Chapter 4: First Steps into Darkness
Freya Mikaelson's attic workshop smelled like a botanical garden had been crossed with a chemistry lab—herbs hanging in neat bundles from the rafters, glass bottles filled with liquids that probably violated several laws of physics, and an undercurrent of ozone that made the air itself feel electric.
The Triad insignia burned like a coal in my pocket as Freya moved around her ritual space, gathering components with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd been casting spells since before indoor plumbing was invented. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a severe bun, and her blue eyes held the kind of focused intensity that suggested interrupting her would be inadvisable.
"Your proposal is insane," she said without looking up from the mortar and pestle where she was grinding what looked like crystallized moonlight. "Rotating the Hollow between you and Hope. Do you have any idea what you're suggesting?"
"Honestly? No." I adjusted my position on the uncomfortable stool she'd provided. "I'm operating on about thirty percent desperation and seventy percent blind optimism."
[SYSTEM: Swallowing ancient evil? Bold, but I'm not cleaning up the mess.]
Freya finally looked at me, her gaze sharp enough to cut glass. "The Hollow isn't just a spirit, Alex. It's pure malevolence given form. A force that's existed since the dawn of magic, twisted by centuries of hatred and power. When it touches you—really touches you—it leaves marks that don't fade."
She rolled up her left sleeve, revealing a network of thin scars that spiraled from her wrist to her elbow. The marks were old but still visible, like someone had carved them with silver wire.
"Research accident," she explained. "Three minutes of direct contact with Hollow-tainted artifacts. The scars are the least of what it left behind."
Chalk dust motes danced in the afternoon sunlight streaming through the workshop's skylights as she began drawing symbols on the floor. Complex geometric patterns that hurt to look at directly, as if they contained angles that shouldn't exist in three-dimensional space.
"So why are you helping me?" I asked.
"Because Hope is family," Freya said simply. "And because your ability to mimic magical properties without formal training suggests you might actually survive contact with the Hollow long enough to be useful."
She paused in her chalk work to study me again. "Your energy signature is... unusual. There's something underneath the surface, something that doesn't quite match the rest of you. Like you're carrying a passenger."
My blood turned to ice water. "What kind of passenger?"
"I'm not sure. The readings are inconsistent—sometimes it feels like another consciousness, sometimes like a magical artifact bound to your soul. Whatever it is, it's been with you since you arrived." Her voice took on a clinical detachment that was somehow more unsettling than Klaus's direct threats. "Has anyone ever mentioned you might be possessed?"
Before I could answer, footsteps echoed on the workshop's narrow staircase. Hope appeared in the doorway, carrying a leather-bound sketchbook and wearing the kind of carefully neutral expression that suggested she'd been listening to our conversation.
"How are you feeling?" I asked her.
"Better," she admitted, settling cross-legged on the floor near Freya's ritual circle. "The pain's been... manageable since yesterday. Whatever you did, it worked."
She opened her sketchbook, revealing pages filled with detailed pencil drawings. Most were landscapes—the French Quarter at sunrise, storm clouds gathering over Lake Pontchartrain, the compound's courtyard bathed in moonlight. But scattered throughout were darker images: twisted trees that looked more like grasping hands, shadows with too many eyes, and on one page, a figure that might have been human if humans were made of smoke and malevolence.
"The Hollow's dreams," Hope explained, noticing my stare. "They bleed through sometimes when I'm sleeping. Drawing them helps me remember they're not real."
I studied the shadow-figure more closely. Something about its posture, the way it seemed to be reaching toward the viewer, made my skin crawl.
"Does it ever talk to you?"
"Sometimes." Hope's pencil moved across a fresh page, sketching without conscious thought. "Mostly it whispers about power, about how I could remake the world if I just stopped fighting it. Pretty standard evil spirit stuff, according to Aunt Freya."
The sketch taking shape under her pencil was me—sitting on the stool, but with my hands wreathed in that same ethereal glow from the library. She'd captured something in my expression that I hadn't realized was there, a wariness that went deeper than simple caution.
"Do I really look that paranoid?" I asked.
Hope's lips twitched into what might have been a smile. "You look like someone who's constantly listening to voices nobody else can hear."
[SYSTEM: Perceptive kid. Wonder what gave it away.]
The accuracy of her observation was uncomfortable. I shifted on the stool, trying to project more confidence than I felt. "Speaking of voices, has anyone mentioned we're supposedly going on twenty dates?"
"Dad mentioned it." She continued sketching, adding shadows to my drawn face. "He also mentioned that if you try anything inappropriate, he'll turn you into garden fertilizer."
"Charming. And how do you feel about the arrangement?"
Hope looked up from her sketchbook, meeting my eyes directly. "I think you're either very brave or very stupid. Possibly both." She tilted her head slightly, studying me with the same intensity she brought to her artwork. "But you helped me when you didn't have to. When it would have been safer to just let Klaus torture information out of you. That counts for something."
Freya cleared her throat from across the room. "If you two are finished bonding, I'd like to test Alex's Hollow interaction before the sun sets. The barriers between worlds are thinner at twilight, which means any mistakes we make will be correspondingly more dangerous."
She'd finished the ritual circle—a complex mandala of interlocking symbols that seemed to pulse with their own inner light. At its center sat a small glass vial filled with what looked like liquid darkness.
"Hollow essence," Freya explained. "Heavily diluted and contained, but still potent enough to kill you if you're not careful. The goal is to establish a connection without allowing full possession."
I approached the circle slowly, every instinct screaming that this was a terrible idea. The Triad insignia felt heavier in my pocket with each step, as if it were responding to the Hollow's proximity.
"What do I need to do?"
"Sit in the center. Place your hands on the vial. Try to mimic the Hollow's energy signature without absorbing it into yourself." Freya's voice took on the cadence of someone delivering a lecture. "Think of it like tuning a radio—you want to find the frequency without being overwhelmed by the signal."
I settled into the circle's center, the chalk symbols warm against my skin despite being drawn on cold stone. The vial was ice-cold to the touch, and the darkness inside seemed to writhe as my fingers made contact.
The effect was immediate.
Visions crashed through my mind like a dam bursting—flashes of ancient forests where impossible things hunted in the shadows, cities that had never existed burning under alien stars, and underneath it all, a vast intelligence that regarded mortal life with the same interest a human might show for bacteria.
But this time, instead of being overwhelmed, I felt something else respond. Not the system's usual sarcastic commentary, but a deeper presence that wrapped around my consciousness like armor. The visions continued, but they felt distant now, like watching a horror movie from another room.
[SYSTEM: Well, that's new. Don't get cocky.]
Hope gasped somewhere behind me, and when I opened my eyes—when had I closed them?—she was staring at me with an expression of wonder and terror.
"What?" I asked, though my voice sounded strange, as if it were coming from somewhere far away.
"Your eyes," she whispered. "They're completely black."
Freya moved closer to the circle's edge, her expression tense. "Can you hear me, Alex? Are you still in control?"
I blinked, and my vision cleared. The visions faded, leaving behind only a dull ache in my temples and the taste of copper in my mouth.
"Yeah," I said, though I wasn't entirely sure it was true. "I'm still me."
Freya made rapid notes on a piece of parchment, her handwriting too quick and angular for me to read. "Remarkable. Most people would be catatonic after even diluted contact. You managed to establish a connection while maintaining your own consciousness."
"So the plan could work?" Hope asked.
"The plan could work," Freya agreed. "But there will be consequences. The Hollow doesn't give up its power freely, and every time Alex channels its energy, he'll be risking corruption. Too much exposure, and he could become something else entirely."
As if in response to her words, the workshop's temperature dropped ten degrees. Frost began forming on the windows despite the warm afternoon, and somewhere in the distance, I could swear I heard laughter that sounded like breaking glass.
[SYSTEM: Malivore says hello. This just keeps getting better.]
"What was that?" Hope asked, her sketchbook forgotten as she scanned the room for threats.
"I don't know," Freya admitted, which was possibly the most unsettling thing anyone had said all day. "But whatever it was, it's watching us now."
The Triad insignia in my pocket had gone from warm to burning, and when I shifted position, I caught a glimpse of something moving outside the workshop's skylight. A shadow that was too deliberate to be natural, too aware to be coincidence.
Freya's spell circle began to glow more brightly, casting dancing shadows across the workshop walls. "We should end this session. Whatever's out there, it's attracted to the Hollow energy."
As I stood and moved away from the circle, the burning sensation in my pocket faded. But the sense of being watched remained, a prickling between my shoulder blades that suggested unseen eyes were cataloging every movement, every word, every demonstration of power.
Hope closed her sketchbook and stood as well, but not before I caught a glimpse of what she'd been drawing during the ritual. It was the workshop, rendered in perfect detail, but with one addition that made my blood run cold.
In the corner of the sketch, barely visible in the shadows she'd carefully shaded, was a figure watching us. Tall, cloaked, with eyes that seemed to follow the viewer no matter what angle they looked from.
"Hope," I said quietly. "That figure in your drawing—"
"I know." Her voice was steady, but I caught the tremor in her hands as she tucked the sketchbook under her arm. "It's been in all of them lately. Every time I draw something real, it shows up somewhere in the background."
Freya had stopped taking notes and was now staring at Hope with the kind of focus that suggested she was putting pieces together in her mind.
"How long has this been happening?"
"Since he arrived," Hope said, nodding toward me. "Since the night Dad brought him to the compound."
The workshop fell silent except for the sound of wind rustling through the herbs hanging from the rafters. Outside, storm clouds were gathering despite the clear forecast, and the air pressure had the tight, expectant feel that preceded lightning.
Whatever was coming, we'd given it our scent. And judging by the way Freya's protective wards were beginning to flicker, it was getting closer.
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