Thorne Hollow was a ghost.
Not the quiet kind. Not the peaceful ruins whispered about in old maps.
This place breathed.
Fog wrapped around broken buildings like fingers. Trees grew sideways through stone. Cracked statues of forgotten saints stood twisted, mouths half-broken like they were screaming.
And in the middle of it all—at the heart of the ruin—was the old chapel.
Lysander and Roan crouched behind the collapsed wall of what used to be an inn, staring at the chapel from a distance.
It looked like it hadn't aged a day.
Perfectly intact. White stone. A silver spire untouched by moss or dust.
Even the fog curved around it, never touching the building.
Roan whispered, "That thing's inside."
Lysander nodded, barely breathing.
Whatever was guarding the first fragment… it wasn't hiding.
It wanted to be found.
---
They moved quietly through the wreckage.
Roan took point, slipping through broken windows and dodging rotten floorboards like she was made of smoke. Lysander followed close, one hand on his dagger, the other still burning from the pulse beneath his skin.
Every few minutes, he thought he saw something in the fog.
A shape.
A watcher.
But when he turned, nothing.
Still, the feeling didn't leave.
The chapel was just a few streets away when they found the first body.
No decay.
No smell.
Just... stillness.
The corpse looked fresh, lying face-down in the mud. Armor cracked. Hands reaching toward the chapel steps. As if he'd crawled there. As if something had been calling him.
Roan knelt beside the body and flipped it over.
Lysander flinched.
The man's face was hollow. Not just in expression. His eyes were missing—like they'd been scooped out clean. His mouth was open, jaw stretched too far. Inside, his tongue was gone. Just a black pit.
Roan muttered, "It fed on something."
Lysander swallowed hard. "What does that?"
Roan looked up, eyes cold. "A Warden."
---
The chapel doors were already open.
They didn't creak. They didn't resist. Just... opened wide, like arms inviting them in.
The first thing Lysander noticed was the silence.
Not the kind where you can still hear your own breath. Deeper. As if sound itself didn't work here. Like the world forgot how to speak inside these walls.
The second thing—was the statues.
Dozens of them.
Figures in robes. All facing the altar. All identical.
All weeping.
Roan stepped in carefully. "This isn't a normal temple. It's a seal."
"What kind of seal?"
"One that failed."
At the altar stood a massive mirror. Tall. Old. Its frame was black metal, shaped like twisting vines and thorned roots. The glass wasn't reflective. It was pitch black. Like a hole in reality.
The mark on Lysander's palm flared again—hotter this time. Alive.
"It's inside that," he whispered.
Roan tensed. "Get ready."
The mirror pulsed once.
Then cracked.
A single line split across the surface like a lightning scar. From it leaked a thick, black fog that twisted as it moved—not like smoke. Like something alive.
Lysander backed up. "Roan—"
Too late.
The mirror shattered.
Out poured something wrong.
It didn't have a real shape. A mass of limbs, eyes, and robes that flickered between forms. Sometimes it looked human. Then beast. Then nothing.
It hit the floor without sound—but everything trembled.
The statues cracked.
The altar groaned.
The creature slowly rose—and turned its "face" toward Lysander.
No mouth. No eyes.
But it saw him.
It knew.
Warden of the Hollow.
Fragment Keeper.
Roan drew her blade. "Don't let it touch you!"
The thing moved fast—too fast.
A tendril shot out. Lysander dove to the side as it shattered the stone floor where he'd stood. Roan slashed upward, cutting the tendril clean—but it grew back instantly.
"This thing's regenerating!"
"It's not just that!" Lysander shouted. "It's learning! Look!"
The creature stopped using the same attack again. It shifted, formed new limbs, adapted to their movements.
Every strike made it smarter.
Lysander's mark burned hotter. His vision blurred.
The power inside him—it wasn't just responding. It was trying to wake up.
He grabbed his dagger.
It pulsed black.
Roan saw it glow and froze. "You're resonating with it?"
"I think so."
"Then use it."
"I don't know how!"
The Warden lunged again.
This time, it spoke.
Not with a voice.
With memory.
Lysander's ears rang.
Suddenly, he wasn't in the chapel anymore.
He was in the ruins of his home. Fire. Screaming. Bodies. His brother on the ground. Blood pooling.
It showed him.
His worst moment.
His guilt.
His failure.
He screamed, stumbled, fell to his knees.
Roan yelled his name—but it was distant, like she was underwater.
"Lysander!"
The mark on his palm flared blinding white.
His dagger shattered.
But something else took its place.
A blade of shadow and light—half-real, half-memory. A shape pulled from his own pain. It hummed in his hand, cold and sharp.
Lysander stood.
And the vision broke.
The Warden hissed—its first sign of fear.
Roan blinked. "What did you just do?"
"I don't know."
He raised the new weapon.
The chapel shuddered.
Then he moved.
Fast.
Too fast.
The Warden tried to shift, but Lysander was already there—slicing through its chest. The blade didn't cut like steel. It tore through essence. Through existence.
The creature screamed.
This time, with sound.
It writhed, limbs flailing, bodies flickering—until it exploded into black mist and vanished into the mirror frame.
Gone.
---
Silence returned.
The mirror was broken completely now.
At its base was something small. A shard—glowing faintly red. Like a crystal heart.
The First Fragment.
Lysander reached for it slowly.
When his hand touched it, the mark on his palm absorbed the glow. No pain this time. Just... clarity.
A voice echoed faintly in his mind.
"One of seven. The path begins."
Roan stared at him.
"You just killed a Warden."
"I didn't even know I could."
She sheathed her blade. "Well… now I really have to follow you."
He looked at her. "Why?"
"Because if you keep doing stuff like that without someone to stab you in the leg when you go crazy, we're screwed."
Lysander gave a tired laugh.
Then he looked at the mark again.
The path was real.
The first step had been taken.
But now—others would feel it.
And the world would start watching.