The rain finally broke, leaving the valley wrapped in a silence that was almost cruel. Mud clung to every step, and the air smelled of rust and old blood, but the survivors pressed on behind Shitsubo with the dull rhythm of people too tired to imagine tomorrow.
It had been days since anyone had spoken freely. Words cost energy, and energy was hoarded like food. Even Nare, who once filled silence with questions, kept her lips pressed shut.
Shitsubo walked ahead, stone humming in his palm. He didn't bother to look back. He knew the distance between him and the others; he could feel it the way a wolf feels the tension in its pack. They clung to him and recoiled from him at the same time. That balance—usefulness against dread—was the only thing keeping them in step.
By noon, they reached a hill scattered with dwarven runestones. Most had cracked down the middle, inscriptions erased by weather, but one still stood upright. Itaru, squinting through the grime, ran a hand across the carvings.
"This one…" he muttered. "It's not just a grave marker."
The group gathered, hungry for distraction. Shitsubo stayed back, listening.
Itaru traced the grooves with his burned fingers. "Old dwarven script. I only know pieces—my teacher showed me when I was still apprenticing. This word means stronghold. And here—sanctuary."
The survivors stirred. Murmurs rose, too quick, too hopeful.
Nare's eyes widened. "You mean there's a place? Somewhere that hasn't fallen?"
Itaru shook his head. "I don't know. Could be just words carved by hands long dead. But it says something about the 'Hollow of Brimir.'"
Shitsubo frowned faintly at the name. Brimir—a forgotten figure, whispered in old songs of creation. A bloodline buried in myth, a place where fire once cooled into iron. He had never thought it real.
The survivors, though, latched onto the word like drowning men spotting driftwood.
"A hollow," one of them muttered. "That means underground, doesn't it? If the Aggressors poison the sky and soil, underground could still be safe."
"It could be a city," another whispered. "A place where dwarves fled before all this began. If it's sealed, maybe the Aggressors haven't found it."
The murmurs grew. Shitsubo could hear the fever behind them, the desperate way people wanted to believe.
He cut through it with one cold sentence. "Rumors do not feed you."
The voices faltered, but not for long.
Nare turned to him, stubborn. "If there's even a chance it exists, shouldn't we try? What else are we walking for? Just to die in some valley none of us will remember?"
Her words hit harder than she knew. For a moment, the whispers in Shitsubo's curse surged louder, as though mocking her. Die in some valley. His entire life, that was all he had expected—to end faceless, nameless, beaten into mud like a dog.
The stone pulsed in his hand. He let the silence hang long before he answered.
"If we find it, it will not be as you imagine. Safe places never are."
---
That night, as they camped among the broken arches, the group argued openly for the first time in days. The air crackled with it.
Itaru leaned against the wall, voice sharp. "We're wasting ourselves walking blind. If the Hollow is real, it's our only chance. Even if it's a tomb, at least it's a tomb with walls."
A younger man—Katsu, barely more than a boy—snapped back, "And what if it's just another story? You want us chasing ghosts while the Aggressors close in? Better to stick with him." He jerked his chin toward Shitsubo.
Itaru scoffed. "Stick with him, and we rot alongside him. I've seen it. The way his power seeps. We're already less human for following him."
Katsu flushed, fists balling. "Better less human than dead."
Shitsubo listened without stepping in. He wanted to hear how they would shape themselves when left to their own desperation. His curse did not crave friends—it craved truths.
Nare's voice cut through the argument. "The Hollow may be real, or it may not. But we need something to walk toward. You think survival is enough? It isn't. Survival without purpose is just waiting for death to pick its moment."
Silence fell heavy. Even Itaru couldn't find an immediate retort.
Then Shitsubo spoke, voice calm, final. "If this Hollow exists, I will find it. Not for you. Not for hope. But because places that pretend to be safe often hold power worth taking. If you want to follow, follow. If you want to turn back, do so. But do not whine when the ground eats you."
He rose, the rune-stone glimmering faintly. The firelight caught his face, throwing hard shadows across his features. The group fell silent, unable to answer.
They would follow. Not because they trusted him, but because there was nothing else left to chase.
---
Two nights later, Nare walked beside him while the others slept. Her voice was low, almost conspiratorial.
"You knew the name Brimir. Didn't you?"
Shitsubo's eyes flicked toward her. "Why ask what you already know?"
"Because I want to hear you say it."
He exhaled, slow. "Brimir was said to be the first blood spilled in battle. Some myths call him a father, others just a corpse. But the dwarves—" He tapped the rune-stone with his thumb. "—the dwarves worshipped his hollow. They believed it was where blood cooled and became metal. To them, it was proof that even death can be forged into something enduring."
Nare's lips parted. "Then maybe that's what the Hollow is. A place built from death, but still standing."
"Or a grave sealed so tight it has never been disturbed."
She looked away, jaw tight. "You sound like you want it to be real, even if you won't say it."
Shitsubo didn't answer. But in the dark, the stone throbbed warm against his palm, as though it, too, longed for the hollow it had been torn from.
---
The next day, they crossed a ridge where Aggressor patrols moved in the distance. Shitsubo led them into the shadows of the cliffs, his curse stretching like smoke to mask their presence.
But the whispers came. Not just from the stone, not just from his curse. From the survivors themselves. He caught fragments as they huddled close.
"Maybe the Hollow has food."
"Maybe it's lit with dwarven fire, unending."
"Maybe… maybe there are people still living there."
Every word was a prayer, and every prayer was another chain tightening around him.
He hated it.
But he let it happen.
Because he knew something they didn't: whether sanctuary or tomb, the Hollow of Brimir would not save them.
It would change them.
And that, perhaps, was the only truth worth walking toward.