Chapter 5 – Whispers of Buried Gods
The Border Wastes had a way of swallowing sound. By the second day, Kael found himself missing the racket of Korrath — the hammering of forges, the curses of gamblers, even the clatter of drunken fights in back alleys. Out here, the silence was heavy, as if the land itself had been told to shut its mouth centuries ago.
Nyra didn't help. She marched ahead like a blade on two legs, speaking only when necessary, her eyes always searching the horizon. Kael, never one for long silences, tried a few jokes. None landed.
By the time the sun dipped low, painting the wastes in blood and gold, he gave up and let the quiet gnaw at him.
They camped in the broken shell of a stone arch — part of some ruin so ancient even the raiders avoided it. The air smelled faintly of iron and smoke, though no fire had burned here in centuries.
Kael poked at their meager campfire, watching sparks drift into the night. "You ever notice," he muttered, "how every ruin in this gods-forsaken realm looks like it was chewed apart by giants?"
Nyra didn't look up from sharpening her blade. "That's because it was."
Kael arched a brow. "You're joking."
Her eyes lifted, storm-grey, flat as stone. "Do I look like I joke?"
Kael gave her a long look, then took a swig from his flask. "Fair. Continue."
Nyra's gaze drifted toward the ruined arch. Her voice lowered, almost reluctant. "Before the kingdoms carved borders and built temples, this land belonged to the Old Gods. Not the ones priests mumble about now. The ones buried beneath the mountains. The ones who broke the sky and scarred the world. When mortals built here, the giants came first — their slaves. They built towers and arches, temples of bone and stone. When the gods fell, so did the giants. What's left is what you see now."
Kael whistled low. "Charming bedtime story."
Nyra's hand stilled on her blade. "It's not a story. It's history. Forgotten, but not gone."
Something in her tone made the hairs rise on the back of Kael's neck. He glanced up at the stars — sharp, cold points in a sky too clear — and for the first time, he felt the weight of the ruins pressing down on them, as if unseen eyes watched from the stone itself.
Before he could reply, a sound cut through the silence. A whisper.
At first, Kael thought it was wind sliding through the broken arch. But the air was still. The whisper came again — dry, faint, like the rasp of parchment. Words he couldn't understand, curling through his skull like smoke.
He sat up straighter, hand on his sword. "Tell me you hear that."
Nyra's eyes narrowed. She closed her blade, stood, and placed her palm against the arch. Blue sparks crawled faintly across her skin. Her lips moved, shaping words in the old tongue of storms.
The whisper hissed louder — for a heartbeat, Kael thought it spoke his name. Then Nyra ripped her hand away, teeth bared, and the sound cut off like a throat slit.
The fire cracked violently, sparks shooting into the dark.
Kael was already on his feet, blade drawn. "What in the nine hells was that?"
Nyra's breath came hard, as if she'd just fought another battle. She didn't look at him when she spoke. "Echoes. The gods buried here don't sleep easy."
"Echoes?" Kael snapped. "That thing was whispering like it wanted me to carve my own eyes out."
She finally met his gaze. "Then you're lucky I stopped it."
Kael stared at her, waiting for more. None came. She sat back down, resuming her sharpening as if nothing had happened.
"You're serious," he muttered, lowering his sword. "Gods under the mountains, ghosts in the ruins, zealots on our heels. And here I thought I was signing on for simple blood money."
Nyra didn't look up. "There's no such thing as simple blood money."
Kael let out a long breath, sinking back against the stone. He couldn't argue with that.
But sleep came hard. Every time his eyes closed, he swore he felt that whisper crawl back, soft, insistent. He dreamed of broken mountains and hands the size of towers reaching out from the dark.
And somewhere in the dream, a single phrase pressed into his skull — a name, half-rotted but powerful still:
"The Hollow One."
Kael woke before dawn, sweat cold on his skin, blade already in hand.
Nyra sat where she'd been all night, stormlight faint in her eyes, as if she'd been waiting.
"You heard it, didn't you?" she asked quietly.
Kael swallowed hard. "Yeah. I heard it."
Her jaw tightened. She looked back at the ruin, where the arch loomed black against the dawn.
"Then it's begun," she whispered.
Nyra's palm pressed to the ruined arch, sparks crawling faintly over her fingers. The stones thrummed like a heartbeat. The whisper rose again, hissing through the air — no language Kael knew, but every word clawed at his mind as if trying to carve itself into his bones.
"Nyra," he said low, one hand on his sword, the other pressed to his temple. "What the hell is this?"
Her lips moved in storm-tongue, sharp and rhythmic. For a heartbeat, the whisper faltered. But then it surged, louder, pressing into Kael's skull. He staggered back, clutching his head.
And then he saw.
The fire dimmed, replaced by a horizon of black mountains. The ground under him wasn't stone but cracked bone, stretching endless. Shadows moved in the distance — shapes too large to be men, too broken to be beasts. Their limbs bent wrong, their eyes burned faint white, their mouths opened in silent screams.
The whisper threaded through the vision, clearer now, forming words that weren't words but still he understood them.
"Flesh breaks. Bone rots. Ash returns to ash. But I remain."
Kael gasped, chest heaving. He stumbled, dropping to one knee. The vision pressed harder — now he saw a hand rising from beneath the mountains, each finger a tower, veins glowing like molten iron. The earth cracked around it, bleeding darkness instead of blood.
"The Hollow One," the whisper breathed, closer than his own thoughts. "The chains weaken. The world stirs. And you… you will bring me."
"No," Kael hissed through gritted teeth. His sword clattered against the stone as he pressed both palms to his skull, trying to claw the voice out.
The fire snapped violently — Nyra's voice rose, storm-tongue breaking like thunder. Sparks danced across the arch, searing bright.
The vision shattered.
Kael gasped, falling onto his side. The world rushed back — the crackle of the campfire, the stink of scorched air, the taste of copper in his mouth. Sweat poured down his back, his ribs burned with every breath.
The whisper was gone.
But the echo of it still clung to his bones.
Nyra crouched beside him, face tight with something between anger and fear. "What did you hear?" she demanded.
Kael's throat was dry, voice raw. "A name." He swallowed hard, the word scraping free like broken glass. "The Hollow One."
Nyra's hand tightened into a fist, her stormlight flaring faintly. "Then it's worse than I thought."
Kael forced himself upright, shaking, gripping his sword like a lifeline. "Tell me. What the hell was that?"
She hesitated — and for once, Kael saw the crack in her armor. The storm-priestess, always cold and sharp, looked almost… afraid.
"Not tonight," she said at last, standing. Her eyes never left the ruin. "Sleep if you can. We move at dawn."
Kael barked a bitter laugh. "Sleep? After that?"
But Nyra didn't answer. She turned her back, shoulders rigid, her shadow long in the firelight.
Kael sat in silence, staring at the arch, every flicker of flame twisting it into something darker. When he finally drifted toward sleep, the whisper was still there — faint, patient, waiting.