"Curiosity opens doors courage dares to enter."
Yldrahollow stirred earlier than usual that morning. A wagon creaked over the mossy road, pulled by a gray mule and guarded by a man cloaked in crimson and ochre, wide-brimmed hat shadowing his face. The traveling merchant's arrival was rare, almost mythic. His name was Tobin Greel, and he came only when he needed something the outside world could not provide.
He bartered with herbs, spices, strange tools that clicked and buzzed. The villagers offered bundles of swamp reeds, jars of glowing moss, and dried stingleaf in exchange. These things grew only in Yldrahollow's marshy cradle, blessed and cursed by the old soil.
Eliakim watched from behind the well, Skyling perched under his hood, peeking through strands of his hair. Tobin's voice rose above the chatter.
"I've need of a ghoststone," the merchant declared, loud enough for half the village to hear. "From the cave northeast of your hollow. Said to be black as midnight and cold to the touch. Bring me one, and I'll reward handsomely."
Whispers flitted like birds. The cave was known to the villagers—but only in tales. It yawned beneath an old ridge, rumored to house the bones of things long gone. Even the bravest herbalists rarely ventured there.
Eliakim's eyes widened. His blood thrummed.
That night, while others slept, he crept from his home. The Skyling chirped in protest but followed, nestling close beneath his cloak. The path was dark but familiar; he'd explored the outer wood many times. The cave lay deeper.
By moonlight, Eliakim found the crag. Roots clung to the stone like skeletal fingers. The cave's entrance was narrow, breathing a chill wind. Eliakim lit a pitch torch and stepped inside.
The silence swallowed him.
The passage sloped down, walls slick with age. Stalactites hung like daggers from above. The deeper he went, the colder it grew, the light of his torch painting shadows that danced.
Then he found the cavern.
It opened vast and cathedral-like, the air thick and dry. A lake of still water reflected the stalactites above like a mirrored ceiling. Eliakim moved slowly, awe in his eyes. That's when he saw them—bats. Thousands. No, more. A living sea clinging to the ceiling, unmoving in unnatural stillness.
He swallowed. His torch flickered.
He took another step, eyes scanning the floor for anything dark and stone-like. His boot snagged slightly on a jagged edge, but he caught himself before falling. As he straightened with a relieved breath, a faint crack echoed above. He glanced up just in time to see a massive stalactite breaking loose, aimed directly for his head. With a gasp, he dove to the side—too late to stay balanced. He hit the stone floor hard, his torch clattering away as pain shot up his arm. The stalactite shattered behind him, but his own fall opened a gash along his forearm, blood smearing the rock.
He pushed himself up, dazed but alive. His arm throbbed with pain, crimson dripping freely to the stone.
Then the air changed.
A ripple like wind through leaves. A tremble beneath his feet.
Above him, the bat ceiling stirred.
A whisper of leathery wings. Then—
Screech.
Thousands of bats exploded from the ceiling with a sonic howl that split the silence like lightning. The air was chaos. Screeches overlapped in a wall of unbearable sound. Eliakim stumbled back as wings battered him from every direction. One clawed his cheek. Another raked his shoulder.
The Skyling squealed and dove into his cloak, trembling.
Then it came—a sound so high and sharp it seemed to pierce the bones of the cave itself. A cry from the deep part of the world.
Eliakim dropped to his knees, clutching his ears. His breath caught. The stone floor pulsed with the sound. Blood trickled from his nose.
The bats wheeled around him like a vortex, blind and driven mad.
One slammed into his back, knocking him forward. His hand struck the floor. Something shifted beneath him. A strange warmth.
Then darkness took him.
How long passed, he didn't know. But he woke—cold, sore, and alone.
The cave had gone still again. His torch floated, extinguished, in the lake.
The bats were gone.
Groaning, Eliakim sat up. His limbs trembled. His torn shirt stuck to his wound.
Then he saw it.
Near where he'd fallen—half-hidden in the rubble—a stone blacker than night, faintly pulsing like something alive.
The ghoststone.
He reached out, fingers brushing its surface.
It was cold. And it knew him.
He didn't speak. Only cradled it in his bloodied hand.
The Skyling emerged slowly, eyes blinking.
They didn't leave the cave.
Not yet.
Curiosity gnawed at Eliakim like a worm beneath bark. He stood, slipping the ghoststone into a pouch, and turned deeper into the winding cavern. The walls ahead shimmered faintly, the air carrying a different scent—older, dry with memory.
And somewhere ahead, something pulsed in response.
He took a step forward.
And the shadows moved.
To be continued in Chapter 6…