The smell reached him before the city did.
It was a mingling of smoke, wet stone, spiced meat, and something sour underneath—like old blood that had never quite washed away. The wind carried it in waves, almost as if the city was exhaling, warning him of what lay ahead.
Caelen crested the last rise in the frostbitten hills and stopped.
Hollowreach.
It rose from the valley like a jagged crown, its black stone walls stretching high and uneven, patched over centuries with wood, rusted iron, and even bleached ribs from some colossal beast. The walls weren't straight—they leaned, cracked, and twisted as though grown rather than built.
At the city's heart loomed a skeletal hand the size of a fortress, its fingers curling toward the sky as if trying to grasp something long since gone. The bones shimmered faintly in daylight, a ghostly silver that made the air around it seem to ripple.
The woman on the forest road had called it the bones of a god.
The second heartbeat inside Caelen gave a heavy, deliberate thud, as if in recognition.
The gates were no less strange.
Two massive slabs of iron leaned together like crooked teeth, their edges fused with slag from ancient fire. There were no shining banners or heralds to welcome travelers—just a steady stream of bodies pushing through the narrow opening.
Merchants with carts laden in cloth, spices, or weapons. Mercenaries in battered armor, some drunk even before noon. Beggars missing fingers or eyes. Ragged children darting between legs with quick, practiced movements.
And all of it watched by twelve guards in blackened, ridged armor.
They stood perfectly still on either side of the gate, masks painted bone-white with hollow black eyes. No insignia of a kingdom or crown—just the mark of Hollowreach itself. They didn't ask for names, they didn't check papers. They looked. And sometimes, one would step forward, lay a hand on a traveler's shoulder, and quietly guide them into a side passage.
Those people never returned.
Caelen joined the line, keeping his satchel close. The cold air seemed heavier here, pressing against his lungs. The second heartbeat was faster now, almost syncing with the slow thrum of the city beyond.
When his turn came, one of the masked guards stepped into his path.
The man tilted his head slightly, the mask's eyeholes seeming to drink Caelen in. He said nothing for a moment, and the silence was worse than words.
Finally, the guard's voice came—a deep rumble, muffled by the mask.
"What brings you to Hollowreach, boy?"
Caelen held his gaze. "Work."
The guard's head cocked the other way, as if listening to something just behind his ear. Then he stepped aside without another word.
Caelen didn't wait to be told twice.
Inside the gates, the world became noise.
The streets twisted like knotted rope, stone merging with wood, wood merging with bridges and scaffolds that linked buildings at impossible angles. Shadows moved across the cobblestones from banners strung high overhead—each marked with strange symbols of guilds, gangs, and mercenary companies.
The air was thick with voices—bargains shouted, curses spat, laughter that didn't sound friendly.
A fishmonger waved a cleaver at a man who was trying to haggle.
A hunched woman whispered offers of "dreamdust" from a dark corner.
A hooded figure was selling maps drawn on animal skin, each one showing *different* roads to the same place.
Everywhere, Caelen could see how the city bent around the massive skeletal hand at its center. Roads curved toward it whether you wanted to or not. The closer you got, the taller the structures became, as though trying to outgrow the relic that overshadowed them.
And always—people were watching him. Not openly, but enough to notice. A glance too long from a rooftop. A whisper cut short when he passed. A shadow stepping back into an alley.
Then the shout came.
"Thief!"
The crowd surged aside as a boy—no older than twelve—darted between legs, clutching a leather pouch. His bare feet slapped the stone as he weaved through the market with the ease of someone born to it.
The shopkeeper, a heavyset man with a leather apron, barreled after him, swearing like a soldier.
The boy's eyes met Caelen's for the briefest moment as he passed. And in that instant, the second heartbeat in Caelen's chest kicked hard, like a drumbeat warning of danger.
Before Caelen could react, a crimson shape swept across the crowd.
A man in a tattered red cloak stepped directly into the boy's path. His hand flicked outward, and the boy stopped. Not just halted—frozen mid-step, every muscle locked as though bound by invisible chains.
The cloaked man bent down, took the pouch, and returned it to the shopkeeper without looking back. Then his eyes shifted.
To Caelen.
It felt like being pinned under stone.
Those eyes—deep gold, faintly glowing—saw straight through him. The hunger inside Caelen stirred violently, threatening to claw its way out of his chest.
A faint smile tugged at the man's lips. "Interesting."
Then, without a word more, he vanished into the crowd. The boy collapsed forward, scrambling away into the nearest alley.
Caelen's pulse was still hammering when he realized he'd been holding his breath. Whoever that man was, he had felt it—the thing in Caelen's chest.
And he wasn't the only one.
The main road carried Caelen closer to the skeletal hand. The noise of the market faded into the deeper hum of the city—low voices in hidden alcoves, the scrape of metal against stone, the creak of ropes and pulleys as goods were lifted high into crooked windows.
But the further he walked, the more he heard something else.
Bootsteps. Behind him.
Light at first, matching the crowd. Then heavier. Closer.
He turned into a side street, letting the flow of bodies thin out. The shadows were deeper here, the air colder.
Three figures stepped in after him, gray hooded cloaks hiding their faces. Their formation was deliberate—one blocking the exit behind, the other two advancing slowly from the front.
The hunger in his chest flared like steel scraping from a scabbard.
Hollowreach was not going to let him walk quietly.