There’s a rustling in the darkness.

A susurrus of cloth brushing together. The slide of hands along windowsills, and the subtle rub of thumb and forefinger. Scant footsteps tapping down long hallways. Soft grunts of exertion. Murmurs held just below comprehensibility.

Hello? Is anyone there?

Sudden, cacophonous silence falls. Like dye spinning through water, it seeps insidiously into the fundament of the space. Inch by inch, muteness crawls into cracks and spreads into unused corners blind to the static that will come to define them. It settles like a layer of dust.

A sculpture gropes amidst the quiet. Its long, clever fingers trace smooth masonry broken by depressions of mortar and by doing so carefully sketch existence from the courting of substance and absence. When its trailing hand falls into empty space, its movements cease in favour of an exacting arithmetic. A slight amount of heat warms the right side of its face: there are windows on that side radiating sunlight. If it sent its hand to quest towards the opposite side of the hallway, it knows it would find the runes that cause azure light to bathe the hall. The structure of this place is known to it, as is its location relative to that shape. But those that occupy the same space are leering, insubstantial shadows.

A-are you laughing at me?

It does not know that there are no windows, nor sunlight. Or that the everburning lanterns are unlit. Or that this is no fort of stone and mortar, but a dollhouse of bone and flesh. It does not hear the beating from above. That does not truly matter.

Yet the sightless is aware that towers rise above it all, wearing diadems of carefully worked bells. The sculpture turns its empty gaze to their crowns – thumbs hesitantly creaking together. When it created them, it gave a special chime to each one. Every heartbeat that passes is spent waiting for them to toll.

But though unbeknownst to it, the bells sway back and forth, they nevertheless remain quiet. Even now, a phantom of those chimes presses against the quiet, wound tight with the urge to burst from imagination to actuality. It’s almost audible.

Yet the moments pass in silence. Each lands with the sharp rebuke of a cane across knuckles.

The carving shuffles its way through an internal map to reach the pillars. However, when it extends a hand towards where the mute outline of a tower should be, a spike of vertigo assails it. The belltower has gone. Memory cannot replace sight.

Hello? it repeats. Where…

The sentence fades. For a stretch it stands, curling its fingers as if capturing mist. Then it turns away.

With excessive caution, the blind statue turns vacant eye-sockets from the bells to continue creaking around the halls. Its thin face peeks into rooms, tilting its head towards hints of sounds. Whispers brush its ears; so light it’s uncertain whether they’re borne of another’s lips or its own. Sometimes it is certain that they wait just out of earshot; behind a veil of impenetrable breadth. Sometimes it is certain that the only sounds that will ever fill reality are its own.

Eventually, it finds itself before a hole of undefined depth. Simple; sturdy; wearing a cap of stone. There is a bottom – that is certain – but it might take a searcher a while to find it.

The sightless sculpture leans over it.

I made something, it tells the pit.

It produces a contraption barely large enough to cover its palm. With dramatic flair, it cranks the tail at its back, causing it to begin hopping and chittering. A trembling, ivory hand proffers the device to the darkness.

Look!

The sculpture’s own word is thrown back at it by the acoustics of the hole. It hastily continues.

It’s good, isn’t it?

It does not know if it is good. It does know that there is no one in the hole.

Right? it asks. Right?

Great, curved ears tilt towards the bell. An arduous smile splits from calcified bark.

Almost two days were spent on it. Linking each rune together rather than allowing them to chain away from the central array was difficult, but I managed. Retaining a central, recursive array is always an undertaking, however I have to agree with Neelam: it’s simply the most elegant solution possible.

Both palms clasp together as it waits. Their long fingers quake, reminiscent of reeds in a soundless storm.

…If one has the skill for it. I suppose.

Eventually, the contraption is stowed as the sculpture carefully lowers itself to its belly and extends an arm into the pit. Pale, articulated hands paw the midnight walls; finding nothing. Jaw clenched, it lowers its entire shoulder to grope further and violently rummage through the featureless hole. Shallow nails gouge furrows along the sides. Its body teeters on the precipice.

Above and below, the fort waits. Hollow halls running inwards, buttressing one another, around what is ultimately a very small place. Lifeless stone and the running of a single hand along its walls are what define it. Monstrous emptiness fills it to the brim. To bursting. Enough to drown in.

What are you doing?

The amalgamate stands behind, staring down at the blind statue. It replies without turning around.

Searching.

For what?

The sightless withdraws its arm and begins to struggle upright. Its counterpart watches in quiet bemusement.

You neglected to answer the question.

It’s embarrassing.

No one else is here to listen.

At that, the statue’s jagged lips quirk upwards.

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They witness it, and weigh that response. No one is here, they repeat.

No one else is here, it agrees. But I’ll be fine.

Despite the effort it requires, the amalgamate’s brows creeped upwards. Perhaps. But you clearly care.

It’s a matter of acclimatisation. An empty home is an acquired taste. One day, I’ll savour the privacy.

You are certain of this?

A subtle grimace reveals the lie. Maybe not. But I won’t die of it.

Having said its piece, the statue with the empty eye-sockets walks towards the fort. The amalgamate watches it depart, fingers idly caressing the hilt of their armament. Suddenly, they draw an inch of its blade. There is work to be done, and little time to baby self-indulgent puppets. Cutting a violent path through it would be possible. Not every corner of this place needs entertaining, especially not blind schemers.

Who cares what emerges from this shell in the end? Who cares of the promises of a manipulative old woman, dead at the hands of her own subordinate? A monster could emerge to destroy the world, and so long as it is safe and happy the amalgamate’s task will be complete.

They take time to consider the shape of a monster and what rare happiness it may find in that shape. They think of Dure and Enn and Kani. Of Yoot and Avri and the Shrike. Of the little known of Siik and Wump. What had they felt, those singularities adrift in an endless sea of divinity? Unmoored from sense or care? Those peerless pierless; too imperceptive to register the bones beneath their feet.

Violence is the domain of gods and ants. Neither could be called enviable.

They sheath the blade and follow the scrimshawed statue. Eventually, they find it at the top of a stubby tower, caressing the clapper that would toll it if any has the will. Blind gaze turned towards the yoke that bound it there.

They’re gone. I cannot find them.

They survey the quiescent lightlessness. Not even the blood moves.

Once, I attempted to call them. Some came. They didn’t seem to care.

Did you try talking to them?

Out there? There’s no place for people like me out there. No city; no village. Out there, I’m just a stranger.

Unlikely. And even then, you would have a life.

One worse than death.

Answer the question. Did you try talking to them?

Of course I did, it states hastily.

No, they growl. If you wanted something, why did you not say it outright?

They would have never agreed.

They turn to scoff at it. You did not try.

How would they have understood what I wanted? it retorted, livid at the mockery. How can anyone? We’re all trapped within our own skulls, speaking our own languages to ourselves, with our own experiences and our own education and our own misgivings digging an impenetrable divide between self and other.

Because Ravenblood taught you nothing.

Maybe. But all they do is join me. The living are beyond my reach.

The amalgamate spreads their great arms wide, quaking with restrained violence. Do you honestly believe that? What is all this for, then?

An impossible dream.

What of your friends, waiting outside?

They’re friends with a silhouette. An illusion fabricated by light and its absence. They fill it with whatever they want.

Then speak!

No one’s here!

With a howl of frustration, they seized the clapper and slammed it against the edges of the bell. Once more, it rocks soundlessly, without music or chimes.

I can’t-

The amalgamate seized it. LISTEN.

And there, atop the small tower in absolute darkness, at the very edges of perception, the faintest tolling can be heard. Initially, it seems a phantom – a mocking whisper crawling from darkness. But if one pays attention, they could witness its intricacies. The loving chimes crafted over days and nights. Partially moulded from imagination. Partially from something else. Something new and alien.

And the sightless statue hears it, and the pair of them collapse into dust.

***

Gale sits at his workbench, fingertips trailing along the device in front of him. His mind is meant to be trailing with it: tracing the runes his hands haven’t the delicacy to comprehend. Yet instead, as it has been prone to doing since he received his Owlblood, it has flown somewhere else.

Tiny Maleen Heltia has departed Fort Vane. Initially, Gale believed he would see little of her. Far more interesting children inhabit the Fort than a blind, novice tinkerer. Greta and Henrik’s son Ambrose is more boisterous, and anyone whose name is not ‘Gale’ finds him a joy to talk to. Baby Alfie is very cute, to those who perceive more than gut-wrenching wails from him. Greta is always open to a natter, and Henrik’s ponies are likely a young girl’s dream.

Instead, she spent most of her time with Gale and his brother. One of which is blind, and the other cursed with the inability to walk twenty steps without falling. A laughable pair. But she was interested in his work, and Mael’s nigh-infinite stream of chatter was something she seemed to appreciate. The child had brought life to the space around him.

Now Maleen is gone. Fort Vane is now filled with those that have always filled it. Gale feels her absence more keenly than he ever felt her presence.

He wonders what everyone else sees when they look at him. A noble? An Owlblood? An inventor? A blind boy? Whatever they are seeing, it can’t be the truth.

The bloodtech weighs heavily in his hands. Presently, there are no other Owlbloods in the Fort. If his father, mother, or brother look at the device, they would not understand it. They couldn’t. Their blood runs differently. All they would receive is a headache. Maybe a slight jab of irritation.

Before its completion, others are blind to it. When Gale is done, it will be a lantern; its rays lost on him.

His hands shake under the device, setting it rattling. In his imagination, Fort Vane looms: an island firm in a thunderstorm. Cobwebbed and dusty; thin walls bloated with empty air yet still far too tight. The only island he will ever inhabit. He sits in it alone.

Gale releases a deep, shuddering sigh and-

“Bah!” someone yells in his ear.

“Blood!” Clutching his chest, the teenager falls backwards off his stool.

Above him, Mael gloats with his slight slurring, “Ha! You swore! You swore!”

“Wha- How did you sneak up on me?” Out of everyone in the Fort, the boy is undoubtedly the least coordinated. Gale had heard Greta describe his movement as: ‘a drunken faun’s if it were twice as heavy.’ “You didn’t trip?”

“I did!” Mael exclaims gleefully. “I did and you didn’t even notice!”

Gale springs to his feet to begin patting the smaller boy, as if his touches can reveal injury. “Are you alright? Does anything hurt?”

“Yes,” his brother unhelpfully proclaims. “What are you doing?”

“No, are you hurt.”

“I told you I’m not.” A note of irritation enters the child’s voice. “What are you doing?”

“Making a lantern,” Gale supplies.

Mael processes that for several seconds, then snickers. “You can’t even see. Who’s the lantern for?”

“Uh…” Briefly, he is at a loss. “…Everyone, I suppose?”

“Everyone except you,” the younger boy corrects.

Gale hesitantly nods.

There’s a pause as his brother considers. Eventually, he delivers his verdict. “I like that. That’s cool. Like a hero. Because you can’t see it and it’s for everyone else.”

“I’m not a hero, Mael.”

“I said like a hero,” the boy snaps back.

Gale feels himself scowl. “You don’t understand what I’m trying to do, anyway. You can’t. The runes- ”

“I understand enough,” Mael declares. “It’s a lamp. You’re Gale. And I scared you. You hear?”

Gale can only nod.

***

At the peak of the lonely tower, from a pool of sifting dust, the amalgamate finds themself once more. Limb by limb, they piece their body together.

A neck crackles as it twists. Fingers flex; a touch thicker and a touch thinner than they were. A visage surveys its surroundings – distinct from the shape it took a short time ago. Their form has been entirely reforged; made an alloy richer than its original blend.

Beyond their bark skin, little has changed. The fort remains dark and empty. Whispers still haunt its halls; occupying some liminal space between substance and phantasm. Silence often reigns supreme.

The pit is fathomlessly deep, and excruciatingly hollow.

Yet at its feet is a bell. Nascent in its quietude. With painstaking unease, they reach down and wrap their hand around it. Examine its imperfections, and the exquisite care apparent despite them. Hesitantly, they give it a shake.

Softly, it chimes.

Momentarily, the hand tightens. Then they join it to the midnight sheath and continue to march onwards. In spite of the shadows, each of their steps is defined by the ring of the bell.