"I'm not a soldier," Elara said.
The water was gone. Instead, a pale light pulsed far below, revealing walls covered in carvings that hadn't been there yesterday. Symbols. Hundreds of them, spiraling down into darkness. And at the very bottom, barely visible, a door. fort marrok
"You've been repairing things for years," it continued. "Clocks. Hearts. But you've never tried to repair what's broken here. What's been screaming in the well since before the first stone was laid." "I'm not a soldier," Elara said
The figure smiled. At least, the porcelain face seemed to crack in a way that might have been a smile. Symbols
The rain over Fort Marrok fell in sheets, turning the ancient parade ground into a mirror of mud and sky. It had been seventeen years since the fort was officially abandoned—seventeen years since the last regiment marched out, their brass buttons tarnished, their eyes fixed on the distant railroad depot.
She turned slowly. A figure stood at the edge of the parade ground, half-obscured by rain. Tall. Wearing a long coat that might have been military, might have been something else. Its face was hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat, but she could see its hands—too many fingers, jointed wrong, gleaming like wet porcelain.
The wind carried voices that weren't wind. The old watchtower, which had stood silent since the war ended, creaked with footsteps. And the well—the deep, stone-lined well at the fort's heart—was humming.