Chapter Twenty
“There’s something over there, in the clearing.”
Ryder points his sword in front, his voice stern.
He’s carried his annoyances with him since we accused him of lying.
The only words that have come out of his mouth have been to warn us of thick brush or sudden dips in the terrain; other than that, nothing.
I find myself looking at him intensely, studying him—his eyes, his lips, the permanent creases in his brow.
How did he know those things about the Night boat and the tenari… . and why didn’t he want to tell us?
A small orange light becomes evident in the direction Ryder points, a marmalade hue that stands out amidst the monotonous shades of green. I rub my eyes for the second time. It’s still there, shining like a beacon.
The closer we get, the brighter it becomes, and a cobblestone path feeds through the woodland. A strange sense of calm washes over me, as if a faint lullaby hums in the air.
“It’s a cottage?” Nala breathes, her feet just on the precipice of the cobblestones, and I rub my eyes again, expecting it to be just a mirage.
“Surely no one lives in here…” River shifts on his feet, clearly itching to move on.
I can’t imagine anyone choosing this place—a lifetime of damp, darkness, and creatures that tear you apart without warning.
And yet the cottage stands. Quiet. Intact.
A place that shouldn’t exist, and yet somehow does.
“It has to be a trap,” I say, my stomach knotting at the thought. The last time something looked so out of place was at the start of the first trial—and we barely survived that.
“Let’s keep moving,” Ryder says, already angling away from the cottage. None of us argue; we fall in behind him gladly, eager to leave the impossible little house behind.
The forest swallows us again. Each step sinks into thick mud, our footprints filling with murky water.
My boots rub raw against my ankles, every stride a reminder of how long we’ve been walking.
When we reach a narrow stream, River drops to his knees and scoops water into his mouth, gulping it down like he’s been wandering a desert instead of a swamp.
“I’m not sure you should be doing that,” Ryder warns.
“Oh, right—now you magically know something about this water, too?” River says, rolling his eyes and drinking again.
“No,” Ryder snaps, shooting him a glare. “I just don’t trust anything in this Hollow.”
“It looks clear enough,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. My throat feels like sandpaper, and honestly, at this point, I’d drink from a puddle. Nala kneels beside me, and the two of us drink cautiously. After a long moment of watching us, Ryder finally gives in and cups water into his own hands.
Time passes differently in the Hollow; ten minutes can sometimes pass in what feels like ten seconds, and at others it feels like ten years.
This was one of those moments when time seemed to pass more slowly—slipping past what looked like the same trees and shrubbery—a monotonous journey where nothing unusual or different seemed to pop up.
The same weeds, rows of the same trees, the same small streams, the same suffocating mud.
I hadn’t heard a word out of anyone, though we were quiet; no doubt the thoughts in each of our minds were running loud, silently stewing, an anticipation of dread for what we had left behind and what’s to come.
Ryder stops abruptly.
“No—this can’t be right.”
Suddenly, as if the water never touched my tongue, my mouth dries again—parched, cracking. And ahead of us, bleeding through the trees like a wound, the orange glow of the cottage returns. Exactly where it shouldn’t be.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” River mutters. “We’ve been going in a fucking circle.”
The air shifts—heavy, suffocating. Exhaustion drags at my limbs and frustration prickles beneath my skin. We’d walked at least twenty minutes through mud thick enough to swallow our footprints… yet it’s as if we never moved at all.
Still, none of us wants to go near that cottage. Whatever waits inside feels wrong—less like a beacon and more like an open mouth, calling, demanding. The light no longer hums like a lullaby; it shouts, a desperate plea for us to enter. Which only makes it more terrifying.
We push on, faster this time, mud sucking at our boots, branches whipping at our arms. But soon the familiar stream slithers into view. The same trees. The same rust-coloured stones. And then—there it is again. The same cottage, sitting primly in the Hollow as if mocking us.
We try again. Left at the stream instead of right. Then straight. Then a wide arc through denser trees. But no matter where we turn—left, right, or dead ahead—we’re dragged back to the cottage like the world is looping around it. A recurring nightmare we can’t wake from.
“It’s messing with us,” I whisper, blinking at the too-pleasant bricks, the chimney smoke curling lazily upward, unfazed by our panic.
Ryder exhales, long and grim. His shoulders tense as if bracing for impact. “I think this is another trial,” he says. “I think… we have to go inside.”
With each quiet footstep along the cobblestones, my heart stops. I thought that we would have more time to prepare for the next trial. The wind picks up, and it’s as if I can hear the Hollow laughing at us.
The force hits me before I even realise I’ve stepped too close.
One moment, the cottage is only a strangely warm glow ahead of us, and the next it feels as though the air itself has claws.
A violent suction seizes my ribs, folding me inward and dragging me across the threshold.
I don’t even get enough breath to scream—there’s only the dizzy, stomach-turning sensation of being swallowed by something that isn’t supposed to be alive.
The door slams shut behind me with a crack like a bone, the sound echoing unnaturally long, as if the house is delighted to seal me in.
I spin and slam both palms against the wood, searching for even a sliver of give.
“Ryder! River! Nala—I’m here!”
I shout, my throat aching with the words.
“Asha!”
“Back up—we’ll break it down!”
“Asha, hold on!”
Their voices collide through the door, frantic and overlapping like panicked birds beating against a cage.
I hear Ryder’s fists hammering, each hit thudding with desperation. River shouts something I can’t make out—he’s never yelled like that—and Nala’s voice cracks in a way that makes something deep in my chest twist.
I try again, louder, fighting the rising panic clawing up my throat. “I’m here! I’m—”
The door pulses once against my palms—warm and rhythmic, unmistakably like a heartbeat—and a shockwave blasts straight through me. Pain streaks up my arms and flings me backwards, as I crash onto the floorboards, breath torn from my lungs.
Their voices muffle instantly, as though someone pressed thick hands over my ears. Within seconds, they fade into nothing—no pounding, no shouting, no sound at all.
Silence settles over the room.
Not an empty silence—this one feels swollen, suffocating, saturated with attention. Like something in the walls is listening, waiting for me to exhale.
I push myself upright, my chest heaving even though the air suddenly feels too thick to breathe.
The cottage seems to shift around me. The walls expand outward as if taking a deep, unnatural breath—wood bending like ribs under skin—then contract slowly, releasing a long exhale I can feel more than hear.
A shiver crawls up my spine.
Shadows ripple across the walls, sliding like spilt ink, pooling at the floor and splitting open into four long, vertical slits. They glow faintly around the edges, each pulse matching a heartbeat that definitely isn’t mine.
A whisper rolls through my head, bypassing sound entirely, coiling like smoke around my thoughts:
Know them. Name them. Claim your fear.
My legs want to lock. Every part of my body begs me to stay still, to pretend I haven’t noticed that the entire cottage is breathing around me. But staying still feels worse than moving—like holding my breath underwater with no idea how deep the drop beneath me goes.
I force one foot forward, then another.
The first slit unfurls into a spiral of smoke, stretching toward me with delicate, ghostlike fingers, almost like my portal. It gathers, shapes itself, and transforms into a scene so vivid the scent reaches me first—a scorched cell, the air choked with ash and the metallic tang of blood.
Bodies lie scattered at unnatural angles, shards of glass strewn across the floor like splintered bones. And at the centre, knees sinking into blackened marble, is Nala—hands and feet bound in rope. I gasp as I recognise Charlie looming over her, a match in one hand, lighter fluid in the other.
Tears stream down her face as she begs him to stop, but her pleas are helpless.
He just mocks her, drenching her in the liquid until she is choking on it.
My heart thumps as the nightmare gets worse.
Soon, a wall of fire rises around her, inching closer, tightening like a noose.
The heat feels real enough to singe my eyebrows, forcing me to stumble back.
She lifts her face toward me as if she can see me, eyes wide, and shimmering with pain.
“Help me… please…”
A sound slips from her lips, a soft, broken whimper, before her body goes slack.
My heart snaps tight as I try to reach her. But I can’t. Each time the wall of fire cuts me off.
“No one’s coming for you. They’re all dead,” Charlie muses, a devious smile stretching across his face. His laughter echoes, growing louder, feeding on her cries.
Nala carries this alone. She walks beside us every day as if she’s unbroken, as if she has no cracks, no ghosts—while this is what waits for her when she closes her eyes.
Panic spikes sharply and fast in my chest as Charlie stands over her with a lit match in his hands, seconds away from dropping it.