The drums did not stop.
They multiplied.
From the Black Peaks, the First Hollow did not walk alone.
It came as a storm given will—and behind it marched an army that defied reason.
Orcs, freed from the shards but now bound by deeper chains, their eyes glowing violet once more—not from control, but from worship.
Goblins, thousands of them, wiry and shrieking, riding giant bats with leathery wings, dropping fire-pots on elven lines.
Corrupted beasts: wolves with obsidian fangs, bears armored in blackened bone, serpents that slithered through cracks in the earth.
And worst of all—stone-giants, their eyes hollow, runes of void carved into their granite skin, dragging fallen towers like clubs.
The Plains of Mourning became a sea of shadow.
"Hold the line!" Thorin roared, his frost-axe cleaving a goblin in two. "Dwarves! Shield wall!"
But the goblin swarm poured over them like rats. Fire-pots exploded, melting rune-wards. One dwarf fell, then another.
On the left flank, human cavalry charged—but the ground split open beneath them. Serpents dragged men and horses screaming into the dark.
In the sky, bat-riders circled, laughing in guttural tongues.
Prince Kaelin raised his sunfire torch. "Archers! Aim for the riders!"
Arrows flew—but the bats were fast, erratic. Only a few fell.
Then the stone-giants stepped forward.
Each footfall shook the earth. One swung a tower-club—it shattered a human phalanx like glass.
King Borin bellowed, "Focus fire on the giants! They're being controlled!"
But how do you kill a mountain?
At the center, Darien stood with Aelarion, Lira, and Malrik.
"The Hollow isn't fighting," Aelarion said, voice tight. "It's watching. Learning."
Darien saw it now—the towering void-form stood atop a hill, arms crossed, as if observing an experiment.
"They're testing us," Darien realized. "Seeing how we break."
Then the First Hollow raised one hand.
A wave of silence rolled across the plain.
Every elf dropped to their knees, clutching their chests. Even Darien felt it—a cold tear in his soul, as if his ash-hand was being unraveled.
"You carry my echo," the Hollow's voice boomed inside his skull. "Join me. Lead the new world."
"No," Darien growled.
He charged—not at the army, but straight for the Hollow.
Goblins leapt at him. He dissolved his arm into ash, letting blades pass through, then reformed it to crush skulls.
Orcs blocked his path—he swung the dwarven axe, shattering their armor.
A bat-rider swooped—he caught it mid-air and hurled it into a stone-giant's face.
But the Hollow did not move.
When Darien reached the hill, he struck with all his might.
The axe passed through the Hollow's chest—like striking smoke.
The entity laughed.
"You are still flesh. I am what remains when flesh forgets fear."
It backhanded Darien.
He flew fifty feet, crashing into a boulder. Ribs cracked. Blood filled his mouth.
Lira screamed his name.
The Hollow descended the hill, its presence dimming the sun.
"This is not war," it declared to the broken army. "This is harvest."
Behind it, the goblin hordes surged forward again.
The dwarven line buckled.
Human banners fell.
Elven songs turned to cries of pain.
And in Lyothara, the Great Tree's light flickered—once, twice—then went out.
Not forever.
But long enough to make every elf weep.
Darien crawled to his feet, ash-hand trembling.
He looked at the chaos—the dying, the fleeing, the Hollow standing like a god of ruin.
This wasn't the end.
It was the beginning of something worse.
And he was the only one who could face it.
But not today.
"Fall back!" he roared, voice raw with blood. "To Lyothara! Now!"
The retreat began—not as a rout, but as a last act of discipline.
As they fled, Darien glanced back.
The First Hollow did not pursue.
It simply watched…
and smiled with a mouth made of stars.