The halls of the Obsidian Keep were never truly silent.
They breathed.
Flames danced in sconces carved from basalt, each one burning without fuel, their light cold and colorless. Shadows stretched too long for their sources, and whispers coiled like mist in the air whispers of the dead, of the damned, and of those who would soon join them.
In the center of the throne hall, Kaelreth Azarion stood before an altar of stone, his bare hands outstretched over a shallow bowl carved from bone.
In it, black fire burned low, steady, alive.
He was not alone.
At his side knelt one of his oldest servants Malkor, a horned demon with eyes like coals and skin the color of old blood. His wings were folded, his head bowed.
"You are certain," Kaelreth said, his voice a low thrum.
The Veil weakens, Malkor replied. As it does every century. But this time… there is something more. A tear in the old threads. Something has moved where nothing should.
Kaelreth's eyes burned brighter.
Where?
Malkor hesitated, then extended a clawed hand. From within his palm rose a flicker of ghostlight, an image hovering in smoke.
A forest. Twisted and dark. Moonlight breaking through branches. And for only a breath, a girl.
Cloaked. Worn. Uncrowned.
Then the image vanished.
She is marked, Malkor said softly. The flame in her blood is not of this age.
Kaelreth was silent.
She bears the scent of the surface, the demon continued. But not like the others. Not mortal. Not witch. And not demon… yet the fire is there.
Shapeshifter? Kaelreth asked.
Perhaps. But something older has laid its hand upon her.
Kaelreth turned back to the bone-fire.
"And she walks the Forest of Teeth."
Yes.
The king's fingers curled, and the black fire flared.
Send the Hollow Riders, he said. Have them find her. Do not speak to her. Do not take her. Just watch.
Sire, if she is what we think.....
She is not ready, Kaelreth said, voice like cold steel. And neither is the world.
He stepped back from the altar, his dark cloak trailing like smoke behind him.
But if the fire has awakened… then the Hunt must begin.
🌑 Meanwhile...
Seraphira sat beside a trickling stream deep in the woods, her legs drawn to her chest. The stranger in bone and smoke had vanished, but his warning clung to her skin.
She didn't know it yet, but eyes now watched her from the branches above—shrouded figures with hollow masks, mounted on beasts with skin like obsidian and breath like ash.
The Hollow Riders had come.
They would not speak.
They would not touch her.
But they would follow her every step.
Until the Devil himself chose to meet her.