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—Lyra's POV—
Elior slept beside me, his tiny chest rising and falling in a rhythm older than time.
Curled in a nest of thick furs, one hand splayed across his cheek, he looked like a painting—untouched by the night, by the forest, by what had been carved into the world the moment he cried his first breath.
But I wasn't untouched.
Not anymore.
The pain of childbirth had faded, but something deeper remained. A hollow soreness that stretched far beyond the bones. As if the Hollow had reached inside me and taken something in exchange for giving me my son.
I eased myself up with a wince, fingers brushing the cold stone wall for support. The den was quiet now—Varyn had disappeared sometime before dawn, leaving behind only the scent of herbs and ash.
He'd said one thing before he left:
"The Hollow will call to you before the moon sets. When it does—go. Alone. If you don't answer, you're not the mother he needs."
The words echoed in my skull like a heartbeat.
Alone.
The fire crackled low, casting trembling shadows across the walls. I looked back once more at Elior. Still breathing. Still whole.
I wrapped my cloak tighter around my shoulders and stepped outside.
---
The cold slapped me.
Dry and sharp. The kind of cold that sank into your bones and whispered secrets through your teeth.
Above, the moon hung swollen and low, stained a pale amber like it, too, had bled.
The trees stood sentinel in all directions—tall, silent, and unnervingly aware. Their bark shimmered faintly under the moonlight, as if dusted with frost, but it wasn't just frost.
The Hollow was awake.
And it was watching me.
A strange hum filled the air—like the space between breaths. Like the moment just before thunder.
Then I saw it.
Carved into the snow just a few paces ahead of the den: a spiral.
Surrounded by claw marks that gouged the earth beneath.
It wasn't a threat.
It was a summons.
I stared at the symbol, breath hitching.
It pulsed once, almost as if alive.
So I followed it.
---
The trail wove deeper into the forest, past the threshold of safety, past the whispering owls and frost-laced roots. Past where even the wolves dared not tread.
The cold intensified, but not from the air.
From within.
And then I found it.
A stone.
Capped with ice, but smooth in the center. Like it had been waiting. Waiting for *me*.
And in it—
A blade.
Long. Elegant. Forged from black metal veined with silver, it looked less like a sword and more like a fragment of the night sky given form. Its hilt bore markings I didn't understand—but my soul recognized them.
It wasn't just a weapon.
It was a test.
A claiming.
My claiming.
I stepped forward, heart pounding.
"Don't hesitate," Varyn had said. "The forest does not wait."
I reached for the hilt.
The moment my skin touched it, the world screamed.
Wind howled like a wounded beast. Branches cracked and danced above me. Roots shifted under my feet. Whispers coiled around my mind in a language I couldn't name.
Pain exploded behind my eyes.
I staggered.
Every instinct told me to let go.
To run.
To crawl back to the den, to Elior.
But I didn't.
I gritted my teeth, and gripped tighter.
The blade hissed.
Heat surged through the hilt, branding my skin. I screamed—my knees buckled—but my fingers never released.
And then—
With a sound like cracking stone — the blade came free.
Everything went still.
The wind vanished. The branches stopped moving. The snow around me melted in a perfect ring.
And on my arm—
A symbol burned to life.
The same sigil Varyn had drawn in blood on Elior's brow.
Only now, it was mine.
Etched into skin.
A scar.
A crown.
The Hollow had accepted me, not just as Elior's mother — but as something more.
Something claimed.
Something marked.
I looked down at the blade in my hand, still glowing faintly.
It thrummed with power.
And I understood, without knowing how:
I was no longer just a vessel.
I was a weapon.
---
—Lucian's POV—
The forest was too quiet.
The kind of silence that didn't bring peace.
The kind that warned.
I dismounted at the edge of the Hollow, letting the scouts stay behind. They didn't want to enter—and I didn't want them near her.
Her scent lingered like smoke.
Blood.
Ash.
But something else now.
Power.
The trees pressed in as I moved, closing behind me with each step. The Hollow did not like strangers.
But I wasn't a stranger.
Not to her.
Lyra.
The name echoed in my chest with a sharp ache.
I followed the trail she left behind. Faint, but clear. A spiral pressed into snow. Melted patches where no fire had touched.
And then I saw it.
Her.
Standing in a clearing lit by the bleeding moon.
Sword in hand.
Her arm aglow with the sigil of the forest.
And her eyes—
Her eyes were not the same.
Neither were mine.
"Lyra," I breathed.
She didn't turn.
But the blade in her hand lifted slightly.
And the shadows behind her stirred.
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