23. Yara
YARA
The Hollow has a pulse again.
It thuds through the tunnels—a deep, low rhythm that rattles glass on shelves and shakes dust from the beams. The others don’t hear it yet, but I do. I’ve always heard the world’s heart when it starts to shift. Tonight it beats faster.
Whispers drift through the fog clinging to the canals: miners, traders, children with coal-smeared cheeks.
They talk of a Shadowborne girl who disturbed the city’s light, making it waver for the first time in a hundred years.
Some call it an omen; some, blasphemy. I say nothing.
I sell them what they came for—tonics for sleep, herbs for courage—and send them back into the dark.
When the last door closes, I feel for the lock and turn, letting the silence rush in.
My hands ache for the box that once sat beneath the counter, but it’s gone—given to Seren over a week ago.
The lock of hair, the parchment inked with the forgotten prophecy.
Pieces of a life she never knew she’d been written into.
I pray to Nyx she deciphered them before the Luminary guards took her. I know it was her. I feel it in my marrow. I told myself it was faith—that her destiny required this path. That everything happening to her is meant to be, and I must be the one to help her, in the end.
The Hollow hums, and the lamps flicker blue. The smell of oil turns sharp, like iron. The same tremor shook the ground the night Seren became who she is today. I hope she forgives me for not following; my body is too frail to fight. I must fight in another.
I count my steps to the back room, announced by the scent of echinacea and ginger. The brazier feels cold, though I never let it die. I strike a match, the orange flare clouding my vision as I feed the fire.
“You asked this of me,” I whisper into the flame. “I kept her safe as long as I could. The rest is yours, Divine Mother.”
The walls breathe back warmth, and for a moment, the aroma hits me—a pleasing assault of lavender. The scent of the Mother. I’m transported to the night I pulled Seren from her mother’s arms. The same scent clung to her blankets then; it haunts my dreams still.
Outside, the canal churns, black water striking stone. Voices rise from the market tunnels—joy and prayer in equal measure. It is almost time.
I feel for the coarse material of my cloak behind my chair, and wrap it around my shoulders snuffing out the lamp as I do so. I don’t stumble in the dark; I’ve always known the way. Toward the mines, toward the shrine beneath their feet, toward the old words I will finally be able to give voice to.
A cool, delicate breath passes my ear. A voice rides it, stroking my mind like a sigh.
She is almost ready.
I nod, heart heavy and sure. “Then may the Light be ready for her.”