The journey to Hollow Waters was unlike any they had taken before. The path was not marked on any map—no cartographer dared sketch it after the Severing. But the river remembered, and Nima knew how to listen to water.
They traveled by lanternlight, the same flame from the river's edge flickering atop their small skiff, though no fuel fed it. It burned like memory—soft, unyielding, sacred.
"This river doesn't flow forward," Morya murmured, trailing her fingers through the current.
"It flows through."
Nima nodded.
"The Hollow Waters are stitched between what was and what might be. We are not just traveling… we're remembering."
Each bend in the river brought visions—glimpses of lives they'd never lived. A Nima who chose vengeance. A Morya who never met her. A world where the Severer had won.
But they were only glimpses—warnings.
Then came the fog.
It fell like a curtain, thick and humming with whispers. The skiff drifted slower. The river narrowed.
Morya gripped Nima's hand.
"We're not alone anymore."
A shape emerged—tall, cloaked, faceless.
It hovered on the water without moving, as if drawn from threads of silence.
"Turn back," it whispered.
"The Hollow remembers betrayal. It will not welcome you."
Nima stood. Her voice didn't shake.
"We stitched truth into the world once. We'll do it again."
The figure raised an arm—and the water cracked beneath them like glass. Visions swirled in the reflection:
A drowned girl clutching a mirror.
A book that bled from its spine.
A mouth stitched shut with silver thread.
"Then remember what you are walking into," it said.
"And what you once chose to forget."
It vanished.
And just like that, the fog parted.
Ahead lay the Hollow Waters—dark, still, endless. An island sat at its center, glowing faintly with lanternlight. But the sky above it was wrong: not stars, but eyes—watching, blinking slowly.
Morya whispered, "It's watching us."
Nima whispered back, "It's waiting."