YARA
Trembles resonate deep in the earth, penetrating my bones.
The thick scent of lavender and burnt smoke fills the Hollow—intoxicating and familiar.It hasn't touched my skin like this in over a century.Every pipe hums; every lamp flickers as if the city above has begun to breathe through us again.Even the water snaking through the lower tunnels has turned thick, reflecting more shadow than light.
The acolytes don’t say it aloud, but they feel it.You see it in the way they glance upward when the ground shifts, waiting for light to bleed through stone.
In the markets, children still chase rats through the canals, a chorus of coughs following in their wake.But there is a weight to everything now—a hush between every shout, a pause before every laugh.
“Mother is almost here,” one murmurs.“I can smell her.”
“Yes,” I say.“And she will not arrive gently.”
Inside an acolyte’s bag lie the treasures needed to fulfil the prophecy; an obsidian chalice, a vial of the Hollow’s water, a strip of cloth stained at the chosen one’s birth.Each one hummed as I placed them there with my own hands—as if the objects themselves can sense the uprising.My heart lightens, a wave of warmth washing over me.Nineteen years in the making, all boiling down to these last few moments.
“She’s close,” I whisper into the dark.“Closer than she’s ever been.”
The air presses against my skin—heavy and expectant.Lanterns shiver though no wind moves them.A low, collective moan rises as the stone shifts, as if the Hollow itself is listening.We move deeper, heading toward Pantheon’s Peak.
I pull a vial of dark green liquid from my pocket.As I uncork it, the acrid scent fills my lungs.I pause, leaning against the tunnel wall, and pour the contents down my throat.Earth and memory slide down in a trail of fire, stealing strength even as it grants me sight and burns the mark on my wrist.
The Mother’s voice finds me then, curling through my veins.Prepare them, my faithful.The daughter is already falling.
“How long?”I ask the void.
Not long enough for mercy.
My knees buckle.I grip a sharp edge of stone, my body failing long before my faith ever could.When I open my eyes, the smudged view of the world returns.Calen is by my side, catching my arm.
“All okay?”he mutters.
“Yes.We must prepare.”
Calen nods.He tucks his arm under mine, taking my weight as we begin the slow walk to the cavernous space where everything will unravel.
Somewhere above, stone cracks.Dust falls like ash from the low ceilings.I lift my face to it, welcoming the rain of grit.I close my eyes and smile.
“Come home, my girl,” I mumble.“The dark remembers you.And so do I.”
42
CALIS
Auria mourns loudly when it wants to hide its fear.
Bells toll across the city, their echoes bleeding through the marble corridors of the Lampas Cathedral like a wound that won’t close.Outside on the balcony, banners of white and gold ripple above the crowd—a tapestry of browns, creams and whites staring back at me.Every Auranian carries a candle, their flames guttering in the wind like a sea of light pretending not to tremble.
The gold-topped spires of the Guild Hall glisten in the height of the midday sun—our favoured hour.From up here, the city looks calm, peaceful.Yet the unease is growing, and it must be contained.
I stand at the high window of the sanctum, watching the procession snake toward the Temple Square.Solmir’s body lies on the bier—silver and still, sealed within a crystal coffin.His mask, the blazing sun, rests atop his chest.Even in death, he outshines us all.
My robes sweep the floor as I turn back toward the Cathedral’s heart to peer into the Lumen Well.Its surface is a mirror of light, glimmering with a pearly white sheen that pushes back the shadows.The structure, carved from pristine marble and embedded with pulsing, luminescent runes, calls to something deep within me.
No matter how many times I stand before it, I am still captivated.It has never rejected me.
Until now.
People need a spectacle,Uri had said after Solmir’s death.Grief is the easiest sermon.And in grief, they are easier to control.
