As they began to walk, the air thickened again. Not with heat, but with memory. Whispers drifted faintly through the Hollow, fragments of language older than any tongue, each syllable vibrating with divine resonance.
Nysha frowned, ears twitching. "They sound like prayers."
Lindarion's gaze turned distant. "They are."
He reached out with his senses, letting his mana expand outward until it brushed against the Hollow's pulse. In that instant, visions flickered across his mind: demi-gods standing in a circle of flame; elven ancestors kneeling before them; a bargain sealed with blood and roots. The Hollow Sun was no mere prison, it was a covenant.
Then the ground shuddered.
A low hum rose from the terraces around them, deep and resonant. The rivers of molten gold brightened until the light seared the eyes. From the fissures between stones, forms began to emerge.
