He walked just off Seraphine’s flank, boots light in the loam, eyes scanning the moss-draped branches overhead. Wind rustled the canopy. Shadows shifted wrong. And even with sunlight bleeding through the veil-thin forest ceiling, he felt it.
The air was too still. Too expectant.
They should’ve seen another Hollowborn by now.
That thought alone had his fingers twitching toward the hilt of his blade.
“You feel that?” he muttered.
Seraphine didn’t look at him, but her shoulders tensed. “I do.”
He knew she did. Her senses were sharp—razor-honed from years of command and the constant burden of being born into a House that only respected power if it drew blood.
Cassian didn’t understand her. Not fully. But he respected her. Even if she pissed him off more often than not.
They were two days into Hollow territory now. After the ambush, they’d doubled their perimeter spacing, rotated watch cycles tighter. Lira had taken point. Alek vanished between the trees every hour and reappeared without sound. Brann was quieter, twitchier—but he hadn’t fled, so that was something.
Cassian, though… he was watching the patterns. And they weren’t adding up.
“These things don’t attack like that,” he said. “Not in the open. Not in packs.”
“You think they’re coordinating?”
“I think they’re changing.”
Seraphine’s gaze slid toward him—narrowed, sharp. “Why?”
Cassian exhaled through his nose. “Because something’s pushing them.”
She was quiet for a beat. “The Hollow’s waking.”
“No.” He looked around, jaw tense. “The Hollow’shunting.”
By midafternoon, the terrain had shifted. The trees grew closer, bark blackened by old flame, and a hush settled over the undergrowth. They were near one of the Veil’s scars. Places where reality had once been torn open, stitched shut again with spells and bones and sheer desperation.
Border shrines dotted the land here—old sentry points from the last Hollow wars. Some still held magic. Most were just cracked stone and ghosts.
Cassian spotted one in the distance—half-buried in moss, its dragonhead carving chipped but intact.
The team stopped briefly to rest. Lira and Alek moved to scout ahead. Brann busied himself with re-etching a fading protection rune into a nearby rock.
Cassian didn’t rest.
He watched Seraphine.
She walked toward the shrine alone, slow. Not limping—but there was a stiffness to her stride. Her glaive was sheathed, andher gloves tucked into her belt. She reached the altar and placed one bare hand on the dragon’s snout, bowing her head.
He followed without meaning to. Didn’t make a sound.
She spoke to the shrine—so low it was almost breath.
“You’d hate him.”
Cassian froze a few paces back. Her voice wasn’t meant for him.
“My father, I mean,” she said softly, tracing her fingers along the cold stone. “You’d hate how he talks about people. Like they’re numbers. Like sacrifice is the same as strategy.”
He didn’t interrupt.
