoal on stolen parchment. An artifact to bridge realms, to hold the line between living and dead, containing the tongue's power without breaking.

I barely spoke to Lucious, my nights consumed by work, my days lost to reclusion. He left me alone, his worry clear in glances, but the forge was mine. The tongue's mana resisted, its regeneration mocking me, but the Vyrithax blood steadied it, each test a step closer. The dead grew bolder, their forms vivid—a child's echo clutching a toy, a guard's shade with a slashed chest, their eyes pleading. The Priest loomed, its hum rattling the workshop's walls. "Bind it, or the realms bleed," it said, its riddle simple yet heavy, urging me on. Then, through the forge's din, a sound pierced my focus.

A coughing fit echoed down the street, ragged and human; it climbed in pitch, then stopped mid sound. Silence hung a breath too long before the ordinary clatter of night resumed, as if nothing had happened. That unnatural pause clung to me, driving my hands to sketch faster.

My sketches piled, artifact shape still vague but attainable. Weeks passed, the district slept less each night, and the crack yawned wide. Outside the windows the dead pressed palms to the glass, waiting.

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