A hunched, hooded figure walks through dark cathedral ruins under two large bells, illuminated by moonlight.
Chapter 3 The Hunchbackâs Cry The cathedral ruins were colder than the towerâhere, the wind didnât just chill, it whispered. Names. Prayers. Warnings. Nocturne stepped carefully over shattered marble tiles, his boots crunching dried leaves and soot. The smell of old incense and moss hung in the air. Moonlight poured through broken rafters above like liquid silver, casting fractured light across the hunchbackâs hunched form. The sound he made echoed like a wound torn open in the night. It wasnât just a cryâit was a memory screamed aloud, the sound of stone weeping. Nocturne froze, breath visible in the air, his small frame dwarfed by the massive bronze bells above. The cry came again, low and shuddering, rising from beneath the cathedral ruins like something mourning its own soul. Clutching the vial in one hand and the edge of the bell tower in the other, Nocturne stared down at the shadow that was the hunchback. The old stones seemed to respond. A faint tremor ran through the floor beneath his feet, and somewhere deep below, unseen gears or chains groaned into motion. Something was wakingâsomething older than the bells, older than the castle. The hunchback stirred, moving slowly, as if each step dragged centuries behind it. A long arm braced against a fallen column. His ragged cloak brushed the moss-stained stones. He shifted into a kneel, as though drawn by the weight of the earth itself. Nocturne didnât hesitate. He descended the winding staircase, lantern in hand, cloak See more
