The village of Hollowreach sat at the very edge of the map, where old kingdoms ended and the Hollow Realms began. People didn't speak of what lay beyond the mist-drenched forest—only that no one returned the same.
And Serelith… was a stranger even here.
She'd lived in Hollowreach for nearly two years, taken in by the old apothecary woman who claimed to have found her wandering the edge of the woods, bruised and near-mute, blood on her hands and no memory in her head.
They called her Serelith because that was the name stitched in fading thread inside the hem of her cloak.
She never corrected them.
What else could she say?
She didn't remember where she came from. She only knew she dreamed of halls made of shadow and song, of a crown that felt both hers and foreign. And every night, the same whisper—
> "Wake up."
She never told anyone.
Not the old woman, Maeren, who brewed tea and read bones with hands shaking from age. Not the children who stared at her with wide eyes and muttered when they thought she couldn't hear.
And certainly not the tall figure who arrived that day in a coat of midnight green, hood drawn low, carrying news from the northern roads.
He entered Maeren's shop just before dusk, the bell above the door barely ringing.
Serelith glanced up from grinding dry root to powder, her hands steady.
The man paused as he saw her. Something flickered in his stance—a tightness, a recognition.
She stiffened.
"Can I help you?" Maeren asked from behind her curtain of beads.
"I'm looking for someone," the man said. His voice was rich and smooth, but coiled tight beneath the surface. "A girl. Dark hair. Silver eyes. Quiet. Some say she comes here often."
Maeren chuckled. "You've just described half the mountain's ghosts. What's her name?"
He hesitated.
"I don't know what she calls herself now," he said. "But she used to be Serelith of the Hollow Courts."
The mortar slipped in Serelith's hand. Crushed root scattered across the counter.
She stared at the man—his face still shadowed, but the weight of his presence unmistakable.
He knew her.
Something deep inside her stirred, not fear—recognition.
Maeren narrowed her eyes. "Well, you've come to the wrong place. No noble blood in Hollowreach. Just mud and salt."
The man's gaze didn't move from Serelith. "I'm not here to harm her. I just need to know she's still alive."
Serelith found her voice.
"I don't know you," she said.
But it wasn't true.
And she knew he could hear the lie.
He bowed his head slightly, not in apology—but in farewell.
"Then forgive me," he said. "I'll be on my way."
He turned and left.
But as the bell rang again and the door swung closed, Serelith finally remembered his name.
It surfaced like a flame in the dark.
Faelan.