My cheeks have hollowed over the years.My hair hangs dull and limp against my shoulders, stripped of any shine it once had.My skin looks paler than it should.Even my eyes seem to glow faintly in the half-light as if the Hollow has claimed them too.
Something shifts behind me.
Not footsteps.Not torchlight.
My shadow.
It stretches where it shouldn’t, smoke-thin tendrils slipping across the stone.The air sharpens, cold biting through the fabric of my coat.Instinct pulls my hand to the crescent pendant at my collarbone.Warmth pulses into my palm—steady, deliberate.
The shadows still.
“Not now,” I whisper.“Please.”
Another pulse answers me—warmer this time.
They retreat, folding back into the shape they’re meant to keep.
I straighten, pocketing the mushrooms into my satchel and brushing dirt from my fingers.My nails are already rimmed black; there’s no scrubbing that clean.
As I turn, my coat flares and the shadows ripple across the water like a torn veil—a last stretch before they settle.
* * *
The streets narrowas I move forward, damp stone pressing close on either side.Makeshift homes crowd together—corrugated tin, sun-bleached plastic, rotting boards nailed into shapes that pass for shelter.They lean into one another like they’re afraid to stand alone.
The deeper I go, the cleaner it gets.Cramped shacks give way to stone and timber.Lanterns flicker all around like fireflies as shadow puppets dance in the windows of the lucky few who still have glass intact.
The oil-slick sheen on the ground fades to cracked earth.The air still stinks, but less so now—mould instead of rot, damp instead of sewage.I breathe easier without meaning to.
If you’ve got coin, this is where you live.Close to food.Close to supplies.Drains to keep the rot at bay, and four solid walls.
Luxury—at least by the Hollow’s standards.Whatever Auria looks like above us, we aren’t meant to imagine it.
The Lantern Market announces itself before I see it.Guttering lights sway in jars and bottles, smoke curling through stitched tarps and sagging canopies.Pots bubble on stones.Someone stirs bone tea with a rusted spoon.Fermented broth and scorched oil sting my nose, sharp enough to make my stomach clench.
I hug the satchel at my hip and scan the maze of stalls—not for food, but for a man with one ear and ink-stained knuckles.
Saul.
I spot him near the blue-lit post, exactly where I hoped he’d be; tucked behindAgatha’s Frayed Seamstall.His tent sags under patches, the entrance barely visible behind a warped counter.
Something tight in my chest loosens before I can stop it.My breath comes easier, and that’s when I see him.
He’s bigger than he used to be.A grossly bloated man whose gut strains from the seams of his vest.Ink on his knuckles blurs like a spreading infection.His single, piggish eye tracks every weakness, every desperate glance.Nothing slips past him.
He is a human drain, taking everything good and turning it to waste.And I hate that I need him.
I move closer, pulse ticking faster the nearer I get.If he turns me away, I lose the coin.If I linger too long, I risk attention.
The stench hits first—ale gone sour, damp soil and sweat.The scent is so strong it almost has a taste of its own that coats the back of my tongue.I swallow hard, fighting with the nausea that rises and threatens to spill out.
I glance either way, ensuring no guards are lingering close by, before slipping inside.
Saul sits on a three-legged stool, carving something pale and dense that looks more like bone than wood.His one good eye lifts to me; the other drowns in a milky film, proof of his lifetime underground.
“Didn’t think you’d show today,” he says.His voice grinds against my nerves.
Sweat beads at my hairline.I hate this part—the begging disguised as haggling.
