Elian stepped back as the Hollow Child rose from the cradle, its bones creaking with unnatural grace. Though it was no larger than a six-year-old, the weight of it—its presence—crushed the air in the crypt.
Its face was waxen and smooth, stretched tight over skull, with no mouth—only a slit that trembled like it remembered how to smile.
"Close it!" Vlad shouted, already swinging his blade toward the cradle.
Too late.
The black moss burst outward, wrapping around his wrist and flinging him into the wall.
Elian stood frozen, not in fear but… recognition.
He'd seen this thing before. In dreams. In flickers of memory that weren't his.
Father Luka dropped to his knees. "This was never just a curse," he whispered. "This was a preparation. A birthright."
The Hollow Child turned its head to Elian.
And spoke—not aloud, but directly into his mind:
*"You are not the end, Seventh Son. You are the key."*
Elian stumbled. "I'm not part of this."
*"You are *all* of this."*
The chamber pulsed again, and suddenly the dead returned. Not in flesh—but in spirit. The six sons who had died—Adric, Tomas, Silas, Marius, Elias, and Corwin—appeared around the cradle, their forms flickering like flame.
Each bore a mark over their hearts—the same brand that had appeared on Elian's chest weeks ago.
Father Luka looked at them, eyes brimming. "They were never meant to live… only to open the gate."
The Hollow Child stepped forward and laid its hand on Elian's chest. The mark burned.
*"You choose,"* it whispered. *"Let me live… or join them in death."*
Elian's hand trembled toward the dagger on his belt.
The fate of the village. The fate of *whatever lay beyond this thing*…
Depended on one bloodstained choice.
—