"How far now?" Embla asked, pulling her cloak tighter against the wind.
"Less than a day's walk," Ask replied, leading her between the frost-stiff trees. "But the path… it's shifting."
She frowned. "The earth doesn't shift without cause."
"It remembers," he muttered. "Just like us."
The forest had grown stranger with each step. Trees older than any calendar now leaned toward them, their bark carved with forgotten runes. Light flickered oddly—shadows without source, sunrays that curved.
They were nearing the Hollow.
"Did we ever name this place?" Embla asked.
Ask didn't look back. "No. Some places name themselves. This one was only ever the Hollow."
"And you really think it held him?"
Ask paused, running a hand over the twisted trunk of a dead yew.
"Not him," he said. "What was left of him."
Embla stepped up beside him. "Vili, before Vilseidr."
Ask nodded. "Odin thought he erased him. But will… has its own rules."
A sudden crack split the silence. Not thunder. Closer. Like bone breaking underground.
They both stopped.
"…You heard that," Embla said.
"Yes."
"Was it him?"
Ask's voice went lower. "Or something following him."
A shape passed behind the trees—a blur of shadow and feathers. They froze.
"Raven?" Embla whispered.
Ask drew a carved blade from his belt. "No. Too big."
The blur reappeared, circling them high in the canopy. Then—suddenly—it dropped.
With a shudder of wings and mist, a figure landed ten paces before them. Feathers scattered into smoke. A man—no, a thing cloaked in black, his face obscured, save for one glowing blue eye and a mask of thorns.
"Stay back," Ask said, putting himself between the figure and Embla.
The creature tilted its head. When it spoke, it was with the voice of many.
"The Eye has turned. The blood remembers."
Embla's fingers closed around the totem inside her cloak.
"We are not your enemy," she said, calm but cold.
"You carry his echo."
"We guard it."
"Then the Eye cannot suffer you."
Ask gritted his teeth. "Then you can tell the Eye—"
But Embla raised her hand. "No. Let him finish."
The creature stepped forward, claws curling. Its body shimmered—part beast, part memory.
"The Seer stirs. His breath disturbs the threads. His name is waking the world."
Ask took a step forward.
"Then let it wake."
He slashed the blade across the air—once, clean and fast. The creature jerked back, surprised. The runes on Ask's blade glowed for a heartbeat, and the thing hissed.
"Fool kin of clay... you cannot cut fate."
"No," Ask said. "But I can cut you."
The creature leapt—silent and fast—but Embla hurled the totem at the ground between them.
With a burst of cyan fire, a circle of runes flared beneath their feet. The creature slammed into it like a wall, shrieking as the light seared its form.
Smoke curled. The mask cracked. Then it vanished—burned into memory once again.
Ask knelt and picked up the totem, now dim but intact.
"…You always wait till the last second," he muttered.
"I know," Embla smiled faintly. "It's dramatic."
Ask gave a short breath of laughter—half relief.
Then, they both turned. The trees were parting. Ahead, a single rise of stone jutted from the earth—twisted and towering, like the rib of a dead god. Moss clung to it. Vines curled around an arch of obsidian etched with nine names, long scratched out.
They had reached the Hollow.
Ask stepped closer, hand shaking slightly.
"Do you hear that?" he asked.
Embla nodded.
A heartbeat.
Slow. Distant.
But alive.
He looked back at her.
"He's not just remembering," he said. "He's waiting."