The Cage and the Whisperer
The chains weren't necessary.
But they used them anyway, and not just for show. The knights shackled her wrists with cold iron, the way a butcher might bind the legs of an animal before the blade.
Liora sat hunched inside the barred carriage, dried blood caking her skin, arms heavy and aching. Her village had offered her up without question — not to justice, not to mercy — but to ritual. And the knights, expressionless and silent, had accepted her with the same indifference they might reserve for cattle. There had been no ceremony. No prayer. No farewells. Just fire, then silence, then steel.
And now, the road.
The carriage jolted over uneven earth, every bump slamming into her bones. Outside, the forest passed in streaks of withered bark and sky the color of drowned ash. Somewhere behind them, the smoke from her mother's pyre still hung in the air. She could taste it in her mouth.
In the opposite corner, a girl cried softly. Younger, sun-flushed and hollow-eyed. Her dress looked like it had once been lovely — pale muslin, now stained with soot and fear.
Liora didn't know her name, but recognized the face. One of the merchant's daughters, quiet and pale. Her wrist had bled too. But not roses. Not magic. Just blood, bright and ordinary.
Expendable.
Liora leaned her head against the carriage wall, ignoring the ache in her spine. The metal bars bit into her skin. Her thoughts felt distant — like they belonged to someone else. She tried not to feel the charm still tied to her wrist beneath the chains. She tried not to remember the priest's expression when he said it: Burn her. A man who'd once given her sweets on holy days.
The girl's voice cracked. "Where are they taking us?"
Liora didn't answer. What was the point?
The girl sniffled. "My mother said the palace eats people."
Liora finally looked at her. "Then don't make noise."
A pause. The girl blinked, startled.
"If it hears you," she added quietly, "I don't think it gives you back."
Silence stretched between them like frost.
And then, from the shadows at the very back of the carriage, a voice answered.
"You're not wrong."
Liora's head snapped toward the sound.
Someone sat curled in the farthest corner, half-swallowed by shadow. They were small and slight, cross-legged like they were meditating. Pale skin like candle wax, hair a cloud of frost, and eyes that did not match—one silver, one gold.
"Who the hell are you?" Liora demanded, shifting against her chains.
The figure smiled, though it didn't reach their eyes. "Wren," they said softly. "The Hollow King's humble servant. Or one of many. He collects things."
Liora squinted. "Where did you come from?"
Wren tilted their head. "You weren't looking."
It wasn't an answer, but it was all she got.
Her chains clinked as she adjusted, fighting the growing unease twisting in her gut. "What do you want?"
"Only to help." Wren stretched their long limbs like a cat waking from a dream. "You're different. He felt you. Even before the roses. You thrummed. He noticed."
The merchant's daughter whimpered, shrinking into herself.
Wren glanced at her, eyes curious and detached. "Oh. You won't make it."
The girl stiffened. "What—what do you mean?"
"You weren't chosen," Wren murmured, brushing ash off their dark trousers with a kind of casual grace. "The palace won't protect you. It may even consume you before we arrive. Don't take it personally. It isn't cruel. It's simply hungry."
Then, almost as if summoned by the words, the air changed.
The carriage jolted violently.
The girl screamed, clutching the iron bars. Wind howled through new cracks in the carriage walls, though no wind blew outside. The scent changed — damp and sweet, like overripe fruit left in a sealed tomb.
Liora's skin broke out in gooseflesh. The shadows moved. Bent.
Something pressed against the carriage walls, warping the wood inward, like the fingers of a giant hand dragging them into its palm. And then, for the briefest moment, Liora saw it — a face outside the wood, just behind the grain. Not human. Watching.
The girl's scream peaked—then cut off mid-breath.
Gone.
No sound. No struggle. No trace.
Only a smear of warmth where her knees had rested. A dent in the floor. An echo in Liora's mind.
She stared at the empty space, heartbeat thudding like a war drum. "What the hell was that?"
Wren exhaled, sounding bored. "I did warn her."
"You didn't stop it."
"I never do," Wren replied, folding their hands neatly in their lap. "Not unless he asks me to."
There was a pause — long and heavy.
Then Wren said, more softly, "He's curious about you."
Liora turned her head, slow and deliberate. "Tell him he can stay curious. But if he touches me, I'll carve out whatever heart he's hiding under that pretty armor."
Wren grinned wide this time, something like delight flashing across their eerie face. "That's the spirit. You might just survive."
The rest of the journey passed in silence.
By the time the carriage finally groaned to a stop, the world outside had shifted again. Fog blanketed the ground in thick coils, turning every shape into a silhouette. The sky bled from gray to bruised purple. Trees looked like fingers clawing upward from graves.
And ahead — the Hollow Palace.
It loomed like a broken cathedral, built from jagged black glass and pale stone. Its towers leaned slightly inward, as if listening. The gates rose like a beast's teeth, sharp and unwelcoming.
Liora felt it before she saw him.
A weight pressed down on her chest, a gravity that made the air harder to breathe. At the gates, a single figure stood—tall, still, cloaked in shadow. A helm of dark iron concealed his face, carved with thorned runes that caught the light. He didn't move, but he didn't need to.
He saw her.
He had always seen her.
The carriage door unlatched with a groan.
Wren leaned in close, whispering into her ear
with something almost like affection.
"Whatever you do… don't bleed again."