My stomach drops.
Scrambling for my satchel, I pull free my sketchbook and coal stylus.My fingers move fast as they dance across the page, dragging black lines back and forth.The form takes shape under my hand like a sculptor’s thumb: a crescent, and something else…another shape I can’t quite make out.
I squint, twisting my head into different angles to try and make sense of the image, but it’s no use.
Soot coats my fingers and dusts the page as I admire my creation.It mirrors that of the shape on the wall, but I have no idea why it’s there or how the shadows have been able to create it.They’ve never done anything like this before.
Just another image to stain the pages, another scrap of things I see in dreams and in waking—sketches I don’t remember starting, marks that don’t feel entirely mine.
A weight settles in my stomach, like a cold stone dropping into the pit of my being.
“I don’t know what it means,” I whisper to the shadows.They swirl around the image, a silent dialogue I can almost understand.
A cough from Sylas snaps me back, causing the shadows to jolt.I scurry to check on him, stumbling over my feet, as my boots scrape across the floorboards.
The image on the wall fades, gone as quickly as it came, but the mark in my book remains.
I light a single candle on the table, anything brighter would only make the damp walls seem darker.My boots come off first, leaving cold patches on the floorboards.Then my coat, heavy with the conflicting smells of the market, and sewage.
I hang it on its nail by the door and pull on an old moth-eaten jumper, before sitting for a moment, allowing the quiet to settle.
My nights often look like this: quiet, alone, with only my shadows and the images on the pages for companions.Sylas is here, but he isn’t awake much lately, the rot has his life in its firm grasp, ready to squeeze at any moment.
The Hollow never really sleeps, but up here on the cliffside, it pretends to.The sounds from the market are distant enough to blur into a low hum, almost like the sea I’ve never seen.
I empty the rest of my satchel—the floorboard groans as I slide the coin pouch beneath it, the sound loud in the quiet as it accompanies my only treasures: Ma’s onyx ring, and a sketch of Da—the only way to remember his features clearly before they succumb to the fading of time.
I check on Sylas before bed, adjusting the blanket around him.His breathing is shallow, but steady, the rattling subdued.
I allow myself a small share of the potatocake, the creaminess makes my mouth water, but my belly still aches for more.I tell myself that’s enough for now, Sylas will need more to keep up his remaining strength.
When I finally lie down, the shadows curl along the walls, pooling in the corners as if they’re choosing their own place to sleep.My eyes close, but it feels like they stay awake long after I drift off.
4
SEREN
The fields aren’t really fields—just cracked strips of soil near the Hollow’s outer wall where I spend my days, barely touched by light.
Still, things grow here—barely.Root vegetables, hardy greens, crops that cling to life like the people who tend to them.
Ever since Da died, Sylas and I have had to scrape together whatever money we can.He’s clever with his hands—or was—, so he found work in the machine yard, tending to Auria’s underground network.
I’m not so fortunate.The fields are the only life for a person like me; a person with no skills or traits, only the strangeness that follows like an unwanted cloud.
Day in and day out, for twelve years, I’ve grown and tended to life in these fractured soils.Alone.My knees ache when I straighten, palms always split and raw.
People often opt to work in groups, increasing their chances of a higher yield, which will no doubt offer higher rewards, but people know to leave me alone.It’s not a choice.It happens the moment our eyes meet.
Countless times throughout the years, someone could have told the Luminary Guards about my shadows, but they never did.Whether they’re too scared—or whether they think I’m something I’m not, some kind of quiet resistance—I don’t know.Either way, I’ve too much to lose, and I’m used to the solitude—it keeps the thoughts quiet.The shadows at bay.
My hands dig through the hardened soil, the smell of earth thick in the air with every passing clump.There’s a comfort in the feel of dirt under my nails, a quiet satisfaction in coaxing life from this barren earth.
It’s awful money, but that’s where scavenging for psilo helps—especially since Sylas’ infection has gotten worse.
The harder I dig, the more the soil seems to cling to my nails like it resents me.Greenery peeks out from the undergrowth, as a small, pleasant smile plays on my lips.I yank hard, wiggling it free.A crooked carrot greets me, and no matter how many I pick, I still find myself staring in awe at something that has grown so big despite its harsh surroundings.
It lands with a thump as I throw it into the sack at my side, adding to the small hoard of today’s bounty.
