They were not just comrades in arms but they were scars stitched together by loss, by purpose, by beasts who had chosen to bear the same burdens.
From below, a moan rose. Not of one throat, but thousands. It began faint, a tremor in the bones, then grew louder, deeper, until it echoed like a chant.
The Hollow was pulsed with it. Every fissure glowed faint green, every rune flared brighter, every shadow deepened as though thousands of undead voices sang in worship.
The Crest rose to their feet with their weapons drawn and fire forgotten. They stared into the abyssal dark, listening as the chant grew. Words could not be made out, but the rhythm spoke for itself: ritual, invocation and endless prayer.
The Hollow was not just alive, it was waiting. It wanted them deeper. It wanted them to see the heart of its faith, the altar it had made of corpses and despair.
