The wind had stopped breathing hours ago. The plains they crossed were made of something that resembled earth but crumbled into black dust whenever the boots of the living pressed against it. Behind them, the distortion they sealed still shimmered faintly — a trembling scar of light that refused to close completely, pulsing like the memory of an open wound. Siran walked first, his cloak dragging through the dust, his expression carved from exhaustion and unease. Behind him came Nofan, silent, his steps too measured, his gaze never fixed on any single point — as if he was watching something beyond the veil of the visible world. The others followed, forming a narrow line of shadows in a world where even the horizon seemed to breathe.
No one spoke for a long while. Silence had become a kind of protection — the only thing that felt real enough to hold on to. The last time they broke it, they had seen the ground open and swallow one of their own. That memory lingered between them like a curse that had forgotten how to die. The light above had changed since then. It no longer came from the sun but from the sky itself — a bruised, grey dome that flickered faintly, like a dying lantern fighting its own end.
By the time the first remnants of architecture appeared — what looked like the ribs of an ancient city jutting out from the sand — Siran stopped.
"This place shouldn't exist," he muttered.
The ruins ahead were bent backward, as if the earth had once tried to reject them. Marble faces, eroded beyond recognition, stared up from beneath the soil. Their eyes were hollow, yet something deep inside them seemed to move.
"We'll camp here," Siran said finally. "The storm will catch us by nightfall."
The group obeyed, though no one truly wanted to. The air around the ruins felt too still, too calculated — like an animal pretending to be dead. When the tents were set and the fire burned low, only the crackle of embers dared to speak. Nofan sat apart from the rest, at the edge of the ruins, staring into the void where the plain met the night. There was a faint hum in his skull — not painful, but rhythmic, like a heartbeat out of sync with his own. He closed his eyes, but the sound did not stop.
You are not alone, a voice whispered, too close to his ear.
He turned sharply, finding nothing but wind and the fragile echoes of his breath.
Then, from the dark, came the smell of rain — though no clouds had formed. The ruins whispered, low and deliberate. Nofan looked toward the largest column, its surface marked with veins of dried crimson that had not been there before. His reflection flickered upon it — but not as he was. The reflection smiled, even when he did not.
At the fire, Siran spoke quietly to Marin.
"He's slipping again."
Marin didn't answer immediately. Her hand rested on the hilt of her blade, eyes locked on Nofan's silhouette.
"He hasn't spoken since the Rift," she said. "But I can feel it in the air — the same pressure I felt before the distortion began to form. It's like the world knows he's here."
Siran's voice darkened. "Or like the world is waiting for him."
The flame flickered, stretched, then leaned toward Nofan — as if drawn to his stillness. The sound of the fire changed, deepened, a low moan rolling through the night. Nofan blinked and saw movement between the flames. For a moment, the fire formed a face — gentle, human — her face.
Arys.
Her eyes were the color of moonlit water.
He reached forward before he realized what he was doing.
"Mother…?" The word was barely audible, lost in the sigh of the ash.
The others turned at the same time he did. The fire had gone black. Smoke poured upward without heat or scent, thick and writhing like oil. The world seemed to tilt slightly; the stars above spun out of place.
Marin rose to her feet. "Everyone back—"
But the shadows moved faster.
The black smoke stretched out from the fire like limbs, touching the ground, leaving behind trails of frost. Where it passed, the soil cracked, bleeding faint silver light. The ruins began to hum again — louder now — and every carved face seemed to twist, as though straining to look in their direction.
Siran shouted an incantation, and the air flashed blue; a barrier of sigils flared between the group and the smoke. Yet something was wrong. The runes trembled, their lines bending, as if refusing to hold.
Nofan stood still in the chaos, his eyes unfocused, body caught between trance and paralysis. He could hear them all now — the whispers, the hundreds of overlapping voices speaking through the black. They were chanting his name. Not Nofan, but another — older, deeper.
No'varn… No'varn…
The sound filled his chest until breathing felt impossible. He fell to his knees, gripping his skull, feeling warmth on his palms. When he looked down, his hands were covered in blood — but not his own. The ground beneath him pulsed, like something alive beneath the crust.
Marin grabbed his shoulder. "Snap out of it!"
The world shattered.
For an instant, everything froze — the smoke, the air, even sound itself. Then came a soundless explosion: light folding inward, collapsing in on itself. The night peeled away. The plain erupted in reverse fire — dark light that devoured color and shadow alike. The ruins cracked open, revealing veins of white stone that glowed like bone beneath skin.
When the silence returned, the camp was gone. The tents lay shredded, half-buried in dust. A crater had formed where the fire had been, and at its center stood Nofan. Around him, threads of black light spiraled upward, connecting sky to earth. They pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat.
Siran stepped forward cautiously. "What did you do?"
Nofan's voice came from everywhere and nowhere. "It's not me. Something answered."
The black light snapped upward — a single, violent pulse that split the clouds. The ground shook. The earth beneath them began to rise, slowly at first, then with the force of a living heartbeat. The dust fell away, revealing a vast structure emerging from below — a cathedral, its spires made of fused bone and glass. It pulsed with veins of light like arteries carrying molten silver.
Marin whispered, "That… was under us all along?"
"No," Siran said, his eyes wide. "It's forming now."
The cathedral groaned — a deep, mournful sound that felt like memory itself breaking apart. Windows of liquid shadow opened along its surface, and within them, figures began to stir. Not quite human. Not quite spirit. Each was wrapped in shrouds of smoke, eyes glowing faintly from beneath.
Nofan felt drawn to them. He stepped closer to the crater's edge, the glow of his veins resonating with the pulse of the structure. Every breath brought new fragments of a forgotten language to his mind — words that didn't exist, yet he understood them perfectly.
"Stop," Marin called. "You're feeding it."
He didn't listen.
The voices grew clearer. He could almost make out sentences now.
Return to the hollow.
Reclaim the echo.
The curse is not a wound — it is a door.
The ground beneath him split. A thin line of black light ran from his feet toward the cathedral, then burst outward, forming a vast circle of symbols across the field. Every mark burned into the dirt, shimmering with unstable power.
The others backed away, but Siran stayed. He raised his hand, muttering a spell, trying to anchor the reality around them. The symbols resisted, pushing back against his command. His nose began to bleed.
"Nofan, listen to me," he shouted through the roar. "If you open that door, we won't be able to close it again!"
But Nofan's eyes were distant — silver light swirling in the darkness of his pupils.
He spoke softly, his voice layered with echoes.
"It's already open."
The circle ignited.
Every figure near the cathedral screamed — not with sound, but with light bursting from their forms. The structure convulsed, its glass walls vibrating like a thousand voices praying out of sync. Shards of luminous bone fell from above, embedding themselves in the ground.
And then — silence again.
The glow faded slowly, revealing devastation. The plain was gone, replaced by a field of fractured mirrors reflecting nothing but darkness. At the center, the cathedral still stood, half-submerged, breathing faintly like a creature asleep. Nofan collapsed to his knees, the light in his eyes fading back to grey.
Siran approached him carefully. "What is that thing?"
Nofan raised his head weakly. "The second domain… born from memory."
Marin looked toward the cathedral's vast doors — they were beginning to open, soundlessly. From within, a red mist drifted out, crawling across the broken ground.
She whispered, "Tell me that's not another curse."
Siran didn't answer. His gaze fixed on Nofan, whose shadow no longer matched his form.
The mist reached them, cold and heavy, carrying the faint scent of iron and rain. Somewhere deep inside the cathedral, something moved — slow, deliberate, alive.
Nofan's voice trembled, barely a whisper:
"It followed us out."
And with that, the night fell apart once more — the horizon bending inward as the new curse took shape in the world.
> "The curse had found its host."
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End of Chapter 11 — "The Hollow March."