The lamps burn low, their glass casings etched with runes that shimmer faintly.Through them, Auria gleams—flawless, endless, false.The city calls itself the crown of creation, but every jewel hides a crack.
Seren enters my thoughts again, her wrists raw, her eyes bright even under the weight of her fear.Light and shadow—siblings pretending to be enemies.
Riven isn’t wrong about that part.
Tomorrow, I’ll bring her before the Triarch.
Tomorrow, the goddess they fear might finally look back.
23
YARA
The Hollow has a pulse again.
It thuds through the tunnels—a deep, low rhythm that rattles glass on shelves and shakes dust from the beams.The others don’t hear it yet, but I do.I’ve always heard the world’s heart when it starts to shift.Tonight it beats faster.
Whispers drift through the fog clinging to the canals: miners, traders, children with coal-smeared cheeks.They talk of a Shadowborne girl who disturbed the city’s light, making it waver for the first time in a hundred years.Some call it an omen; some, blasphemy.I say nothing.I sell them what they came for—tonics for sleep, herbs for courage—and send them back into the dark.
When the last door closes, I feel for the lock and turn, letting the silence rush in.My hands ache for the box that once sat beneath the counter, but it’s gone—given to Seren over a week ago.The lock of hair, the parchment inked with the forgotten prophecy.Pieces of a life she never knew she’d been written into.
I pray to Nyx she deciphered them before the Luminary guards took her.I know it was her.I feel it in my marrow.I told myself it was faith—that her destiny required this path.That everything happening to her is meant to be, and I must be the one to help her, in the end.
The Hollow hums, and the lamps flicker blue.The smell of oil turns sharp, like iron.The same tremor shook the ground the night Seren became who she is today.I hope she forgives me for not following; my body is too frail to fight.I must fight in another.
I count my steps to the back room, announced by the scent of echinacea and ginger.The brazier feels cold, though I never let it die.I strike a match, the orange flare clouding my vision as I feed the fire.
“You asked this of me,” I whisper into the flame.“I kept her safe as long as I could.The rest is yours, Divine Mother.”
The walls breathe back warmth, and for a moment, the aroma hits me—a pleasing assault of lavender.The scent of the Mother.I’m transported to the night I pulled Seren from her mother’s arms.The same scent clung to her blankets then; it haunts my dreams still.
Outside, the canal churns, black water striking stone.Voices rise from the market tunnels—joy and prayer in equal measure.It is almost time.
I feel for the coarse material of my cloak behind my chair, and wrap it around my shoulders snuffing out the lamp as I do so.I don’t stumble in the dark; I’ve always known the way.Toward the mines, toward the shrine beneath their feet, toward the old words I will finally be able to give voice to.
A cool, delicate breath passes my ear.A voice rides it, stroking my mind like a sigh.
She is almost ready.
I nod, heart heavy and sure.“Then may the Light be ready for her.”
24
SEREN
When the world opens again, it does so quietly.
My thoughts circle the same paths until they carve grooves in my skull, the silence of the aftermath more uncomfortable than the noise.The pounding in my ears was deafening, yet this solitary space feels jarring.
I’ve remained in this fetal position since Kael.Pain cascades in waves through my body—my sternum where the golden rod scorched, my wrists where the manacles burned away, and the pressure still piercing my skull.
The door opens without warning, causing my heart to flutter.No chains this time—just a man in crisp white robes that whisper as he walks.He wears no mask, but his air of superiority and the stark colour of his dress tell me he is high-born.Someone who should not concern himself with a low-life like me.
His eyes crinkle, his lips twitching into a barely-there smile.I let out a slow, hissing breath like a bellow finally losing its air; I hadn’t realised how loud until my own silence filled it.He responds with a short, airy laugh.
“Seren of the Hollow,” he says, voice smooth as warm honey.“You’ve caused quite a stir.”
I stare at him.His golden, porcelain skin glows in the lamplight, and flecks of emerald shine deep in his blue eyes.I’ve never seen such beauty.The years have not etched a single mark upon his face—such a sheltered life he must lead.
