The iron taste of blood was the first thing she noticed.
The second was the silence.
Not the kind born of peace, but the kind that coils around the bones like a shroud—watching, waiting, wanting.
Vaeloria Nyxen Rhiadne didn't flinch when they dragged her to the edge.
She had stopped flinching days ago. When the gavel fell. When the courtiers turned their eyes away. When her brother whispered, "Forgive me," and did nothing.
She hadn't begged. She hadn't screamed. That was their last insult—she robbed them of their spectacle.
Now, bound in silver chain, barefoot and bloodied, she stood on the precipice of the Hollow.
A place spoken of in half-words and full curses.
A place where even magic died screaming.
The Inquisitor stood beside her, face hidden beneath the hollow-eyed helm of the Crown's Judgment Order. "Your crimes are written. Your name is struck. You are cast."
Vaeloria didn't look at him. She looked forward.
Down into the pit.
The edge was carved from old obsidian, slick with a shine that had nothing to do with light. It was said the Hollow had once been a throne itself—before it cracked open and devoured its king.
"Speak, heretic," the Inquisitor hissed. "Repent and the gods may show mercy."
Vaeloria turned.
Slowly.
And smiled.
Not out of defiance. Not out of madness.
But because she'd finally understood something no one else had.
There were no gods in Elaria.
Only executioners.
"I have no gods," she whispered. "Only graves."
And she stepped off the edge.
The gasp from the crowd echoed above like a dying breath, suspended in the air for a heartbeat, before being swallowed whole by the silence. And then there was nothing but—
Falling.
The wind tore at her hair, snapping it like a living thing. Her dress ripped in the air like a pennant of war, fluttering wildly behind her, caught in the violent updrafts. The Hollow swallowed her whole, a mouth made of darkness and broken time. She fell for seconds. Minutes. Maybe years.
She couldn't tell.
All she could feel was the brutal weight of the fall, the vertigo pulling her deeper and deeper into the dark. She had expected the void to be empty—silent, hollow, void of sensation, but instead it pressed against her from every side, suffocating and alive.
She remembered the first story she'd ever heard of the Hollow.
That it was where the First Flame fell from the heavens. That it burned through the world and buried itself in the crust of the earth. That its pulse still beat beneath the soil, waiting for a heart savage enough to answer.
She had laughed at that story once, dismissing it as myth, a tale told to frighten children.
Now, she heard it breathing.
Her stomach twisted, and her chest tightened as the dark walls of the Hollow seemed to close in, as though the very space itself was watching her fall. The air was thick with something ancient—old, as if the pit itself had been waiting for her, and had been waiting for centuries.
Then she hit the bottom.
Hard enough to tear the air from her lungs. The sound of her body crashing into the earth was a sickening thud, a harsh echo that reverberated through the bones of the Hollow. The silence cracked, a sharp fracture in the stillness, and pain sang through her spine, twisting every muscle, every tendon. Her mouth filled with earth and blood, the metallic tang of both flooding her senses as she coughed violently, her chest heaving with each breath.
Everything was black. But it wasn't empty.
Something moved.
Slow. Wet. Clicking. Breathing.
Eyes opened in the dark—dozens of them. Too wide. Too low to the ground. They glimmered like shattered glass, reflecting the pale light that barely seemed to reach the bottom of the pit. Something crawled along the edge of her vision, its movement too slow, too deliberate. Too unnatural. Close enough for her to hear the skin stretch over its joints, the ragged scrape of its breath. It sniffed the air. Inhaled. Smelled her blood.
Vaeloria tried to crawl, but the chain around her ankle flared cold—still bound in silver. Still human.
For now.
She gritted her teeth, biting back the scream that rose in her throat. The silver burned. Not just against her skin, but against her very essence. She could feel its weight—the weight of her humanity, anchoring her in this pit. But it wasn't enough. Not anymore.
And then—
A whisper.
Not from the creatures. Not from the shifting shadows in the corner of her vision.
From below.
"Vaeloria," it cooed, soft as silk and soaked in smoke. The voice was liquid, slow and dark, curling around her mind like a lover's caress. "You came back."
Her heart froze.
The voice was inside her head.
The creatures froze. The clicking stopped. The heavy breath stilled.
"No crown. No name. But fire still in the blood. Yes. Yes."
Her breath caught in her throat, her pulse thundering in her ears. The very air seemed to pulse with something darker—something ancient and wild. The creatures, the things that lurked in the shadows, hissed and recoiled, backing away from her, as though they could sense the change inside her.
But she felt it too. Whatever had stirred in her bones—whatever the Hollow had kept sealed in this pit for centuries—it was waking.
She could feel it, moving through her veins like liquid fire. She could feel it in her chest, in her lungs, in the very core of her being. Something in her had shifted, and the Hollow had stirred in response.
"You are not done," it whispered, a voice that carried with it the weight of centuries. "You are mine."
And then she burned.
Not from outside. Not from the flames of some distant fire.
But from within.
Her blood caught fire. Her breath turned to ash. Her eyes rolled back as pain tore through her chest, like every organ was being consumed by a ravenous, unrelenting heat. The scream clawed its way up her throat—but what left her lips wasn't human.
It was a howl.
A raw, animalistic cry that split the darkness.
Her body trembled with the force of it, the power surging through her like a tempest. It tore through her chest, echoing against the walls of the Hollow, vibrating the very earth beneath her. The creatures shrieked and recoiled, scattering into the shadows. But the darkness only thickened, pressing in closer, drawn to the power awakening within her.
The pain intensified, searing her skin from the inside out. Her hands clenched into fists, the nails digging into her palms, as her body fought against the blaze consuming her. She could feel it—the fire, the power, flooding her veins. It was like nothing she had ever known, both terrifying and intoxicating. It was the essence of something ancient, something that had been buried for centuries beneath the weight of time and silence.
For a moment, she felt as if she were unraveling—her very soul torn apart, split into pieces, scattered in the dark. The fire inside her roared louder, and for the first time, she realized the truth.
The Hollow was no longer just a prison.
It was her birthright.
And it was hungry.