The Dark Tower Apr 2026

As he reached the foot of the Tower, the first toll of the bell shook the ground. The sound wasn't metal on metal; it was the sound of a billion voices screaming "Goodbye" at once.

"Worse," Jake said. "The Tower is shivering. It’s not just the beams anymore. Someone is ringing the bell at the top."

In the high, thin air of the Borderlands, the sky had turned the color of a bruised plum. The sun was a pale, flickering candle, guttering in a draft that blew from the gaps between universes. Roland knelt by a stream that ran with silver liquid—not water, but the liquefied memories of a city that had never existed. He didn't drink. He knew the price of drinking "Used Time." "He’s coming, Roland," a voice rasped. The Dark Tower

Roland didn't turn. He knew the voice of the boy, Jake, though the boy had been dead and reborn more times than Roland had fingers. Jake sat on a stump of petrified wood, tossing a gold coin that vanished every time it hit his palm.

Roland began to walk. His boots clicked against the teeth. He didn't think about the countless miles behind him or the ghosts that trailed in his wake like smoke. He thought only of the weight of the horn in his bag—the Horn of Eld, which he had finally remembered to pick up at the hill of Jericho Hill. As he reached the foot of the Tower,

"The Man in Black?" Roland asked, his voice like grinding stones.

Roland stood, his ancient revolvers heavy against his hips. The sandalwood grips felt warm, almost humming. He looked toward the horizon, where the Dark Tower stood—a needle of impossible black stone stitching the sky to the earth. "The Tower is shivering

Roland Deschain did not stop when the world ended; he simply adjusted his pace.