5. Seren
SEREN
Morning doesn’t arrive in the Hollow so much as darkness loosens its grip.
The handle of my satchel cuts through my shoulder, the little coin I have jingles with every uneven step through the lanes. The cool air stings my lungs with every exhale, as my breath hangs in the air like smoke.
A haggard looking couple walk toward me, arms linked in a marital chain, their faces stern from years of surviving. She leans in close, thinking her whispers are contained, but they’re not.
“Nothing good comes of old gods stirring,” she mutters. My grip tightens on the satchel strap. “Last time, whole families burned.”
The man’s greying hair moves with the slight nod of his head. “Best the Light puts them back in the ground where they belong,” he grumbles.
Her grip tightens, knuckles whitening from the squeeze. “We won’t last another war, it can’t happen.”
Their eyes slide over me as they pass by, the whites growing bigger as they take me in.
I tuck my head down low, warmth rises from the pendant near my chin, as if even that is listening.
By the time I reach the square, lanterns sway on their hooks as the market begins to wake—pots clanging, sellers barking their favourite chants, steam rolling endlessly from cauldrons filled with broth.
The gnawing pit in my stomach grows louder, angrier, until I can’t ignore it anymore. I’m drawn to a vegetable stand nearby—my mouth watering as the strong, earthy aroma tinged with soil fills my nose.
My heart races, palms sweaty as my eyes dart back and forth to the seller who is busy with a customer near the fruit cases. No one else is within ten feet. My breath hitches in my chest. Now.
I lean in, clenching my hand around the treasure I seek. The turnip is heavier than I expect, grit biting into my palm. I pull back as quickly as I can, dumping it into my satchel, alongside the coin I should have used to pay for it.
I feign interest in some potatoes as my heart beats a frantic drum against my ribs, hoping my face doesn’t deceive the treasonous act I’ve just performed. No one seems to notice, so I turn on my heel to leave.
A wave of agitated whispers sweep through the crowd, like dry leaves scattering in a gust of wind. Icy fingers prickle my neck, heat flashes at my collarbone where the pendant lies—like two polarising forces fighting for attention.
A ripple moves through the crowd, white and gold cutting across the grime like a knife. Heads turn. A woman across the square claps a hand over her daughter’s mouth, muttering something under her breath.
They walk in a neat line, dust from the streets clings to the hem of their perfect, white robes, each speck a defiance against their enforced purity.
Luminary Guards.
A smear of black soot already stains the lead guard’s sleeve, a testament to how the Hollow refuses to be made clean.
The one in front lifts a hand, thinning the noise to a hush that isn’t so much respect as it is fear.
“Stand aside,” he calls. “Let the Hollow receive His grace.”
Someone crosses a hand over their body—a sign of respect or act of defiance, I can’t tell.
A hard knot forms in the pit of my stomach, butterflies now a frantic swarm of bees. I can’t focus; my thoughts jump between keeping myself hidden, and planning routes of escape.
“Does anyone wish to report anything untoward they have seen?” the lead guard booms, his voice travelling unnaturally loud in the silence.
He raises his palm to the sky, fingers stretching wide, as a ball of light ignites the black. The light hums—low, bone deep vibration—like it’s searching for something. Or someone.
His hand moves slowly, the beam washing over the crowd. Then, his hand closes slightly, narrowing the light until it becomes a harsh strobe, the glow freezing the gaunt faces in flickering snatches of white that stare back at him.
I edge toward the back of the crowd, keeping my gaze down, steps light. But the shadows at the edge of my feet tell a different story. They move restlessly, wisps of smoke weaving through legs.
No.
Too late. A child’s voice breaks the quiet: “Her shadow’s not right!”
The words drop like a stone, ripples of silence cascading outward.
Heads whip in my direction as the guards’ gaze snaps to me, a sneer curling the edge of his mouth.
“When shadows drift, the soul is soon to follow,” he says, his voice laced with a sting.
“It appears we have a Shadowborne hiding in plain sight.” His nose crinkles, showing the pearly whites of his teeth as he advances.
My legs feel like lead, too heavy to carry as my heart hammers. I desperately gasp for air, but it won’t go down.
Move.
A sudden, searing heat dissolves the lead in my veins, turning the weight into liquid fire. Blood surges, pumping frantically until my heartbeat drowns out the guards’ shouts. I bolt, my lungs burning as I force the world to blur.
The shadows throw themselves along the wall, sliding ahead of me like they want to lead, happy for the release.
Shouts fade into the distance, drowned out by the finality of slamming doors. No one stirs. No one dares. Why risk their own necks when the grave is already yawning for them?
Self-preservation is the only law left here, and mercy is a death sentence.
The cliffside steps are slick under my boots, as I take them two at a time, my heel skidding over the empty air, boots teetering on the edge. I throw a glance over my shoulder, hoping no one has followed me. They haven’t. I blend too easily into the dark creases of the rock.
My lungs finally uncoil, releasing the air I’d been hoarding in a long, shaky exhale that seems to empty my entire body. My shoulder meets wood as I barge my way through the familiar door, closing it with a softness I didn’t think I could manage.
The damp rock-face bites into my back as sweat trickles down my temples, the frantic drum of my heart finally slowing to a steady beat.
Flashes of white disappear down below, as I peer out through the shutter, careful not to show myself.
I release a heavy breath as I bend over, collapsing onto my knees, waiting for the knot in my stomach to unwind, releasing its grip.
My coat and satchel land on their usual rusted nail by the door as my shadows crawl along the walls like spilled ink, finding seams to hide in. The candle on the table gutters as they pass by. Has that ever happened before?
A cough breaks my thoughts.
Sylas.
“I’m here—” I say, my voice shaking from the tension still curling within.
The shadows swell, not toward me, but toward him. Like a tide turning.
Not waiting for me.
Time ceases to move.
Black tendrils snake over his legs, making their way up to his chest. His gaze locks on to mine, searching for answers I don’t have.
“No!” I lunge, hands stretching out in front of me, as if I can drag them back with fingers and will. “Don’t…”
They don’t listen.
They wrap around him, blackness slowly engulfing his frame until all I can see are his eyes. Those white-ringed, blue eyes.
His gaze softens, almost in acceptance of what’s to come. He blinks hard, his eyes speaking the words his body can’t.
This can’t be our last goodbye. Not like this.
There’s a single sharp inhale, then nothing.
The shadows loosen, unspooling into the corners as if they never moved at all.
Everything inside me goes quiet.
The candle dies, smoke threads the air.
Sylas lies still, no pain etched onto his features, as if in death he finally finds peace.
I sink to my knees beside him, my shaking hands hover uselessly over his face.
The scar inside me opens wide, a crushing pressure that squeezes the life out of my lungs, keeping the sorrow trapped inside.
Da’s voice echoes somewhere deep: The old gods don’t give. They only take.