Yara
The candle on my shrine gutters.
I go perfectly still.
Wax runs in thin ribbons over my fingers, but I don’t wipe it away. I let it burn—an offering to my Divine Mother. One palm cups the flame; the other presses to my sternum, where the pulse stirs—half mine, half something older.
For a heartbeat, the world holds its breath.
The white film behind my eyes fractures as darkness rushes in. My pupils vanish, thoughts tipping sideways—toward her.
Seren.
The name weaves through my thoughts, a thread in a tapestry. She is alive—a knowing so certain it is written within the very fabric of my bones. She has done it. Blessed vessel.
The taste of copper rises on my tongue, and I know: the first veil has exposed her. The truth has been burned into her, the way it always is, allowing her to see through the gilded lies of her enslavers.
Relief washes through me, fleeting as a shadow passing over flame. The world returns, shifting like the earth beneath a cover of clouds. I see the candle again, the trail of smoke weaving toward the ceiling as a pool of wax continues to vaporise.
I rise slowly from the shrine. Papers shift, whispering secrets against one another.
Outside my crooked window, the Lantern Market’s light flicker as if the Hollow itself has flinched.
Tin charms tremble on their strings. Caged birds suddenly go quiet.
Every stall shivers, every animal falters for a breath, before the choir finds its voice again.
I shut the curtains, drawing the world outside to a close.
The room breathes with me—shallow and uneven.
The scent of lavender and salt hangs heavy, mingling with the smoke of the guttered candle.
On the table, the lidless Eye of Nyx makes the wood feel awake.
With calloused fingers, I trace the grooves, feeling the warmth beneath the surface before the light fades to nothing.
Darkness folds around me like a familiar cloak.
I count my steps to the cupboard and reach for my heavy black wool. I pause, my head tilting as the memory of Seren crouching in that confined space flickers through my mind.
My lips thin. I worry for all she has endured, and all that is yet to come. I throw the cloak over my shoulders and pull the hood high, blending into the night.
I follow my usual path to the outskirts of the Hollow, my hands trailing the familiar patterns of the storefronts, counting my steps—a habit of years.
Her scent reaches me before I even touch the door. A silence as thick as dust has settled over the property. The wood is slick under my palm as I push the door open. My eyes adjust, squinting into the gloom to map the room in my mind.
The house sits in an unnatural quiet. Sylas’ bed remains unkempt, a jagged reminder of the Scavengers’ visit. A single floorboard has been wrenched out of place, its hidden contents surely taken by Seren. The hollow beneath the board yawns open—bare wood, scraped clean.
My shoulders sag under the weight of a life that may never return—a heavy price for the sake of the prophecy. I allow my thoughts to drift as I close the door and make my way toward the mines, then deeper into the tunnels.
The chambers beneath the city smell of rain, damp soil, and rot. Dimly-lit torches offer the only visibility in the tight space, while the trickle of water and the scuff of my shoes are my only companions.
After minutes that feel like hours, the tunnel opens into a larger vaulted space with many branching doorways. I take the path to the right, descending further into the inky depths.
Muffled voices lead me into a room at the far end of the passage. Figures in dark cloaks of all shapes and sizes huddle in the corners, their faces obscured by deep hoods. I step in, clearing my throat to announce myself. The muttering dies as they turn toward me, dipping their heads in greeting.
We take our usual spots. The original seven has grown into dozens. We stand in a circle around the sigil of our Divine Mother carved into the centre of the floor. I step forward and place my fingers upon the violet eye. The room goes silent on instinct.
Our faces illuminate in the violet glow that emanates from the stone; its colour has deepened, bruising at the edges.
“Do you feel it?” Calen asks. His hood slips back to reveal hollow eyes ringed with sleeplessness, his fingertips stained purple from the rites. “Every light flared for a breath, then dimmed. A deep thud reverberated through the very earth.”
Whispers of agreement fill the room, someone hushes the crowd for quiet.
“This was not random,” I say, my voice steadier than I imagined. “This was a calling by the Divine Mother herself. Our vessel has found the truth—whether she wanted it or not.”
Hushed murmurs erupt again, like the sound of water resonating through the chamber. I let the sound wash over me until only the trickling water remains. Wary gazes shift toward me, and I nod once.
“She is returning.” I rub my worn, dry palms together. “Our Divine Mother is guiding her. It won’t be long until she returns home for good. We must be ready. If she doesn’t come willingly, we will go to her.”
Calen—one of the original acolytes—mutters a prayer that sounds like a profanity. “Then all of this—” air brushes my face as he motions to the cramped room. “—the years of silence, the suffering, the secrecy—it finally ends?”
His form swirls beneath my cloudy gaze. “It shall, my old friend. We will do what we must to restore the Shattered Divine. But—” I dip my head, the weight of the future pressing into my shoulders.
“—I fear this is only the beginning. Now—” I hold out my hands, searching for my companions marked ones, instructing them to do the same. “—let us prepare.”
Silence fills the room. The glow from the sigil steadies, its bruise-coloured glow beating in time with the pulse beneath my skin.
My head tilts back. The white film over my eyes is flooded with night.
For a moment, I can almost hear her footsteps echoing far beneath the stone—marching toward the destiny our Divine Mother has buried for her.