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The hollow hums beneath your skin before the sun even rises. Its pulse is subtle, almost imperceptible, but it's enough to set every nerve on edge. You're lying on the cold concrete floor of the underground chamber, arms crossed over your chest, staring at the shadows stretching along the walls. Each one seems to move, not with the wind, but with intention. You can feel it — the space is alive with anticipation.
Azael sits across from you, back against a crate, eyes scanning the far end of the room. He doesn't speak. His presence alone is enough to steady the hollow, to anchor your restless energy. Yet even he is tense, a faint line forming between his brows.
"They'll be back," you whisper, more to yourself than to him.
Azael doesn't respond immediately. He runs a hand over his face and finally says, "Yes. They always are. And this time… they'll come differently."
You turn your head slowly, watching him. "Differently how?"
"They'll test more than our reflexes," he says. "They'll probe our weaknesses. Our reactions. Our limits. Kaelthyr wants more than survival. He wants control. Complete understanding."
The hollow beneath your skin reacts sharply to the word. Control. You've felt it before, the way Kaelthyr observes, studies, manipulates. You press a hand over your chest instinctively, trying to still the surge of energy that coils beneath your ribs.
"I can feel it," you murmur. "Even now."
Azael's gaze sharpens. "Good. That means your senses are adapting. That's how we survive. Awareness before the attack."
Minutes stretch into an hour. The chamber grows colder, frost forming along the edges of the concrete. Your body aches from tension. Every muscle is tight, every breath measured. Yet the hollow thrums steadily, waiting, coiling, reminding you of the storm to come.
You rise slowly, pacing in a small circle, testing the floor, the walls, even the air. Every vibration matters. Every subtle movement could be the first sign of their approach. The hollow responds to every detail, pulsing faintly, guiding your movements, amplifying your focus.
"They're watching," you whisper again.
"They are," Azael says, his voice quiet, almost a growl. "Through every reflection, every crack, every weak point. Kaelthyr sees more than you realize. And tonight… he's widening the eye."
You stop mid-step, heart tightening. "Widening the eye?"
He leans forward slightly, voice low. "He's testing how far we'll stretch before we break. He wants to know our endurance, our patience, and the hollow's limits. If he can push us to the edge here… he can exploit it later."
The thought presses into your chest like a weight. You glance at the hollow, feeling its restless pulse, sensing how it reacts to the invisible pressure in the air. It's alive, aware, almost sentient. It knows something is coming — far more dangerous than the last wave.
Hours pass. Every shadow becomes a threat. Every faint vibration along the floor sets your nerves on fire. The hollow pulses stronger, hungry for contact, for action. You pace, test, and anticipate, but the anticipation itself is almost unbearable.
Azael moves silently to the barricades, adjusting them with meticulous precision. Every crate, every panel, every piece of debris has a purpose. He glances at you briefly, reading the tension in your posture. "Stay ready," he murmurs. "They'll strike at the point we least expect."
You nod. The hollow thrums beneath your ribs, responding to your anticipation. You press a hand lightly against the floor, sensing every imperfection, every vibration, every shift in the chamber. Time stretches, elongated by anxiety, by preparation, by the awareness that every second could be the last before the strike.
And then — a subtle, almost imperceptible shift in the air.
The hollow flares violently, warning you. Your heart hammers in your chest. Something beyond the walls, beyond perception, presses against it. It's close. Too close. You grip your knees, forcing yourself to stay calm, to focus, to anticipate.
"They're here," you whisper.
"Yes," Azael says, rising. His blade is drawn, the metal catching what little light filters through the broken windows. "And now we see how wide the eye really is."
The first movement comes from the shadows. Not a figure, not yet. Just a pressure, like a tide pushing against a shore. The hollow responds instantly, flaring outward in warning. Then — shapes emerge, indistinct at first, flickering like heat over concrete. They're faster than anything you've faced.
"Brace yourself!" Azael shouts.
The hollow flares around you like liquid light. You strike instinctively, energy lashing outward. The shapes recoil, then advance, forming a wave of shadows moving with eerie precision. Each movement is coordinated, fluid, and merciless.
Your chest burns as you push harder, each strike testing the boundaries of the hollow. Sparks fly as the shadows collide with the energy flares. The concrete cracks. Dust swirls. The chamber shakes with the force of your attacks.
Azael moves with you, a deadly extension of instinct and skill. Steel meets shadow in flashes of sparks. He grunts, blocks, strikes, flows — every motion precise, every attack lethal.
Then the larger figure steps forward from the far end of the chamber. Its presence presses against the hollow like a living weight. The other shadows hesitate, giving it space.
"This is it," you mutter, voice tight.
Azael nods, eyes fixed on the figure. "Don't let it break you. Control the hollow. Control yourself."
The figure lunges, faster than anything before. You meet its strike, hollow flaring violently. Impact shakes the chamber, sending dust and debris into the air. Sparks fly from metal, walls crack, machinery groans.
The hollow pulses in your chest, feeding on fear and adrenaline. Energy lashes outward, striking the figure. It staggers but doesn't fall. Its movements are deliberate, precise, controlled.
You press harder, every strike sharper, every motion faster, every heartbeat feeding into the hollow. Azael matches you in perfect sync, every slash of his blade perfectly timed, every movement countering the attacks.
The battle stretches on, relentless. Shadows dissolve, re-form, attack, retreat, vanish, reappear. The hollow thrums in response to every shift, every strike, every movement, almost sentient now, almost alive in its own right.
And then, at the apex of the assault, a sound pierces the chaos — low, resonant, unnatural. The larger figure falters slightly. The others hesitate. A gap appears.
You strike. The hollow flares with full intensity, energy exploding outward, colliding with the figure. It screams — a sound that rips through the chamber, unnatural and piercing — and collapses.
The remaining shadows vanish, retreating into corners, under crates, into cracks in the walls. Silence falls, thick and suffocating.
You collapse to the floor, muscles trembling, chest heaving, hollow dimming but still alive, restless. Azael leans against a crate, breathing hard, scanning the chamber, eyes sharp.
"For now," he murmurs. "But Kaelthyr will adapt. He will widen the eye again. And the next strike… will be worse."
Outside, the wind howls against the broken structure. Shadows stretch and twist along the walls. And somewhere, far away, Kaelthyr watches, smiling. The hollow flares faintly, almost aware of what is coming.
You know he's right. This isn't over. It's only the beginning. The eye has widened. And when it closes again, it will bring destruction.
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