You don't hear them coming.
Not at first.
The air shifts subtly, a a pressure in the darkness that wasn't there before. The hollow inside you hums in recognition, low and insistent, warning you. You straighten instantly, senses firing. Every muscle in your body tenses.
Azael is already on his feet, blade drawn, eyes scanning. His movements are calm but deliberate. The quiet building around you suddenly feels alive, stretching, bending, every shadow a potential threat.
Then the first sound reaches you.
A scraping, faint, deliberate. Not metallic. Not like a person walking. Something fluid, unnatural. Something moving just beyond sight.
"They're here," you whisper.
"Yes," Azael says, voice low, steady. "Brace."
The first figure bursts into the chamber, silent until the last moment, then movement. Its shape is wrong — elongated limbs, too fast, too precise. The hollow flares instinctively, and you react without thinking.
Your hands flare, light spilling from your skin, shaping itself into a shield. The Thing slams into the glow, and the impact reverberates up your arms. Sparks of energy hit the walls.
"Move!" Azael shouts.
You dive to the side, narrowly avoiding a strike that would have cleaved through the crate you had just been leaning against. The hollow pulses in reaction, flaring again, sending a shockwave that knocks the creature back.
More figures appear, slipping through every shadowed corner. They're fast, coordinated, almost thinking in tandem. You swing your arms, blast light forward, pushing them away, but there's too many.
Azael meets one head-on, blade slicing clean through the air. Sparks fly as steel meets unnatural hardness. He grunts, blocks, strikes, each movement precise, lethal.
You spin, send another surge from your hollow, the energy cracking the concrete underfoot. One of the Things staggers, but more take its place immediately. It's endless, relentless.
Your heart pounds. The hollow flares again, almost violently. You barely recognize the sensation — a raw, hungry surge of energy coursing through every nerve.
Azael shouts, "Focus! Don't waste it!"
You take a deep breath and center yourself, feeling the hollow respond. Every movement counts. Every strike must connect. The Things aren't slowing. They're learning, adapting. Each one anticipates, reacts, counterattacks.
You duck under a swipe, roll, and push forward, energy flashing like a blade in the dim light. One goes down. Two more replace it. You keep moving, dodging, striking, reacting. The building around you groans and shifts with every impact. Dust and debris fill the air.
"They're coordinated," you gasp.
"Yes," Azael says, blocking a strike aimed for your shoulder. "They adapt fast. Keep your rhythm. Make them follow your pattern."
You nod, barely able to speak. The hollow burns in your chest, pressure climbing higher with every second. You force yourself to stay in control. Each surge you send out must be precise, calculated.
Another figure moves behind you. Faster than the rest. It swipes low. You spin just in time, barely avoiding it. Your hand flares instinctively, slamming into its form. The thing screams — or something like a scream — and collapses in a heap of shadows.
The rest pause. Almost imperceptibly. Their synchronization falters for a moment. That's all you need.
You move. You strike. Azael follows, slicing through one figure after another. The hollow pulses stronger, almost violently, responding to your adrenaline, your fear, your focus. Every strike hits harder than the last.
Then the air shifts again — sharper this time. Not just in the building. Outside. Somewhere distant, but perceptible. The hollow recoils, warning you.
Kaelthyr is watching.
You feel it in your chest, like a cold hand pressing through your ribs. The Things hesitate for a fraction of a second longer than before. That's all it takes. You push harder, flare brighter, strike faster.
The ground cracks under the force of your power. Concrete splinters fly. One of the Things lunges at you, but Azael intercepts it, steel meeting shadow in a flash of sparks.
Your body moves on instinct. Spin, strike, block, push. The hollow hums, alive, connected. Every movement flows into it, every strike feeds it, every heartbeat sharpens it.
Then — a figure, larger than the rest, steps through the shadows. Its presence presses against the hollow. You freeze for a moment, heart hammering. The others don't falter. They retreat slightly, giving it space.
Azael's voice cuts through the chaos. "Focus on that one!"
You barely understand what he means before the hollow surges in response. Energy lashes out in every direction, striking the creature. It falters, recoiling, but doesn't fall. It's bigger, stronger, more refined than the others.
Your lungs burn. Your arms shake. Your legs feel like lead. And yet — the hollow waits, patient, anticipating your next move.
"This is it," you mutter under your breath. "This is the first one."
Azael nods, blade raised. "Then we make it count."
The figure moves forward. Too fast. Too precise. You meet its strike head-on, the hollow flaring violently around you. Impact shakes the entire building. You grit your teeth, energy blasting outward, forcing it back.
It strikes again. And again. Faster now. But so do you. Every movement is sharper, faster, more decisive. The hollow pulses, feeding your reactions, lending weight to your strikes.
The air around you vibrates with energy, the temperature rising from the hollow's output. Sparks fly from metal, concrete cracks, dust and debris swirl like a storm. You're aware of every sound, every shadow, every flicker of light.
It strikes one final blow toward you. You meet it with the hollow fully flared, a surge of pure energy exploding outward. The figure screams — not a sound you recognize — and collapses to the floor.
The others hesitate. Then vanish. Dissolve. Fade into shadows, leaving only silence.
You stagger, panting, energy flickering in your hands, chest heaving.
Azael leans against a crate, breathing hard but steady. "You did well," he says. "Better than I expected."
You collapse onto the floor, muscles trembling, hollow dimming but still present, restless. "Is it over?"
"For now," Azael replies, voice low, serious. "Kaelthyr won't waste time analyzing this. He'll adjust. And soon, he'll strike again."
You look at the hollow, feel it thrumming in your chest. You know he's right. This was only the beginning. The first strike. Not the last.
Outside, the wind picks up. Shadows shift along the walls. And somewhere far away, Kaelthyr smiles.
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