Ask stood at the black arch, fingertips grazing the runes—nine names once etched, now scraped away like dried blood.
"They weren't erased," he murmured. "They were consumed."
Embla stepped beside him, the stone warm under her hand. "Odin didn't just bury them. He devoured their memory."
The Hollow breathed.
Not wind. Not life.
Memory.
Ask pushed the stone door inward. It didn't creak—it sighed. A sigh heavy with age, like a grave being opened.
The Hollow's mouth yawned wide, revealing a spiraling descent—steps carved from basalt, slick with condensation. Faint light glimmered from moss that pulsed cyan like it remembered stars long gone.
"You sure about this?" Embla asked.
"No," Ask replied. "But we're already chosen."
They stepped down.
With every level they descended, the air grew heavier—saturated with will. Not malevolence. Not peace. Purpose. Like the very stones had once been commanded and still waited to obey.
Faint carvings lined the walls—scenes of battle-seers, giants of smoke, and a serpent coiled around a broken sky.
"Vilseidr didn't build this," Embla whispered. "It grew around him."
Ask nodded. "A wound becomes a scar. A god becomes a place."
They reached the bottom.
The final chamber was not carved but grown—a cathedral of petrified roots wrapping around a heart of crystal.
Inside it, suspended in amber-light, was a figure.
Vilseidr.
Or what was left of him.
A man-shaped silhouette, arms folded, head bowed. His body half-formed—veins of stone and threads of light running through fractured skin.
Ask stepped forward, breath held.
"He's still in between," he said. "Not alive. Not dead."
Embla placed her hand on the crystal. "He's dreaming. And the dream leaks."
As if responding, the walls shimmered. Runes lit up, flowing down like rain.
Then a voice—soft, distant—whispered behind them:
"Ash... and bark… seed and soul…"
Ask turned sharply.
A figure stood in the stairwell. No sound had announced its coming.
It wasn't human. Not fully.
A hooded being, skin like old parchment, antlers curling from its head. Eyes like hollow wells.
"A Rootwight," Embla gasped. "I thought they were extinct."
The creature raised a gnarled hand.
"The last Seer stirs. And the roots awaken. Your path was not hidden. It was... summoned."
Ask gripped his blade. "Are you here to stop us?"
The Rootwight chuckled, a sound like dry leaves.
"No. I am here to witness. His time returns. The Nine tremble."
Embla glanced at Vilseidr's form in the crystal. "Is he healing?"
"No. He is remembering. And when a god remembers…"
The Rootwight pointed at Ask.
"You will burn."
Before either could react, the Rootwight vanished—faded into bark and rot, as though he had always been part of the tree.
The chamber shook slightly. The pulse quickened.
Ask reached out, placing his palm on the crystal's surface.
Behind the amber veil, Vilseidr's fingers twitched.
Embla's voice was barely a whisper.
"…He knows we're here."
Ask met her gaze. "Then we'd better be ready for when he wakes."
A sound echoed from deep within the crystal.
A voice.
A breath.
"…Vé…"