Chapter Three: The Hollow Days
Zack stood alone under the fading stars. The hungry silence in his chest was the loudest thing in the world.
*Kael hits like a wagon full of rocks,* he thought, wiping sweat from his brow with a grimace. *And my big achievement is murdering a potted fern. Fan-freaking-tastic.*
He walked home. The village was just a collection of dark shapes against a grey sky, already forgetting him. He slipped inside. The hearth was cold. He climbed to the loft and lay on his pallet, listening to the house breathe. His own breathing felt too loud. The new cold inside him that perfect, patient stillness felt like a separate organ. A second heart made of quiet.
Sleep wasn't happening. He stared at the ceiling, trying to boss the void around. *Okay, be a frozen pond.* The air near his face got chilly. The faint smell of baking from next door vanished, like someone had shut a window.
*Alright, now… swirl a little.*
A gentle whirlpool of nothing. The dust motes in a moonbeam stopped dancing and just… fell. He could hear his own heartbeat in his ears, but Mira's breathing next to him sounded miles away.
He stopped. The world rushed back in smells, sounds, the scratchy blanket. A weird laugh bubbled in his throat. *I'm a human draft. A walking cold spot.*
***
Dawn was a grumpy, grey yawn. He went through the morning shuffle. Hauled water, his shoulders protesting. The bucket felt heavier lately, or maybe he was just more aware of the weight of everything.
He gave the village green a wide berth. His "Husk" notice was still pinned up, a little sodden from dew. Someone had drawn a sad-looking face on it in charcoal. He wasn't sure if that was an insult or solidarity.
Breakfast was porridge so thick the spoon could stand up in it. And silence, served on the side.
His father stared into his bowl like the secrets of the universe were in the oats. Dirt was packed under his nails, a farmer's permanent tattoo. "South field's turning sour," he muttered, not to anyone. "Blight's in the roots. North plot's gotta carry us next season. Gonna be a lean winter."
His mother's needle flew through a ripped shirt sleeve. *Zip, zip, zip.* The thread might as well have been part of her hand. "We'll manage," she said, the same three words that held their world together.
Mira just watched him, her head tilted. "You've got a look," she announced.
"What look?"
"The 'I-ate-a-bug-and-it's-giving-me-ideas' look." She poked her porridge. "You're my brother. Dud or not. Don't do anything monumentally stupid, okay?"
He nodded. When she called him a husk, it didn't feel like a knife anymore. It was just a fact, like saying the sky was grey. It just *was*.
***
After the world's gloomiest meal, he hit the training yard. Empty. Just him, the dirt, and a crow judging him from the fence.
He stood in the middle, closed his eyes, and tried not to feel like an idiot.
But he *could* feel things now. Wild things. The sun was a warm palm on the back of his neck. The wooden training post still hummed with the ghost of yesterday's smacks. And the dummy… it had a faint, copper-colored shimmer clinging to it, like glitter shed by the Body Path kids. Aether-residue. He could *see* it. Or sense it. Whatever.
And in his center, the Hole. His personal, portable emptiness.
He remembered the fern. The sickly pull. The crumbling. Right. Big fight in six days. Can't turn Kael into a pile of dust in front of the whole town. That was generally frowned upon.
So, cheat without cheating. Use the hole without anyone seeing it.
He got in a sloppy stance. Threw a punch. But this time, he didn't think *hit*. He thought… *vacuum*. He focused on the space an inch in front of his fist and let the hole just… *lean* into it.
The air there went thin. Wimpy. His fist shot through the sudden lack of resistance way faster, ending with a sharp *crack* of his knuckles.
"Huh." He shook his hand out. That was new.
He tried again. And again. He made the target smaller. A coin's worth of air. A speck. He wasn't stealing energy. He was just… making a temporary dent in reality for his fist to fall into. It was like having a friendly local void hold the door open for his punch.
The sun got serious. He was sweating, his shirt sticking to him. His arms burned from the work, but he didn't feel that deep, magic drain everyone talked about. He just felt like a guy who'd been punching.
"You look less like a puppy learning to walk."
Zack nearly jumped out of his skin. Chief Burrel leaned against the fence, arms crossed. The crow was gone. How long had he been there?
"It's… something," Zack managed.
"Something is what you have before you have anything." Burrel pushed off the fence and walked over, quiet as a shadow. "That trip to the woods. It's on you now. In the way you stand. Not scared. Just… full. A full kind of empty." He stopped, his dark eyes doing their usual inventory of Zack's soul. "Good. Boys are hollow. Men have weight, even if it's the weight of a bad choice."
Burrel got closer. "Kael. Strong as an ox, smart as a brick. He won't pull punches. The trial's a circus, but it's the only circus in town. *How* you lose is the headline."
"I don't intend to lose."
"Intention is breakfast. The fight is dinner. Often different meals." Burrel's mouth twitched. Maybe it was almost a smile. "Six days. I'll beat you up in an educational way. Not to make you a Pathwalker that ship has sailed, sunk, and been eaten by crabs. To make you a nuisance. To make him bleed for it. To make the old biddies in the crowd whisper, 'Well, I never…' You in?"
"I'm in."
"Guard up. Try to make me work for it."
***
The training changed. Before, it was "here's how you don't die." Now it was "here's how you make the other guy tired of trying to kill you."
Burrel came at him. Zack blocked. Burrel sighed, a sound of deep disappointment. "You're trying to catch the axe with your teeth. Don't catch the axe. Be the tree that moved."
Zack learned Kael by watching Burrel do a shockingly good impression. Burrel would huff and puff and swing wide *Kael's power strike, leaves him open here*. Burrel would drop his right shoulder and grunt *Kael's tell for the left hook*. Burrel would plant his feet like he was growing roots *Kael setting up for a charge, can't turn fast*.
During a break, Zack sat on the stump they used for sitting, drinking water like he'd found it in a desert.
"You're reading the recipe before he cooks," Burrel observed, taking the waterskin back.
"I see him… loading up."
"Loading up is a song. Everyone hears the shout. Listen for the intake of breath *before* the shout." Burrel took a swig. "Six days won't make you a winner. It'll make you a frustrating loser. And in life, son, that's often better."
***
The days became a smear. Morning beatings from Burrel. Afternoon chores that felt suddenly trivial. Nightly, secret experiments in the loft.
He took a dry oak leaf from the sill. Held it. Focused not on its life, but on the tiny memory of sunlight trapped in its veins. He *sipped*.
The leaf didn't crumble to ash this time. It just went… dull. The vibrant autumn orange faded to a pale beige, like a forgotten memory. A tiny, warm fizz traveled up his arm, a ghost of summer.
"Better," he whispered to the hole. It seemed unimpressed.
He tried it on a smooth river stone from his pocket. He pulled the faint, lingering sense of river current from it. The stone didn't crack. It just went perfectly, utterly still in his hand, like it had forgotten how to be part of a moving world. The sensation was a cool ripple up his wrist.
He was learning to steal qualities, not just life. It was fiddly work. The hole wanted the whole meal, but he was teaching it to snack politely.
***
Four days to go. The well. Of course.
Joren was there, muscles bulging as he hauled a full bucket up. He saw Zack and his face did the thing the smile that wasn't about happiness.
"If it isn't the human hole. Practicing being interesting? It's not working."
Zack said nothing. He hooked his own bucket.
"Tick tock," Joren sang, too loud. "What's it now, fifty-some days? Then it's off to dig glory-holes for the kingdom. My dad says they don't even give husks a bedroll. Says the cold 'builds character.'"
Zack felt the void in his chest give a lazy pulse. A yawn of interest. He looked at Joren. He could *see* him now, not as a person, but as a bright, roaring campfire of vitality. So much wasted energy on being a jerk. He could take just a little ember. Just enough to make him feel a sudden, deep chill on a warm day.
He took a slow breath. Pictured the hole not as a mouth, but as a closed fist. He looked back at Joren.
"Your dad's an expert on character," Zack said, hauling his water up. "Takes one to know one, I guess."
Joren's smirk melted into confusion, then anger. "You got a smart mouth for a dead end."
"Better than a dumb mouth on a dead end." Zack hefted his bucket and walked off. He didn't need to look back to feel the heat of Joren's glare. The void inside him settled, content. It had been fed, not with energy, but with the taste of a fight avoided.
***
The morning before the trial, his mom caught him at the door. She had something behind her back.
"For tomorrow," she said, producing a shirt. It was simple, sturdy linen, but the stitching was so fine it looked drawn on.
"Mom, you didn't have to…"
"I know I didn't." Her hands, rough as bark, gripped his arms. She looked up at him, her eyes seeing everything. "This new… angle in you. It's a spark. Sparks can start a hearth or burn a barn. Point it the right way. Don't come home smelling of smoke."
"I just want to come home," he said, the words simpler and truer than he meant.
Her face did a complicated thing, then she yanked him into a hug so tight it squeezed a grunt out of him. It lasted two seconds. "So do that," she mumbled into his shoulder before letting go and shooing him out. "And stand up straight!"
***
The last day of training, Burrel called it quits when the sun was still high. The sky was the color of old dishwater.
"That's it," Burrel said, leaning on his staff. "Any more and you'll forget your own name. Let your body be confused. Let your mind be quiet." He gave Zack a long look. "Tomorrow, they see a label. 'Husk.' They expect a quick, sad little thud. You make that thud take its sweet time. Every breath you take in that ring is a sentence in a different story. Write one worth reading."
Zack nodded. He was one big bruise.
"Last lesson," Burrel said, his voice dropping. "That thing you found. It's yours now. I don't want its name. But you remember: the world has a list. Three Paths. On the list. Anything not on the list? They call it a weed. And they pull weeds. With fire." He tapped his own temple. "Your best tool is their belief that you have no tools. Don't spoil the surprise."
He walked away, leaving Zack in the silent yard with a head full of warnings.
***
That night, Zack's brain wouldn't shut up. The fight was nothing. A play. After that was the real script: Ash Corps, blighted lands, becoming monster-chow.
He rolled over and something poked his cheek. Hard. Cold.
He hadn't put it there.
He fished under the pillow. A ring. Plain, black, and it didn't shine so much as *swallow* the faint light from the window.
"Weird," he muttered. He slipped it on. It fit like it was made for him.
A thought that was not his own dripped into his mind like ice water. **You. Are. A Slow Student. This is Not a Hobby. It is a Scalpel. You are Whittling a Stick with a Scalpel.**
Zack went rigid. He looked at Mira. Still snoring. He thought hard at the ring. *Hello? Ghost? Last tenant?*
**A Footnote. A Suggestion Left in the Margin. The Last Heir Died Confused. You Chose the Empty Hand. Now Learn to Not Slap Yourself with It.**
The spooky guy in the clearing was gone. This was like the instruction manual. A very judgmental one.
**Tomorrow is Theater,** the voice sighed, a sound like wind through a crypt. **But Do Not Be a Fool. Use the Sight. See the Currents. The Opponent is a Knot of Crude Threads. Strike the Gaps. Stand in the Gaps. Be the Unwoven Space in the Tapestry.**
*Yeah, okay, poetic. But how?*
**Look with the Cold Place. Not Your Eyeballs. The Fight is a Dance Already Choreographed. Your Job is to Be the Silence Between the Notes.**
The voice faded, but the ring stayed, a circle of frost on his finger.
Zack lay back. He stared at the cracks in the ceiling until they turned from black lines to grey ones in the creeping dawn.
Today was the day. The whole stupid village would get a picnic and watch the magic-less kid try not to eat dirt.
He closed his eyes. Felt the quiet hole. Felt the cold ring. He wasn't what they had stamped on that notice. He was a question mark in a boy-shaped package. A secret with a right hook.
He got up. Put on the new shirt. It felt good. Like armor, but for lying.
He walked downstairs, ready for the circus to begin.