The morning after the Hollow's first attack, Reth Vale was silent. The ruins were still damp with rain, smoke rising from scattered embers like ghostly fingers clawing at the sky. I could barely remember my own reflection. Each memory I tried to grasp slipped through my fingers like ash in the wind. The fragment pulsed in my pocket, reminding me that the cost of its use was not over.
Ryven appeared at the edge of the street, cloaked and calm. The wounds from last night had not slowed them—if anything, their presence now felt heavier, more purposeful. I had spent the night trying to map what little I remembered, trying to trace the people, the streets, the sounds, all fading into grey static. But fragments of memory had already disappeared, and panic clung to my mind like a parasite.
"Callen," Ryven said, voice low and precise. "We move before others come looking. The Hollow leaves traces, but hunters and rival Binders follow signs too. You are not safe here."
I nodded, my hand brushing the fragment. It throbbed as though alive, a heartbeat foreign and demanding.
We moved through the ruins in silence. The city seemed to breathe around us, broken walls and twisted metal groaning under the weight of the storm. Rain slicked stones reflected shapes that weren't there—or maybe they were. Shadows stretched unnaturally, shapes half-formed, twisting as though the city itself remembered things it should have forgotten.
---
Ryven led me to a place they called a Refuge, a hollowed-out warehouse far from the main streets, barricaded and hidden. The air inside was warmer, heavy with incense and the faint metallic scent of old blood. Tools and books littered the space, fragments of broken reality sketched and annotated in careful detail. I felt a pull in the fragment in my pocket, almost like recognition.
"This is where you start," Ryven said, removing their hood. Sharp eyes, pale and unreadable, studied me as I swallowed hard. "You do not control a fragment yet. Not fully. But you can learn to resist it—or it will consume you."
"Resist it?" I asked. "I can barely… hold onto my own memories."
"Exactly," Ryven said. "Fragments are not just tools. They are pieces of wounds in reality, bleeding into our world. Each one has a hunger. You fed it last night without understanding, and it took from you. From your past. From who you are. The more careless you are, the more it will take."
I clenched the fragment tighter. "And if I lose everything?"
Ryven's gaze did not waver. "Then you become hollow too. Worse than dead. But we do not start from there."
---
The first lessons were subtle. Ryven did not hand me weapons or teach combat right away. Instead, they made me sit and focus on the fragment, letting it pulse in my hand. The shard felt alive, almost sentient, murmuring something at the edge of perception.
"Listen to it," Ryven said. "But do not obey. The fragment wants you to forget. To erase. To take. You must remain anchored to yourself."
I tried. I closed my eyes, felt the shard vibrate, and heard whispers—soft, insistent. Memories I did not recognize floated up, names I did not know. I tried to focus on what I remembered of yesterday, the faces, the ruined streets, but the fragment resisted.
"Not enough," Ryven said, correcting my posture. "You cannot control it through will alone. Fragments are bound to emotion, to intent. You must understand why you want to use it, or it will understand you first—and take what it wants."
I swallowed hard, fear rising. Every instinct told me to flee, to throw the fragment away, to leave the Hollow behind. But the memory of the man, frozen with the blade above his throat, pulled me forward. Something about that moment demanded that I keep the shard. That I survive.
---
Training lasted hours. Ryven guided me through exercises that sounded simple at first but twisted my mind:
Focusing on a single memory while holding the fragment, resisting its pull.
Visualizing a moment in reality I wanted to preserve, forcing the fragment to recognize it.
Small manipulations of objects—moving a shard of metal, freezing a droplet of rain midair—without losing myself.
Each attempt came at a price. Faces I knew, names I remembered, small details of my childhood—gone. I tried to push back, but the fragment had already tasted freedom. It wanted, and it would take.
By the end of the first day, I could manipulate the fragment slightly, enough to move an object across the room without touching it. But the cost was etched into my mind. Every success felt like a wound, every memory lost a scar that would not heal.
---
That night, Ryven did not sleep. They sat across from me, sharpening a dagger with a soundless precision.
"You will be tested soon," Ryven said quietly. "A hunter will come. They will not negotiate. They will take what you hold, or take your life. Fragments attract attention, always. You must be ready."
"Ready?" I asked, voice hoarse. "I can barely control it, and I've already lost so much."
Ryven's eyes were unreadable, but I saw something like… resolve. "Then you learn fast, or die. There is no middle ground. This world does not forgive hesitation."
Sleep came fitfully. I dreamed of the Hollow. Not just fire and ash, but voices—hundreds of whispers, some pleading, some angry, some coldly indifferent. They all spoke at once, overlapping, echoing in my skull. The fragment pulsed against my chest as though it understood my fear.
I woke to Ryven shaking my shoulder. "Move," they said. "Hunter approaching. Time to test what you've learned."
---
Outside, the storm had eased to a drizzle. The city was quieter than before, almost deceptively so. Shadows moved unnaturally, shapes sliding along walls. I felt the fragment vibrate in my pocket, a heartbeat in the dark, guiding me.
The hunter appeared at the edge of the street—a figure cloaked in black, eyes like ice, blade glinting in the dim light. They did not hesitate, stepping forward with the intent to kill.
"Remember control," Ryven said. "You manipulate the fragment. You do not let it manipulate you."
I gritted my teeth, pulling the shard from my pocket. It pulsed, warm and insistent, almost begging. I reached out, and the air itself seemed to bend, the hunter's steps frozen for a moment.
The first attempt was clumsy. The hunter lunged, and I barely redirected the blade midair, slicing a piece of rubble instead. Pain lanced through my side—real, physical—and the fragment pulsed angrily. Memories flickered and vanished, the edges of my identity fraying.
"Focus on intent!" Ryven shouted, deflecting the hunter's next strike with a dagger imbued with fragment energy. "Anchor yourself to why you fight, not what you want to take!"
I closed my eyes, centering on survival, on protecting myself and Ryven. The fragment vibrated, and then it obeyed, a pulse of controlled energy erupting from my hand. The hunter was thrown back, their cloak shredded by the force, eyes wide with disbelief.
They retreated, melting into the ruins with a hiss of anger. But their warning echoed:
You cannot hide from what you have taken.
---
I collapsed against the wall, fragments of memory bleeding away with every heartbeat. Ryven knelt beside me, placing a steady hand on my shoulder.
"Good," they said simply. "You survived. Barely. But surviving is the first step. Control comes later. Do you understand why you must continue training?"
I nodded weakly, gripping the fragment. "Because it will take everything if I don't."
Ryven's face softened just slightly. "Because you are not hollow yet. And we will keep it that way."
Outside, the city groaned under the remnants of the storm. The Hollow whispered in corners, a constant murmur, a reminder that the cost of power was never finished.
And I knew, with a certainty I could not yet shake, that nothing in this city would ever be safe again.