The sky above Eryndor burned a feverish crimson, a color that clung to the air like rust on steel. Kael stood at the edge of the village, his fingers curled around the hilt of his dagger, though he hadn’t touched it in weeks. The wind carried the scent of smoldering wood and something older—something metallic, like the breath of a dying god. He didn’t look up when the shadow fell over him, but he felt it, a weight pressing against his ribs as if the sky itself had leaned in to whisper.
“You shouldn’t be here,” said the voice, low and frayed at the edges. It belonged to Mira, her boots crunching gravel as she approached. Her cloak was patched with strips of cloth dyed in the same crimson as the sky, a symbol of the village’s defiance. She stopped a pace away, her eyes narrowing at the dagger in his hand. “They’re watching.”
Kael didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The silence between them was thick with unsaid things—the way the stars had begun to vanish, one by one, since the winter solstice; the rumors of the Hollow Men who prowled the edges of the forest; the hollow ache in his chest that had nothing to do with fear. Mira sighed, her breath a pale cloud in the cold air.
“You’re not like the others,” she said, more to herself than him. “They wait. They pray. You… you’re different.”
“I’m not,” Kael said, but the words felt false even as they left his mouth. He turned his gaze to the horizon, where the trees stood like sentinels, their bark etched with runes that glowed faintly in the dim light. The village elders called them warnings. Kael called them a language he’d never learned but somehow understood.
Mira studied him for a moment, then reached into her satchel and pulled out a vial of liquid that shimmered like oil on water. “This is from the grove,” she said, holding it out. “It’s the last of the light. You need to take it.”
Kael hesitated. The last time he’d touched something from the grove, his hands had burned for days. “What happens if I do?”
“You’ll see,” she said, her voice softening. “You’ll see what they’re trying to hide.”
He took the vial, feeling the cold seep into his palm. The moment his fingers closed around it, a pulse of heat radiated through his veins, and the world shifted—colors deepened, sounds sharpened, and for a brief instant, he saw the sky as it had been before the crimson took hold: vast, endless, alive. Then it was gone, and he was back in the present, breathless and shaking.
“You’re not ready,” Mira said, but there was no judgment in her tone. Only understanding. “But neither are they.”
The next morning, Kael found the body in the clearing. It was a man, his face frozen in a scream, his skin cracked like dried mud. The vial lay empty beside him, its contents spilled into the earth. Kael crouched beside it, his fingers brushing the soil. It was warm. Too warm. He looked up as the trees rustled, their branches twisting unnaturally, and knew he had no choice but to follow the path that had been carved for him.
The forest deepened, the air growing heavier with each step. Kael’s boots sank into the moss, and the silence was so complete it pressed against his eardrums. Then, a sound—a whisper, or maybe the wind. He turned, but there was nothing. Just the trees, their roots curling like serpents in the dark.
“You shouldn’t have come,” said a voice that wasn’t Mira’s, nor the man’s. It was older, colder, and it made the hair on Kael’s neck rise. He spun around, but the clearing was empty. The whisper came again, closer this time, and he realized it wasn’t a voice at all—it was the sound of something unraveling, like a thread pulled from the fabric of the world.
Kael ran. His legs pounded against the earth, his breath ragged. The forest blurred around him, the trees leaning in as if to listen. He didn’t stop until he stumbled into a clearing bathed in golden light. At its center stood a statue, its features worn by time, but the eyes—those were sharp, too sharp, and they locked onto him with a gaze that felt like a blade.
“You are late,” the statue said, its voice echoing from everywhere and nowhere. Kael’s knees buckled. The world tilted. He didn’t know if he was screaming or not, but the statue didn’t move. It only watched, as if waiting for him to understand.
The next day, the village awoke to a sky that had turned black. No stars, no light—just an endless void that swallowed everything. Kael stood at the edge of the forest, his hands empty, his mind a storm of questions. The statue’s words echoed in his skull: *You are late.* But late for what? And who, or what, had been waiting?
Mira found him there, her cloak torn, her face pale. “They’re coming,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “The Hollow Men. They know.”
Kael didn’t ask how she knew. He already did. The forest had told him. The sky had told him. And the statue—oh, the statue had spoken in a language he’d never learned but somehow understood.
“Then we fight,” Kael said, though the word felt hollow in his mouth. Mira nodded, her eyes filled with something he couldn’t name. Together, they turned toward the village, where the first screams had already begun.
