13. Seren
SEREN
Light as sharp as glass splinters my vision.
My bound hands fly towards my face in a useless attempt to shield myself from this unfamiliar blaze—but the manacles flare, a spike of burning pain climbs up my arms.
I choke on a cry as I wait for my eyes to adjust to the blinding light.
The Hollow’s mildew and smoke are long gone, instead a tang of incense—dry, clean and sharp drifts in the air around me, washing away the impurity of below.
My hands lower, as I squint towards the sky.
The sky.
Expansive and blue—like a limitless ocean stretching to the horizon.
In my peripheral vision, two white spots move in the distance, riding the crystal blue waves of air as they soar without constraint. Birds.
Water blooms, teetering at the edge of my eyelids as a memory shared with Sylas rises to the forefront of my mind: sitting atop Pantheon's Peak, discussing what the sky might actually look like, whether it was as blue as the fables once said.
It is, I say to the memory of him. It’s beautiful, Sylas.
Tears fall down my cheeks, cold and heavy, mirroring the weight in my chest at the thought of his absence, and the view he so wished to see.
My eyes close, the warmth of the sun stroking my face. Only it doesn’t comfort—it prickles. Not warming, but uncomfortable, almost burning.
Is this what sunlight is meant to feel like?
The manacles bite into my skin, bringing the reality of my own confinement firmly into the present.
After allowing me the time to adjust—a kindness I never thought he’d grant—the stranger pulls me forward, Auria rises before me like a dream carved in gold and ivory.
Streets of pale stone are cut straight and orderly, nothing like the cramped chaos of home.
Towers gleam, walls are polished to a shine, banners of white and gold sway in the breeze.
Gradients of dark brown, beige and white line the thoroughfare as the people within the cloaks celebrate to the beat of drums; a deep, rhythmic thundering that rolls across the city like a shockwave.
Each beat is a concussive blow—a relentless, ominous pounding that speaks of my looming demise, making my soul scratch beneath my skin.
“Wh—what’s going on?” I whisper to the stranger, not expecting a reply.
He offers me no attention, as a sneer laces his words: “The Festival of Light.”
Of course, how could I forget. That’s why the Luminary Guards were in the Lantern Market asking for offers to His Grace.
An annual celebration where everyone is obligated to give thanks to the Luminaries for everything they’ve done for us—and continue to do for us.
Tearing us from our lives, and confining us into a dictatorship isn’t a cause I would deem worthy of celebrating.
But the flawless, sun-kissed faces surrounding me paint a different picture.
Deep within, embers I have buried for years snap to life, fed by the cold fuel of what they’ve done. The flames lick at my pulse, my jaw seizing as the pressure builds—a firestorm trapped behind my ribs.
Ever since they took power, we Hollowers have been condemned to the dark.
Forced to scrape a living from the dirt while the rot—that foul legacy of the War of Sun and Shadow—worms its way into our blood.
Every day, we suffer. We wither. It eats at our lungs until we can no longer breathe in the stench of our own lives.
We aren’t just living underground; we’re being buried alive.
No—we don’t live. We endure. While they rot in gold, in abundance.
Seeing them prosper causes bile to rise in my throat, burning my tongue as the opulence sickens me.
The chain jerks, pulling me forward as my knees nearly buckle.
I’m dragged along the gleaming avenue, but I fight with all that I have left to not show them this weakness.
“Do you enjoy this?” I ask quietly.
He doesn’t look at me. “Enjoy what?”
“Dragging people through the streets like trophies.”
A muscle flickers in his jaw. His head turns slowly, his gaze still tracking forward. “You were noticed long before I chained you.”
I don’t know where the courage comes from to speak these words, but something deep stirs within. “So you’re just the hand,” I murmur. “Not the mind.”
That earns me a glance.
Sharp. Warning.
“Careful,” he says. “Hands can still break things.”
My hands flex and twist against the manacles that weigh heavy from years of our blood. I grip fear by the hilt, using the suffering I’ve endured to sharpen the blade.
I want them to see just what their suffering has forged. Hundreds of eyes press against my skin, weighing more than the iron on my wrists. Judgement fractures in the prism of their jewel-bright eyes, but instead of averting their gaze, the fire within ignites my resolve to stare right back.
They want to see a monster. I’ll show them a monster.
Every step on the polished stone is a humiliation, every inhale of incense is a stark reminder that I don’t belong. And for once, I’m glad I don’t.
As we make our way through the crowded lanes, whispers turn into taunting melodies; Monster, Shadowborne scum, Marked.
The more their notes waltz through the air, the more I let them stoke the fire within. The straighter my back stands, the higher my chin tilts. The brighter the monster they expect to see, shines.
The stranger doesn’t falter the further into the adorned city we go. His grip on the chains is steady as stone, silver eyes fixed firmly on the gilded palace ahead, like a beacon of light.
We pass through a market that resembles nothing to the Lantern Market from home.
Stalls are lined in perfect rows, their pristine canopies of white and gold, float in the wind like sails on a ship.
Mouth-wateringly sweet fruit glistens under the midday sun; meaty joints roast over spits, dripping fat onto pale stone; and bread rises golden in ovens, richer than any root-cake I’ve ever smelled.
The rumble starts deep within, a low ache that grows with every passing minute I’m surrounded by the delicacies around me. Such abundance, such decadence that we could only dream of back home.
“Look at her,” someone whispers.
I tear my gaze away from a large joint of meat rolling on a spit, to find an old man watching me from behind his half-obscured mask. His skin is smooth and vibrant—a testament to a life untouched by hardship. Clearly, the years have been gentle with him.
My upper lip curls, and this time I let it. Let him see me for what I truly am.
A monster.
He looks away, cracks forming in his porcelain skin as wrinkles form over his brow at the sight of my defiance.
A steady warmth pools deep in my gut, calm and heavy as I relish the sight that my unease has caused him; just a mere fraction of what my people feel on a daily basis.
People that were too scared to help me—or anyone else that has been taken. And for that, I don’t blame them.
Another tug, another stumble through the crowded streets where jovial faces turn sour, only stoking the fire within.
The corners of my lips turn upward, and for once in a very long time, I let them.
The polished stone ends abruptly, giving way to a spectacle that wipes the smile off my face, stealing the breath from my lungs.
Before me stands the palace gates: a towering expanse of gold that gleams in the unforgiving sunlight.
They are less barriers and more a declaration of power, adorned with intricate, winding reliefs of triumphant figures that seem to mock my subdued existence.
The heavy scent of incense and wealth intensifies the closer I get, until the two men standing guard open the gates with a slow, heavy groan.
Chains clink and trail across the floor as I’m dragged forward, crossing the threshold with a boot that screams impure against the pure white stone.
The reverberating clang of the golden gates slamming shut sends a shudder through my bones. I turn, looking back to a place I know I’ll never see again. And just like that, the Hollow—and the old me—are gone.