SEREN
The last deals whisper into the shadows as the Lantern Market draws to a close. One by one, lights dim until all that’s left are the faint, flickering glows of a few stubborn vendors, desperately trying to drain buyers’ last coin.
My reflection flashes through the dark glass of shopfronts and ripples through puddles. She’s always still. Always watching.
I take the long way home, opting for a moment of reflection in the quiet confines of the shadows.
My fingers itch for the familiar feel of the coal stylus, the smooth paper. I need to get this image out of my mind, to add physical form to something that seems so ephemeral.
I should be haunted by the unnatural way her smile—my smile—curves, distorting her smooth features.
But it doesn’t. It’s almost comforting—like I’m no longer alone.
My fingers curl tighter around the satchel strap, knuckles aching.
It’s not the first time it’s happened. There’s always been a strange, sentient being occupying the deepest parts of my mind. Always quiet—watching.
The Hollow at night feels different—quieter, sharper, like it’s waiting to expose my hidden truths.
Under the comfort of darkness, my shadows release, stretching wide on the streets ahead of me. Every time I glance down, I half-expect them to abandon me too, just like everybody else.
Tendrils of smoke snake along the floor, and slither across the walls, flinching at any sudden noise of passerbys.
I can’t remember life without them, these silent companions that have outlasted every friend I’ve ever had. They are my only friends now.
Water drips somewhere above me—slow and steady. The sound pulls me backward to a moment in time when life under the Hollow seemed somewhat normal.
Da sits on the edge of my bed, the weight of him tilting the edge of the mattress. He pulls the covers up to my chest, stroking my cheek with the back of his hand, before tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
Darkness pools at my feet, curling into a ball, like it too was ready for his story.
Da’s deep voice bounces off the damp walls, reverberating through my bones.
A rattle forms deep in his chest, as he talks of old gods and new—the ones of light and the ones of shadow, and the war that doomed us to the dark.
I stare open-mouthed, my gaze remaining firmly fixed on the thick ring of white lining his dark black eyes.
He pauses, gazing back to the darkness that spools over my bedspread, before his eyes trace back to me.
“Be careful of your shadows, little one—” he says, as his hand traces softly against my cheek. “—not everyone is accepting of the unknown.”
“But why do I have them, Da?” my high-pitched voice squeaks.
“You were gifted something you are not yet able to understand,” he says, as he withdraws his hand, pulling my bedspread further onto my chest. “One day, when you’re all grown, you’ll find the answers you seek. I just hope I can be here for you when you receive them.”
“Why will you not be here? You’re my Da, you’re supposed to be with me forever.”
“Not everything is made to last, my love. Now that I’ve been touched by the plague that rules this city, I’m afraid my days are numbered.”
My heart still sinks at the sight of the fragile smile that touched his face, his impending death cracking his calm facade at any moment.
The cliffside steps come into view, pulling me away from the memories I desperately cling on to. My only proof that he was real.
The air this far on the outskirts grows colder, wetter. The damp-lined walls of the inner city give way to sheer rock faces where water trickles down, creating a relentless symphony of drops—the sound of the Hollow weeping endless tears.
My home—the only home I’ve ever known—clings to the rock, a half-forgotten place carved into the side of the world.
The door creaks as I push it open, the sound swallowed by the thick air within.
Walls are wet with condensation; the ceiling sags where roots push through from the world above, trailing soil and mildew. It’s not much but it’s home.
My steps are soft, careful, as I shut the door with a click.
“Back,” I whisper into the silence, not expecting a reply.
A low cough from the far corner, answers anyway. Tucked under a threadbare blanket, with his head poking out of the top, is Sylas. My big brother.
“You shouldn’t be awake,” I say firmly, crossing the room in three strides to crouch beside him.
His skin is pale, sweat sheening his brow in the soft glow of candlelight. His eyes struggle to open, as wisps of fever-glazed clouds greet me. After all the pain he’s in, he still manages a weak smile.
“Seren…did you get it?” he rasps.
I pull the glass vial from my satchel and set it by the hearth which has long since died. “I’ll make the tonic now. Don’t move.”
“Wasn’t planning to,” he grunts.
The corner of my mouth twitches as I relight the fire, relishing the warmth already emitting from the embers.
I coax the flames to life with the poker, watching their shadows dance across the walls. The water boils in the blackened pot hanging above; trickles form as the tonic’s oils spread, releasing small rainbows of light from their surface.
A tug forms at my spine, breaking my gaze. My shadows stretch long and restless across the wall; the further they go, the deeper the pull.
In the safety of our home, they don’t follow me. Instead, they move on their own, shivering across the floorboards, curling around Syla’s bed as if curious…or protective. Sylas barely stirs, he’s grown accustomed to them over the years.
I freeze as a tendril caresses his cheek. “Come,” I whisper.
The shadow stills, as if listening to my command, before it retreats, slow as smoke, back to my feet.
“How’s your day been?” Sylas croaks.
I clear my throat, my hand tracing idle circles as I stir the tonic in the pot. “Usual. How are you feeling?”
“Usual,” he rasps, smirking faintly at his own mimicry.
I move from the hearth to sit on the edge of the bed. My pale fingers trace his hairline, plucking a stray black hair from his sweat-slick brow.
“Everything’s going to be okay,” I murmur, though my thoughts know otherwise.
“We both know that’s a lie. I’ll end up the same way as Da.” My face tightens before I can stop it, the sadness is old, older than I care to admit—like a bruise that never heals.
Not the kind of sorrow you ask anyone to fix. I stopped expecting that a long time ago.
“Let’s hope not too soon, ey?” I feign a smile, hoping my carefree words will make him feel at ease.
His lips purse as his body fights for a smile, his eyes flutter and close, like even that small effort costs too much.
“Let me finish your tonic,” I say softly, my hand stroking his face the same way Da would do. “Then you can rest.”
* * *
With Sylas dozing in a medicated sleep, I sit by the window. Calling it a window is generous, as it’s just a hole with a wooden shutter I keep closed for privacy. Now I push it open to let in the cool, musty breath of night.
I stare up to the ceiling of black, my mind conjuring up images of our Great Pale Mother’s rays shining down on my skin. The old tales say our power is strongest when she shines upon us; a strength I long to feel.
It’s been so long since the war, that our Divine Mother’s power dwindles as quickly as life with the rot. Her shadow-mark rarely appears on her acolytes, and the unlucky few blessed with one are turned in as quick as they can say ‘by the mother’s veil.’
The market noise has dulled, its clamor barely audible this far from the city. But the faint patter of footsteps and hushed voices slice through the quiet.
I lean out of the window just enough to see a cluster of cloaked figures disappearing into an alleyway. No one runs like that in the Hollow unless they’re running away from something, or hiding a secret.
Yara’s words echo in the corners of my mind: You should come, it’s the Veil Rite.
Another figure slips through the shadows, following the others. Hoods are drawn low, hands hidden. All discernable features obscured from overly curious neighbours.
I squint, trying to catch a face, but they vanish as quickly as they came.
Then something sharp tugs at my spine. The shadow slides forward, stretching toward the window, as a loose tendril hangs free, tasting the air.
It pulls at the space it occupies in my body, tugging at my muscles like it compels me to follow.
No. I demand, forcing the words through the silent language we share.
The wisp of shadow recoils as the shutter creaks drawing to a close. But my hands linger on the grain, my knuckles whitening from fighting against the internal tug of war. The actions speaking my true thoughts.
Not yet. Not tonight.
I turn back to Sylas. His breathing is soft, and steady, the rattle in his chest from the rot clawing its way further into his lungs, occupies the silent tears that streak the walls.
But my shadow hasn’t come back to my feet, it waits in the corner, watching.
On the damp stone beside it, a shape bleeds into being—a crescent, black and slick, where no hand has touched.
My stomach drops.
Scrambling for my satchel, I pull free my sketchbook and coal stylus. My fingers move fast as they dance across the page, dragging black lines back and forth. The form takes shape under my hand like a sculptor’s thumb: a crescent, and something else…another shape I can’t quite make out.
I squint, twisting my head into different angles to try and make sense of the image, but it’s no use.
Soot coats my fingers and dusts the page as I admire my creation. It mirrors that of the shape on the wall, but I have no idea why it’s there or how the shadows have been able to create it. They’ve never done anything like this before.
Just another image to stain the pages, another scrap of things I see in dreams and in waking—sketches I don’t remember starting, marks that don’t feel entirely mine.
A weight settles in my stomach, like a cold stone dropping into the pit of my being.
“I don’t know what it means,” I whisper to the shadows. They swirl around the image, a silent dialogue I can almost understand.
A cough from Sylas snaps me back, causing the shadows to jolt. I scurry to check on him, stumbling over my feet, as my boots scrape across the floorboards.
The image on the wall fades, gone as quickly as it came, but the mark in my book remains.
I light a single candle on the table, anything brighter would only make the damp walls seem darker. My boots come off first, leaving cold patches on the floorboards. Then my coat, heavy with the conflicting smells of the market, and sewage.
I hang it on its nail by the door and pull on an old moth-eaten jumper, before sitting for a moment, allowing the quiet to settle.
My nights often look like this: quiet, alone, with only my shadows and the images on the pages for companions. Sylas is here, but he isn’t awake much lately, the rot has his life in its firm grasp, ready to squeeze at any moment.
The Hollow never really sleeps, but up here on the cliffside, it pretends to. The sounds from the market are distant enough to blur into a low hum, almost like the sea I’ve never seen.
I empty the rest of my satchel—the floorboard groans as I slide the coin pouch beneath it, the sound loud in the quiet as it accompanies my only treasures: Ma’s onyx ring, and a sketch of Da—the only way to remember his features clearly before they succumb to the fading of time.
I check on Sylas before bed, adjusting the blanket around him. His breathing is shallow, but steady, the rattling subdued.
I allow myself a small share of the potatocake, the creaminess makes my mouth water, but my belly still aches for more. I tell myself that’s enough for now, Sylas will need more to keep up his remaining strength.
When I finally lie down, the shadows curl along the walls, pooling in the corners as if they’re choosing their own place to sleep. My eyes close, but it feels like they stay awake long after I drift off.