The boat touched the island's edge without a sound.
Nima stepped off first, the soles of her boots sinking slightly into ash-laced soil. The air was heavy—charged. Lanterns lined the path ahead, dozens of them, some cracked, others glowing faintly, and all of them swinging gently though there was no wind.
Each bore a name carved into its base.
And Nima recognized them.
"These are the names we gave back," she whispered. "The ones we unburied."
Morya knelt beside one, tracing her fingers across it.
"But some are wrong. Look—this one says 'Elarin.' But we never met an Elarin."
The flame inside the lantern flickered red.
Nima's heart raced. "This place is... rewriting memory."
They followed the path in silence, and as they moved, more lanterns ignited behind them—like the island was acknowledging their steps, or worse, reacting to them.
At the center of the island stood a great tree, gnarled and silver-barked, shaped like a weeping woman reaching skyward. Its branches bore no leaves—only threads, dozens, tangled and fraying. Beneath the tree was a well. Around it were masks—hundreds of them—lined like offerings. Some were smiling. Others... were screaming.
Then they saw her.
A woman sat at the edge of the well, her cloak a flowing shadow. Her back to them, hair braided with dried petals. In her lap, a lantern—unlit. And beside her, a pair of broken scissors, rusted red.
"Erielle," Nima said, barely above a whisper.
The woman turned.
And it was her. But older. Changed.
Her eyes were veined with gold, her skin marked with stitch-like scars, and her voice—when she spoke—sounded like a choir of drowned whispers.
"You came back."
Morya stepped forward, cautious. "We got your letter."
Erielle nodded. "It wasn't written. It was bled."
She stood, and the ground cracked beneath her bare feet.
"The Hollow's memory is unraveling. Truths are fraying. Names are changing."
She held out the lantern.
"You must carry this to the edge of the Hollow… to where the water forgets. Light it. Anchor it. Or all we remembered… all we fought for… will come undone."
Nima took it.
And as her fingers closed around the cold glass, a scream erupted from the well.
A scream made of every name ever forgotten.