THE FIRST TONGUE

The bell tolled seven times before the wind took the sound away.

Elias Morrow stood alone at the edge of the burial field, shovel in hand, the hem of his coat tugged by the early frostwind. Autumn had come with spite this year, sharper and earlier than it ought to. Dead leaves danced around the open grave like mourners with nowhere else to go.

He stared down into the hole he had spent the last hour digging. It was for a boy-seven, maybe eight-who died yesterday coughing blood into his mother's apron. She had begged Elias to let her carry the body herself. He'd refused, gently. Her arms were shaking. Her eyes, empty.

This was the third grave he'd dug this week.

And it was only Tuesday.

A voice behind him murmured, "Cold for October."

Elias didn't look. "Colder than last year."

Father Thorne stepped up beside him, robes as black as the sky before stormlight. His hands were folded before him, white and unblemished, like no soil had ever touched them. His breath didn't fog in the cold. It never did.

He looked down at the grave with a sigh that sounded like sympathy.

"I hope you prayed over him," Thorne said softly.

"I did," Elias answered, his voice low. "Twice."

"Good," the priest said, placing a hand on Elias's shoulder. His touch was gentle but firm-too firm. "The Lord sees your labor."

Elias didn't answer. He stared at the priest's hand until it left his shoulder.

They buried the boy quietly. No sermon. No hymns. The mother stood back, her shawl drawn tight over her mouth, not for warmth, but fear. Behind her, the villagers gathered in stiff silence, eyes low, some weeping, some just empty. Death no longer shocked them.

Elias shoveled the dirt slowly, deliberately, until the boy was gone.

---

Later that night, Elias sat by the hearth of his cottage, nursing tea gone cold. The fire was weak, and he hadn't the will to stoke it. His sister's locket hung around his neck, heavy and cold against his chest. He hadn't taken it off since she died.

He could still remember the way Annalise had laughed. She used to collect red leaves in the forest, insisting they were letters from the dead. "They're trying to talk to us," she'd say, spinning beneath the trees. "You just don't listen right."

He had tried to listen.

But now the only sounds that came from the woods were the howls of hungry animals and the occasional rustle of someone-or something-watching.

There was a knock at the door.

Not the soft kind, not the neighborly tap. It was urgent.

He opened it to find Clara Ventner, her eyes wild, her apron stained with something dark.

"They took him," she said.

"Who?"

"Jonas. My cousin." She was trembling. "He went to confess last night. He... he hasn't come back."

Elias blinked. "He's probably resting. Or helping in the church."

"No," she whispered. "Elias, there was blood in the confessional."

The wind rose suddenly, howling past the doorway like it wanted in. Elias stepped back and pulled her inside.

---

By the time the fire was built high again, Clara had calmed enough to speak clearly.

"He said he needed to confess something," she murmured. "Something bad. He'd been acting strange. Said he saw things in the woods. Eyes. Faces."

Elias frowned. "The fever?"

"I thought so too. But then... he said the church lights were burning at midnight."

"No one's supposed to be in the chapel that late."

Clara stared at him. "Exactly."

The room fell silent.

After a moment, Elias reached behind a loose stone in his hearth. From it, he pulled a rusted iron key.

"What's that?" Clara asked.

"The crypt key," he said.

Her eyes widened.

"I was told never to use it," Elias added. "Father Thorne said the dead deserve privacy."

Clara leaned in close. "I don't think they're all dead."

They waited until well after midnight.

The village of Raven Hollow had no lamps burning past dusk; the fear of fire, or perhaps something deeper, kept the shutters drawn tight. Silence ruled the hours after dark, broken only by the distant creak of trees or the occasional cry of a fox too close to the edge of man's world.

Elias and Clara moved through the shadows like ghosts.

The church loomed above the village square-its crooked steeple pierced the fog-heavy sky like a bone jutting from the flesh of the land. The wooden doors were locked, but Elias's hand knew the keyhole by feel. It opened with a soft clack.

The moment they stepped inside, they felt it. A pressure in the air, like walking into a room where someone had just been screaming.

Clara crossed herself. Elias didn't. He hadn't prayed since Annalise died.

The chapel was empty-no candles, no light, no sign of life. But there was a scent. Faint. Metallic. Like old blood on iron.

Clara whispered, "The confessional. This way."

They crept past the pews, feet silent on stone. The confessional stood against the far wall like a huddled beast-carved oak, aged and darkened with use. Its curtain hung ajar.

Clara's breath caught.

There, just beneath the curtain's edge, was a smear of crimson.

Elias knelt slowly, brushing his fingers against it. Still tacky.

"Fresh," he murmured.

He pushed the curtain aside.

Inside, the seat was splintered. The wood was cracked and darkened by something that had seeped into it-not water. Something thicker. Something wrong.

Clara turned away, gagging softly.

"Jonas?" Elias whispered, leaning into the silence. "Are you here?"

There was no answer. But the silence shifted.

Then he saw it-just barely, behind the panel where the priest would sit. A seam in the wood. Almost invisible unless you were looking for it.

He pressed his hand against it.

The panel swung inward with a low groan.

A hidden passage.

---

They descended by torchlight, the narrow stone stairs spiraling down into damp earth. The air grew colder with every step, and the silence deeper.

Elias's heart pounded louder than his feet.

At the bottom was a small arched door. Elias pushed it open.

What they saw made Clara drop her torch.

The crypt smelled of rot and roses. A strange mix-death and perfume. Dozens of candles lined the walls, burned nearly to the base. The walls were marked with chalk symbols-some religious, others not. Bones lay piled in the corners, some clean, some still dressed in scraps of cloth.

In the center of the room lay Jonas.

Or what was left of him.

He had been laid out like a saint-arms crossed, eyes open, lips sewn shut with black thread.

Clara screamed, falling to her knees.

Elias stood frozen, his skin ice.

There was something carved into Jonas's chest-deep, angry letters that bled even now:

Veritas Solvet - The truth shall unbind.

Footsteps echoed above.

They turned.

Someone had closed the passage door.

---

Clara ran first. Elias followed, torch in hand, heart pounding against his ribs. The stairwell seemed steeper, the air tighter. Each step echoed like a gunshot.

At the top, the door was shut tight.

Clara pushed, pulled, banged her fists against it.

"It's locked!" she cried.

Elias grabbed the handle. Cold. Immovable.

They stood in darkness.

Then a voice whispered, right beside Elias's ear-closer than breath:

"The dead do not confess."

He turned-no one there.

But the air stank of incense and rot.

---

They found another way out-through a rusted grate that led into the chapel's undercroft. Elias broke it open with a stone, scraping his arms raw crawling through. Clara followed, sobbing.

They emerged in the old prayer room, dusty and unused. The church above was silent.

But not empty.

From the shadows behind the altar, a figure moved.

Clara gasped.

Father Thorne stood there, his hands folded, his eyes gleaming with something darker than faith.

"Children," he said softly. "The Lord sees your trespass."

Elias stepped forward, torch in hand. "What did you do to Jonas?"

The priest's smile was slow. "He confessed."

"And then?"

Father Thorne took a step closer. His robes didn't rustle.

"He spoke a truth that should never have been spoken."

Clara raised her voice, trembling. "He was murdered."

"No," Thorne replied. "He was... silenced. As all heretics must be."

He reached into his robe.

Elias saw the glint too late.

Clara screamed.

Then everything went dark