The base of the Masked Order was not a palace. It was not even a fortress. It was a scar....more like an abandoned ruin.
A massive cavern carved into the bones of a mountain, its walls was blackened and slick as though the rock itself had bled. Torches hissed blue, giving no warmth, only light enough to cast long, cruel shadows.
It was here the Hollowborn were brought after their numbering. Masks tied to their faces. Names stripped away. They were numbers now. Numbers, and nothing else.
Sané was 99. The lowest. The weakest. Or so they said.
---
The training ground was a pit — wide, deep, with stone walls rising higher than any ladder. No way out, save the iron gate at the far side. The floor was dirt mixed with dried blood, the stink of it heavy enough to choke a man out.
Eleven and Twelve stood above, watching from the ledge with arms folded. They no longer spoke as Hollowborn. They were instructors now, hard and unyielding.
At their side stood Number Ten — a woman cloaked in red, her mask the shade of drying blood. Her number alone made her terrifying. Her voice was flat as stone when she addressed the new recruits.
"You are no longer children. You are no longer Hollowborn. You are numbers. Your masks will either mean power, or they will be your tombstones. There is no middle ground."
The recruits—forty in all—stood trembling. Some clenched fists, trying to look strong. Others shook, unable to hide their fear. Sané's chest felt tight under his mask. He had been beaten, starved, spat on in the streets of Dravenloch. He thought he had known cruelty. But this place… this was worse.
For they were still kids....or so they thought
Ten lifted her hand. At once the iron gate creaked, heavy chains dragging across stone. A sound like thunder rolled through the pit.
And then the smell hit.
Rot. Smoke. Burnt flesh.
From the darkness beyond, the first of the Maker's Curse beasts emerged.
Its body was twisted, as though stitched from nightmares. Too many limbs bent at wrong angles, claws dragging furrows in the dirt. Its head split in two, jaws unhinged, dripping with black ichor that hissed when it touched the ground. Eyes burned white, soulless and endless.
The recruits screamed. Some backed away. Others froze.
Ten's voice cut through the chaos: "This is your first training. You will fight. You will bleed. You will either break your Vestige into obedience… or you will die here."
The beast roared. The sound rattled the pit, shaking dust loose from the walls.
Sané's heart hammered against his ribs. He could feel the Vestige inside him—the strange force tied to the crimson eyes and purple hair he had gained from the Source. It stirred, restless, but wild. He did not know how to use it.
The beast charged.
---
The recruits scattered. Some tried to strike with their newly awakened powers. One boy, Number 104, screamed as he swung his arms, and a blade of black wind cut through the air—only to graze the beast's hide and vanish. The beast's claw struck him full in the chest, snapping bones like twigs. His scream cut short as blood sprayed.
The others panicked. Numbers shouted, cursed, tripped over one another.
Sané stumbled back, his breath ragged. The image of Dravenloch burning flashed in his mind, the helplessness, the way he was dragged into the rift like nothing but meat. Rage swelled in him.
His crimson eyes burned.
The beast turned on him.
Its maw opened, rows of jagged teeth dripping black saliva. The ground shook with its steps. Sané's knees locked, his body trembling—but something inside snapped.
"Move!"
The voice wasn't from outside. It was inside him. The Vestige. A whisper in the hollow part of his soul.
And then his body responded.
Sané rolled aside as the beast's claw slammed down, shattering stone where he had stood. His vision flared red. He felt power crawl through his veins, searing and alive. His fists clenched and dark patterns burned faintly across his skin.
He swung.
Not with training. Not with form. Just raw desperation.
And shadows erupted from his hand—long, jagged, like chains of smoke. They lashed across the beast's foreleg, biting deep into its flesh. The beast roared, staggering back.
Sané stared at his own hand in shock. His chest heaved. The shadows hissed and coiled, like serpents waiting to strike again.
But the beast was not done. It lunged again, mouth gaping wide.
This time, Sané didn't freeze. He felt the shadows pulse with his heartbeat. He raised both hands and the chains shot out, wrapping around the beast's neck. The monster thrashed, but the chains tightened, burning into its hide.
For a moment, it looked as if Ninety-Nine was being dragged into the beast's jaws. But Sané pulled with everything he had, the hollowness inside him screaming out in fury.
The chains snapped tight—
And the beast's head was torn halfway from its body.
It collapsed in a heap, black blood spilling across the dirt.
Silence.
The other recruits stared, wide-eyed. Eleven and Twelve exchanged glances. Ten's mask did not move, but her voice carried faint approval...."Number Ninety-Nine. You live."
Sané staggered, panting. His body screamed in pain, but the shadows coiled around him like armor, whispering, urging him to pull more.
---
The beast's body twitched.
Then another gate opened.
Two more creatures stumbled into the pit, larger, more twisted, dripping ichor.
The recruits cried out in despair. One girl—Number 117—collapsed to her knees, sobbing. Another boy tried to run, only to be seized by chains fired from above. The instructors yanked him back into the pit like a rat.
Ten's voice rang again... "There is no running. You kill—or you die."
The training had begun in truth.
---
Hours passed. Screams filled the pit. Beasts tore through flesh. Recruits fought, flailing, breaking, rising again with new bursts of power. Some unleashed fire, some claws, some wings of black bone. But for every awakening, another died—skulls crushed, bodies ripped apart.
By the time the gates closed, only twenty remained alive. Half were gone, reduced to corpses or pieces.
Sané sat against the wall, chest heaving, his mask cracked and smeared with blood—his and others'. His hands trembled. The chains of shadow still writhed faintly around him, whispering. He was no longer the starving boy from the streets of Dravenloch. He was something else.
But at what cost?
He looked at the others. None of them were children anymore. Their eyes were harder, colder. The innocence they once had had been bled out onto the dirt.
Eleven's voice echoed from above: "This is only the beginning. You will be broken. You will be remade. And if you survive… you will never be Hollow again."
Sané closed his eyes. His crimson vision burned behind the lids.
For the first time in his life, he did not feel empty.
For the first time, he was afraid of what he was becoming.