Mara stood at the edge of the canyon, her breath catching in the cold wind that spiraled up from the depths below. The ground had opened there years ago, splitting the land like a scar. No one crossed the Hollow unless they had a death wish—or a reason stronger than fear.
She had both.
In her hand, the small shard of crystal pulsed faintly, the same ember hue as the sky. She didn't know what it was, only that her mother had pressed it into her palm the night the flames came, whispering a single word before the world collapsed around them:
"North."
The crystal had been silent ever since. Until last night.
Now it beat like a second heart.
Behind her, the wind carried voices. Not real ones—never real ones—but echoes. Regrets. The Hollow had a way of peeling back the soul and letting old wounds breathe.
"You shouldn't be here," came a voice behind her.
Mara turned sharply, instinctively drawing the dull blade at her hip. But it wasn't an enemy. It was Talon—wrapped in his black duster, his face shadowed beneath the wide brim of his hooded scarf. He looked older than she remembered, and harder.
"You followed me," she said, not lowering the blade.
"You lit a signal fire," he replied, gesturing toward the crystal. "Didn't leave me much choice."
She hesitated, then slid the blade away. "I didn't mean to."
"You never do." He stepped forward and gazed into the Hollow. "So, what's the plan? Cross and die? Or wait and die?"
"There's something on the other side," Mara said. "Something worth risking both."
Talon didn't answer at first. Then he nodded.
"Then let's hope the Hollow is feeling merciful."
Without another word, the two stepped toward the ancient rope bridge, swaying gently over the abyss. The wind howled louder now—not in warning, but in welcome.
The Hollow remembered them both.
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