Rylan had lost track of how long he had been standing in that strange, silent circle. Time seemed to stretch and bend around him, making it impossible to tell where one moment ended and another began. The standing stones encircled him tightly, rising tall and jagged like rows of teeth ready to snap. Their uneven shapes added to the sense of wildness, as if they had been thrown into place in a rush or surprise. The stones formed a loose spiral pattern, spiraling inward like secrets hidden in a coil, but he was certain that pattern hadn't been there just yesterday. Or maybe it had, but the forest itself hadn't shown it till now, hiding it behind thick leaves and shadows. That thought—that Hollowmere, the hidden woods, the very nature of this place—might choose when and what it revealed—was what unsettled him most. It was a strange, chilling idea, that the world around him could be so selective, so manipulative. Hollowmere was not just a quiet forest; it seemed alive—watching, waiting to reveal what suited it best.
He didn't really know why he had come here. It pulled him, but not with a pull you could see or feel physically. It was a different kind of urge, something older and deeper, like a voice whispering from somewhere inside. He had felt it before—through the pages of that old book he found, through the strange flames that etched the name Veyr into the air, and through the mark on his hand. That mark, now just faint against his skin, still pulsed with a quiet, persistent throb. It was as if some part of him remembered what that mark meant, what it connected him to. Somewhere deep down, he understood that he was tied to Veyr—more than just a name or a symbol. It was a role, a sentence he couldn't escape. This connection filled him with a strange mix of fear, curiosity, and not quite understanding why exactly.
The forest seemed to hold its breath as he moved carefully toward the very center of the circle. His steps were slow, cautious, as if the ground might shift or he might trigger something unseen. When his foot finally pressed down on the moss-covered stone at the circle's heart, something utterly changed. The air thickened instantly, like the space around him had contracted or grown dense with unseen weight. An electric charge passed through the atmosphere, making the hairs on his arms stand up. The quiet that had been once peaceful shattered suddenly. A sharp crack of sound tore through the silence, as if something was breaking free or awakening from a long sleep. Then, the entire world seemed to shiver—like a vast, unseen tremor wove through the fabric of existence.
Rylan instinctively dropped to one knee, clutching his chest as if to hold himself together. His vision blurred and shifted, not blacking out entirely but changing shape. It was as though a new filter had been placed over reality, rearranging what he saw and understood. Through this altered lens, he saw the circle not as stones, but filled with figures. Those figures weren't just ghostly images or illusions—they were living, breathing entities. Knights. Seven of them, standing where the stones had been moments before, each of them glowing with a different, vibrant hue. Silver, gold, violet, green, white, blue, and—most striking of all—red. The red knight was at the very center of the group. At first, he thought it might be himself. Or someone who looked exactly like him. The face was familiar but distant, like a reflection from a dream.
He watched them tense and argue among themselves. The voices came in fragments, harsh and urgent, as if every word mattered deeply. He caught snippets—disjointed but full of meaning. "You swore it would hold," one said with gritted teeth. "You promised," another snapped, voice edged with frustration. Words like "the Saint lies" and "he must fall" floated through the chaos, words that hinted at betrayal, broken trust, and looming danger. The mention of "the beast" hinted at something terrible they were trying to prevent or control. The red knight, the one at the center, suddenly raised a hand, flames flickering up his arm like blood turned to fire. His voice rang out, calm but powerful, carrying a weight of authority. "I remember," he said, voice steady as if repeating something he believed to be true. "And I still choose this." His words struck like a command, sealing his decision, sealing some fate.
Just as he was beginning to piece it all together, everything around him was pulled into blinding whiteness. The world disappeared into light, leaving only that single, endless hue. It swallowed everything, erasing the sound and color, leaving silence so profound that it seemed to echo in his mind.
Rylan's body jerked suddenly as he found himself back in the here and now. The moss beneath him felt wet and squishy, softening his fall after the rush of whatever had caught him. His lungs burned fiercely, his breathing ragged and shallow. It was as if unseen flames licked the edges of his lungs, sparking heat without warmth, leaving him trembling. His hand throbbed with a dull ache, the sting sharp and persistent. Slowly, he opened his palm, feeling the roughness of his skin against the faint glow that radiated from the mark on his skin. It was brighter now, the lines more sharply defined. The shape seemed to pulse, almost alive in its glow. It wasn't just that he remembered what had happened—something deeper was happening. He was living it again, reliving every moment, every detail, as if caught in a loop he couldn't escape. The weight of the memories pressed on him, clear and unyielding, forcing him to confront things he wished he could forget.
Mira's scream shattered the tense quiet around them. It was sharp and raw, breaking through the night like glass shattering. But her cry wasn't just born of fear. Not entirely. She had fallen to her knees near the southern stones—an ancient marker that had always held some quiet power. Her sketchbook was clutched tightly to her chest, her fingers curling around its worn cover as if it could protect her from what she saw. Her eyes were impossibly wide, filled with a strange glow that shimmered even in the dark. She looked like she had seen something impossible—something that shook her to her core. Her scream rang out again, trembling, almost as if her voice was trying to hold back tears or noise she couldn't contain.
Lina was the first to reach her, pushing through the chaos of her fellow travelers. She kneeled quickly, her face etched with concern. "Mira, hey—hey, look at me," she urged softly but urgently. She reached out, gently placing a hand on Mira's shoulder. "What happened? Tell me what you saw."
Mira gasped, her breath hitching in her throat. Her voice was husky from crying or shock. "I saw them," she whispered, her eyes darting around as if worried someone might listen. "Not just the creatures. Us, too. Before all this." She paused, trembling. "In armor. Standing in the circle. We were fighting—no, choosing—something. The forest around us was burning, the flames licking high into the sky. The sky itself was gone, swallowed by darkness. And Rylan…" Her voice cracked as she looked toward him. Her eyes shone with a mixture of awe and terror. "He died. I saw it. He… he was gone. Just burned away. Voluntarily. Like he'd walked into the fire himself." Her voice was small, haunted. The scene replayed endlessly in her mind's eye.
Ash and Varyon arrived just as the last of her words faded into the silence. They stepped close, eyes wide, ears tensed. Ash's face was drawn tight with confusion and concern. "What do you mean, he died?" His voice was steady but edged with worry.
Mira's tears threatened to fall again. She shook her head, voice trembling. "I don't know how. I just know he was gone. Whatever it was, he chose to burn himself up. Just… disappeared." Her words hung heavy in the air, like a dark cloud blocking out any hope.
Rylan had moved to stand at the clearing's edge. His hands shook uncontrollably, and his voice was hoarse but steady enough to be heard. "I think I gave myself up," he said quietly, almost to himself. His eyes were distant, haunted.
Varyon stepped forward, suspicion flickering behind his eyes. "Gave yourself up for what?" he asked sharply.
Mira looked hollow, her face drained of color. She whispered, almost like a prayer. "The Ninth must fall," she repeated, her voice flat and empty. Those words held weight. They echoed a deep truth she'd heard only moments before, from Solin, a voice that seemed to threaten the entire future of everything they knew. The silence that followed was thick. It pressed down on them, heavy and unrelenting. Shadows seemed to lean closer, hiding unseen threats, making the darkness feel all the more oppressive.
That night, they refused to pretend everything was normal. No one slept peacefully. The campfire roared high, casting flickering shadows on their faces. Lina had woven charms from roots and silver thread, placing them around the fire to offer some protection. The fire's light flickered wildly, never quite steady. Ash kept pacing near the ruins, always close enough to see and hear, though he refused to admit he was doing it to keep from losing control. His thoughts were dangerous, swirling with unanswered questions.
Varyon offered to keep watch first. Not because anyone asked him, but because he knew the others couldn't. Someone had to. Every hour, he kept his eyes on the dark woods, listening for sounds that weren't there. Every crack of a branch or sigh in the trees made him flinch. Sleep was impossible—his mind raced through all the possibilities, all the dangers lurking beyond the fire's glow.
As the night pressed on, the forest outside shifted again. It was subtle at first, just a faint movement among the trees. Then, something passed close to the stones—something tall and strange. It didn't attack. It didn't say a word. It just watched. The creature was wrong in every way, too tall, too silent, with features that didn't belong in this world. It moved past the stones effortlessly, slipping between one breath and the next, leaving no trace except a whisper of presence. When they looked again, expecting maybe some sign of threat or message, they saw only a new carving—an intricate spiral etched into the base of the standing stone circle. This time, the spiral wasn't complete. A single line was left open, empty, waiting. Like a final stroke that needed to be made, a piece missing from something unfinished. It hovered there, unsettling and mysterious, hinting that whatever was to come had yet to be revealed, and the waiting itself was a sign of something far worse looming just beyond sight.