The next morning broke with a sky bruised blue and gray, the mist heavier than before. It clung low to the ground, curling around buildings like a restless thing. Hollowmere felt quieter than usual—less like a village and more like a stage before the actors returned.
Calypsius awoke first. Ashwing was still curled beside him, one wing stretched protectively across his ribs. Her breathing was slow and even. He brushed a hand gently over her scales, then eased out of bed without waking her.
Ellara sat at the table already dressed, her daggers on the floor beside her. She didn't look up as he approached, just gestured toward a half-eaten apple and said, "We need to look around."
He nodded, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "The carving on the well?"
"That. And the way no one flinched yesterday. They noticed her, but no one reacted the way you'd expect. There's something else going on."
"Agreed."
They let Ashwing sleep and left the inn quietly, stepping into the morning fog with hoods pulled low. The village looked different under the mist. Narrower. Older. A place suspended somewhere between memory and myth.
They began at the well.
Calypsius ran his fingers over the carving again, now more fully visible in daylight. It was weathered, but the lines were deliberate—etched by someone who understood what they were depicting. The wings. The coils. The fire.
"Draconic," Ellara whispered beside him. "But not just any depiction. This is protective. Symbol of blessing."
Calypsius frowned. "A village that reveres dragons, or did once, should've reacted more strongly to Ashwing."
"Unless they're hiding something," she murmured. "Or protecting something."
They circled the square, checking signs, old symbols etched in wood and stone. Beneath one of the shop's shutters, nearly invisible beneath years of dust, was another mark—an inverted flame ringed by thorns.
Ellara's expression darkened. "That's not draconic. That's containment magic. Ward-based."
Calypsius studied it. "To keep something in. Not out."
They shared a look.
They kept walking.
At the edge of the village sat a crumbling chapel, ivy crawling up its bell tower, the front doors weathered gray. A wooden plaque over the entrance had long since been worn blank. No name. No sigil.
The inside smelled of damp stone and beeswax. Faded rows of pews lined the room, all facing a raised altar. Behind it, the remnants of a mural were still visible—partially obscured by time and smoke. But the shapes were there.
Wings. A flame. A circle of watchers standing around something glowing in the center.
Ellara stepped forward, tracing the edge of the image. "This mural's ancient. Possibly first-generation post-Sundering."
Calypsius looked around. "And yet the chapel's still standing."
"They've kept it from collapsing," she said, squinting at the ceiling. "Repaired beams, braced the east wall. Why preserve a place no one seems to enter?"
"Because someone still does," he murmured, gesturing to the faintest trail of fresh mud leading from the altar to a side door.
They followed it.
The door creaked open into a side chamber—smaller, circular, lit by faintly glowing lanterns set into the walls. In the center was a pedestal.
And on it, a book.
Calypsius stepped forward, cautious. The book was bound in worn red leather, its edges gold-leafed and curling. The cover bore no title.
He opened it.
The pages were lined with careful handwriting. Spidery, but elegant. Dozens of entries—journal-style.
"Day 112. The egg remains dormant, but the flame sigils have begun to flicker in response to the moon cycle. The child speaks of dreams—of wings and fire. It is coming."
"Day 146. We believe the hatchling must never awaken here. It would not be safe. The world is not ready."
Ellara read over his shoulder. "They knew."
Calypsius turned another page.
"The village was founded on a promise: to watch and wait, to protect the memory of what once flew freely above these skies. But if the egg ever returns, the ward will weaken. And with it, the balance we've kept."
His voice was hoarse when he spoke. "They built Hollowmere around a dragon egg."
Ellara nodded slowly. "And someone—maybe the ancestors of this village—hid it. Buried the truth. Kept the knowledge alive through ritual and whispers."
"Until now," Calypsius said.
They turned as footsteps echoed behind them.
A man stood at the chamber's entrance. Elderly, cloaked in dark green robes with a sunburst brooch pinned to his chest. He didn't look surprised to see them.
"I had a feeling you two would find this room."
Ellara's hand moved subtly toward her dagger.
"No need," the man said gently, raising his hands. "I'm not your enemy."
"Who are you?" Calypsius asked, voice firm.
"My name is Hevaran," the man replied. "Caretaker of this chapel. And like you, I have been waiting a long time for the flame to return."
Calypsius narrowed his eyes. "You knew about Ashwing."
"I knew about something," Hevaran said. "We felt it the moment you entered Hollowmere. The bond. The weight of something ancient reawakening. The last time I felt it, I was barely a boy, and the mountain behind this village glowed red for three days straight."
"You knew about the egg," Ellara said.
He nodded. "The egg was never meant to hatch here. But prophecy has a way of breaking its own rules." He paused. "Your hatchling… she carries more than blood. She carries memory."
Calypsius glanced at Ellara, then back. "Memory of what?"
"The time before dragons fell. Before the Flameborn died out. Before the blades were forged." He looked to Calypsius. "That sword you carry… it was born to protect her."
Ellara's voice was steady. "Is she in danger here?"
Hevaran sighed. "She's in danger everywhere. But not from us. The real threat is waking too. Slowly. In the north. You've heard its whispers already, I suspect."
Calypsius clenched his fists.
"What do we do?" he asked.
Hevaran stepped back, gesturing to the book. "Take it. Learn what you can. But leave before the moon turns again. There are those beyond Hollowmere who felt her hatch. And they are coming."
Ashwing.
Calypsius thought of her curled back in the room at the inn, so small and trusting and full of light.
He would protect her. With or without prophecy.
He nodded once. "Thank you."
As they left the chapel and stepped back into the morning fog, the bells high above gave a soft chime—though neither of them had touched the rope.
The wind picked up, carrying the scent of pine and something older. Something buried. Watching.
Waiting to rise.