Chapter 16
HARDIN
Ifeel him before I see him.
The forest doesn't fall silent, it just changes. The usual rhythm of birdsong and leaf-rustle flattens into something still and breathless, like the Hollow itself is holding its lungs tight against its ribs, waiting to see who bleeds first.
There’s a pressure in the air that settles low in my back and tightens the muscles along my spine, the kind of weight that doesn’t belong to weather or instinct but memory, the kind that's been gnawing at the back of my skull since the wards first flickered two nights ago.
I follow the tremor down the ridge past the southern boundary, where the ash trees twist toward one another like lovers mourning too long.
And then I smell him: old blood and burnt bone and the tang of black iron.
It hits me like a punch to the chest, that scent. Not because I fear it, but because I know it better than I should. Because once, that stink came from both of us.
The clearing ahead is small, ringed with roots so thick they look like bones clawing from the earth. I step through the mist and there he is, standing in the space like he never left, like no time has passed at all.
Korrak.
He hasn’t changed. Or maybe that’s the problem, he’s changed too much.
His armor is darker now, pieced together from creatures that shouldn’t be alive long enough to be skinned.
His tusks are longer, filed sharp, gilded at the tips with gold or something fouler.
The tattoos on his throat writhe faintly under his skin, spell-ink that moves like it remembers pain.
He doesn’t move when I enter. Just lifts his head and smiles in that slow, venomous way that used to make the younger warriors flinch.
“Well, well,” he says, voice low, smooth as a dagger drawn in the dark. “Look what the Hollow dragged in.”
My grip tightens on the axe slung across my back, but I don’t draw it. Not yet. There’s a ritual to this. A rhythm. He’ll want to talk first. He always does.
“You’re far from the clans,” I say, keeping my voice level, even though my chest tightens with each word. “I didn’t think the old blood still reached this deep.”
He chuckles and steps forward, slow, boots crunching the frost-hardened grass.
“Blood reaches further than you think, little brother. You’ve been pretending for years that this place made you something else.
That you’re safe. Civilized. But you and I both know that what runs through us doesn’t die in quiet towns. ”
I don’t answer. There’s no point.
He circles me, each step careful, deliberate, like a predator testing the edge of a snare. The air crackles faintly around him, thick with the residue of dark rites and half-buried power.
“I heard a rumor,” he continues, tilting his head with mock curiosity. “Said you’ve taken up with a human woman. A soft little witch and her strange daughter.”
I shift my stance.
Korrak grins wider. “Oh, it’s true, then. That’s rich. You, of all people, playing house with creatures who wouldn’t hesitate to bind your throat and call it justice if they ever saw what you are beneath that uniform.”
“You came all this way to spy on me?”
“I came to offer you a choice.”
He stops just in front of me. Close enough I can smell the rot beneath the blood, the old curses carved into his skin. He looks like a corpse that never remembered how to stay dead.
“Come home, Hardin,” he says, quiet now. “The clan wants you. Needs you. At my side. Where you belong.”
“There is no home left for me,” I say, voice low.
“There could be. We’ve reclaimed the stone. The blood rites are deeper now, truer. We have strength. Numbers. The kind of power that doesn’t hide behind council chambers or enchantments.”
“And what price did you pay for it?”
His smile falters for a moment.
Then he sneers. “Cowardice doesn’t suit you.”
“I chose peace.”
“No. You chose exile. And you wrapped it in stories about safety and duty and pretending you weren’t made for more than this.”
I step forward, inches from him now, the heat between us crackling like the air before a storm.
“I won’t let you near them.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Them?”
“You know who I mean.”
His mouth twitches with something like amusement. “You’re attached. That’s a shame. Because if you won’t come back willingly, I’ll just have to make you.”
“I’ll kill you before I let you near them.”
“You’ll try.”
Then he’s gone, moving with the speed and silence that only the old blood can give. The trees shiver in his wake, the roots humming like they’re remembering pain.
I don’t breathe until I’m sure he’s left the Hollow.
I go straight to the council.
The forest feels smaller as I walk. Not safer, more like the trees are leaning in, listening. Watching. Judging.
The council waits beneath the roots of the elder grove, seated in their hollowed thrones of bark and bone. Brekka’s already there, pale as birch, her eyes sharp and ancient. Yorran, older than any of us know, stares down from his high seat, lips pressed thin.
I don’t waste time.
“He’s here,” I say.
They stiffen, but none look surprised.
“Korrak,” Brekka murmurs, voice brittle. “We suspected as much.”
“He found a way past the outer protections. I don’t know how long he’s been watching.”
Yorran’s fingers tighten on the carved arms of his seat. “What does he want?”
“He wants me back. And if I don’t go with him, he’ll come for Krista. And Mari.”
The name hangs heavy.
They exchange glances. Quiet murmurs. Old magic bristling beneath their skins.
“You’ve formed a bond with the woman,” Brekka says, tone unreadable.
“I didn’t mean to.”
“But you did.”
Silence stretches. Long. Unkind.
Yorran speaks slowly. “You brought danger to our gates.”
“I protected this place for years.”
“And now you’re a risk.”
Brekka steps forward. “You know what must be done.”
My throat is dry. “You want me gone.”
“We cannot afford to gamble the Hollow’s survival on your guilt.”
“There’s no guarantee he’ll stop with me.”
“No,” Brekka agrees. “But we can’t take the chance that he’s coming for you because of what you’ve done here.”
The judgment is already passed in their eyes.
“Leave by nightfall,” Yorran says. “You will not be pursued. But you will not return.”
I stand for a long moment, the air heavy in my lungs.
Then I bow, stiff and shallow.
And I leave.
I don’t go back to the cottage.
I want to. Gods, I want to see her one last time, just to explain, to put my hands on her shoulders and tell her that none of this is her fault. That loving her didn’t make me weak, it made me remember I was something more than a weapon. That I would give up every breath I have to keep her safe.
But if I see her face, I won’t leave. And if I don’t leave, she dies.
So I wait until they leave for town, and I write the note.
Just a few lines. Simple. Like ripping out my own tongue.
He’s here. It’s not safe. I’m gone. Protect her.
I leave it on her pillow.
The scent of her still lingers on the sheets.
When the sun sets, I pass the boundary lines for the last time.
The Hollow doesn't fight to keep me. It never does.
It just lets go.
Like it always knew I’d end up alone.