The Hollow

Darius, Elara, and Maren come face to face with Lyle.

The wind tore through Storm Harbor with a scream, dragging with it the sharp tang of salt and soot. Somewhere nearby, a fishmonger’s stall had been shattered smashed barrels spilling slick silver trout across the cobbles, their scales flashing in the storm light like a trail of coins leading to ruin.

Darius stepped over them as he, Maren, and Elara crept toward the old drydocks where the sea met the heart of the city. The satchel at his side pulsed harder now, the crystal inside reacting to something close too close.

“The Hollow’s near,” Maren whispered. Her breath came out in steam. “I can feel it in my blood.”

“No turning back now,” Elara muttered, tightening her grip on her sword. Rockford pressed against her leg, silent and bristling.

They reached the pier. The last of the fishing ships were burning, their sails turned to ash. At the very end of the dock stood Lyle, his arms spread wide, face lit from below by the twin to Darius’s crystal embedded in the center of the splintered deck. Around him spiraled six Treaders, massive suits of twisted armor animated by Hollow essence, their limbs grinding in that now familiar rhythm: two beats, pause, one beat.

And then came the Hollow itself a rift above the sea, black and seething, like a wound torn into the fabric of the world.

It didn’t walk or crawl. It flowed, made of wind and memory, of grief so old it hummed. And it was growing.

“You’re too late,” Lyle said without turning. “Storm Harbor is the first to fall. The sea will carry the rest.”

Darius stepped forward. “Then we end it here.”

Lyle finally turned. “You still don’t understand. You were never meant to destroy the Hollow. You were meant to merge with it.”