The village slept beneath the silver gaze of the moon. To its people, the night was uneventful—livestock penned, shutters drawn tight, the tavern long gone quiet. Yet for Kael and Isolde, the silence pressed too heavily, the shadows too thick. They had walked out of the Hollow, but the Hollow had not walked out of them.
Every step through the cobbled lanes echoed like a warning. The carvings of the Hollow still lingered in Isolde's mind—spirals, crescents, chains—burned behind her eyes as if branded there. She pressed her satchel closer, heart pounding with unease.
Kael's voice was low. "Stay close. The Hollow's touch doesn't end at its borders."
They reached her cottage, its door slightly ajar. Kael's hand went to his sword at once, the tension in his shoulders sharp enough to cut. He motioned for her to wait, then pushed the door wide.
A lantern flickered inside.
Varrow stood by her table, his long fingers trailing idly across the herbs and scrolls she had left behind. His smile was faint, but his eyes gleamed with something far colder than welcome.
"Ah," he said softly, "the wanderers return."
Kael stepped in front of Isolde, steel half drawn. "What are you doing here, Varrow?"
The adviser tilted his head, unbothered by the weapon aimed at him. "I might ask you the same. The Hollow of Whispers is no place for princes—or for… healers with hidden gifts." His gaze lingered on Isolde, and she felt the weight of it settle like a chain across her chest.
She steadied herself. "You knew what the Hollow was."
"I know what it was meant to be," Varrow replied. His tone was silken, but the undertone was sharp. "A prison for power too great to destroy. Yet prisons weaken. Chains rust. Whispers spread. You two have touched what was bound there. And now…" His smile thinned. "Now you are marked."
Kael's grip on his sword tightened. "If you know what's stirring, why do you stand idle? Why hide this from King Aldric, from the council?"
Varrow chuckled, low and humorless. "Because panic serves no one. A kingdom ruled by fear collapses faster than one ruled by shadow. And besides…" His eyes flicked between them, lingering on Isolde. "Sometimes fire must be tempered before it can become useful. Tell me, girl, did the Hollow sing to you? Did it whisper your name?"
Isolde's pulse raced. She remembered the voice, deep and ancient: At last… the flame returns. She bit the inside of her cheek, refusing to answer.
Varrow's smirk deepened. "Ah. It did. How delightful."
Kael took a step forward, sword gleaming. "Stay away from her."
Varrow spread his hands in mock surrender. "I merely observe, Prince Kael. But mark my words—the Hollow never lets go. The Shadow King's chains grow weaker by the hour, and when he rises, it will not be soldiers or crowns that decide Aeloria's fate." His eyes settled once more on Isolde. "It will be the flame."
With that, he snuffed the lantern with a flick of his fingers. When the smoke cleared, he was gone—leaving only the chill of his presence behind.
Isolde pressed a trembling hand to her chest. "Kael… he knows. About me. About what happened there."
Kael slid his sword back into its sheath, though his eyes burned with fury. "Then we'll have to be ready. Varrow may weave his schemes, but he underestimates us. And the Shadow King—whatever he is—we'll face him too. Together."
The cottage seemed smaller than ever, its walls closing in around them. Outside, the wind carried faint whispers that were not the wind's own. Eldralin slept unaware, but the world beyond had shifted. The Hollow had bled into their lives, and Varrow was watching, waiting, tightening his coils around the kingdom.
And in the deepest silence of the night, a voice stirred once more, faint yet undeniable:
Soon… flame and shadow will meet. And the world will burn.