Something in my pocket hit the floor with a loud clack, making a crisp cracking sound before snapping in two. My vision spun, darkness swirling around me as I lay there, completely dazed for a moment.

A skeletal, bony hand clamped down on the back of my head with astonishing, terrifying strength. It twisted violently, as if trying to rip my head straight off my neck.

"Ahhh!" A scream tore from my throat, raw and desperate.

I clawed wildly at my own head, desperately trying to protect myself, but the hand was relentless, twisting and pulling at my skull.

As the monster wrenched my head, it let out an eerie, broken moan. The pain was excruciating, searing through my skull like fire.

In that moment of absolute, blinding terror, I blurted out a cry: "Mom!"

Suddenly, the pressure vanished.

The hands let go. The moaning stopped.

I lay there, gasping for air, my head throbbing in agony, my entire body shaking uncontrollably.

The thing-whatever it was-seemed to recoil, scurrying back into the shadows with a frantic rustling sound.

I didn't understand.

Why did it stop? Why did it run away? My brain was still swimming in shock and pain, struggling to process what had just happened.

My eyes fell on the broken pieces scattered across the floor. It was my mother's old pocket watch, the one she always kept pinned to her apron. It was a gift from my father, a rare luxury for us.

The glass face was shattered, but the locket inside had popped open, completely intact. Inside was a tiny, faded photograph.

I carefully picked up the pieces. It was a picture of me and my mom, taken years ago. We were smiling, our faces pressed close together.

I stared blankly at the photo. I looked at my eyes in the picture, then at my mother's eyes, and then back into the darkness where the monster had retreated.

An idea sprouted, blooming rapidly in my mind.

It was afraid of our eyes. My mother's eyes. My eyes.

The true meaning of the taboo-the forbidden gaze-suddenly became terrifyingly clear.

It wasn't to protect us. It was to protect the "Prophet."

Or perhaps, to protect them from us.

The "Prophet" was terrified of being looked at!

Despite my exhaustion, despite the sweat soaking my clothes, a cold thrill ran down my spine. I knew its weakness.

The photo was old, taken on the day of the town's spring festival. It was a rare, happy time for us. My mother, usually so stoic and distant, was smiling that day, her arms wrapped tightly around me.

She had changed so much after my dad died. After his death, the town-led by the powerful Anthony Horn-had ostracized her, whispering that she was "morally corrupt" because she rejected wealthy suitors.

They called her shameless, but I knew she was strong. she stuck to her principles, even if it meant plunging us deeper into poverty.

I used to think she didn't love me, that she just wanted to marry me off the second I was old enough.

Yet, when I was in mortal danger, her name was the one on my lips. My mother. Always my mother.

A faint whisper, barely audible, tickled my ear.

"Chloe... Chloe..."

Someone was calling my name.

Was I hearing things? I strained my ears, craning my neck into the darkness, but the sound faded, swallowed once again by the suffocating silence.

Chapter 6

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