The voice came at dusk.
Not from the perimeter, nor the wall, but within the western rampart—where the heat traps met the slagstone foundation, and the first drake pens had once been housed. The area had since been cleared, sealed for reinforcement—but tonight, the sentries heard someone whispering from beneath the plates.
One word.
Over and over.
"Riku."
They came to him quietly, not sounding alarms.
Kael's boots didn't stir ash as he approached the forge tower, his brow slick not with sweat, but worry. "We locked that sector three moons ago," he said. "I counted the seals myself."
Riku set his tools down. "Who heard it?"
"Three of the inner sentries. One was Veit."
That gave him pause. "Did he recognize it?"
Kael didn't answer immediately. Then: "He said it was Maren."
Riku turned to face him fully.
Maren had died on Day 31, lungs ruptured from mist exposure during the second Blood Moon breach. No corpse had been recovered. Just her helmet, half-melted, bearing her family's carved sigil.
"No one else knew her voice," Riku said flatly.
Kael's gaze didn't flinch. "Veit said it didn't just sound like her. It used the same words she'd say when she was about to scold someone. The same breath pattern."
He was quiet a moment. Then: "You have to hear it yourself."
Riku followed him without another word.
They didn't alert the rest of the tribe. The fewer who came, the better. Word of the Hollow's influence was already spreading in subtle rumors—restless dreams, shadowed tools, root-vein sketches appearing in ash. The last thing they needed was fear given a shape.
The sealed western rampart was colder than expected. No thermal bleed leaked from the old heat traps. The air was dry, tinged with the faint scent of slag and ozone. The soldiers stood back as Riku approached the plating.
The whisper came again.
Soft. Too soft. But not imagined.
"Riku…"
He stood at the barrier's edge and didn't blink.
The voice shifted.
"You never rebuilt the wall, did you?" it asked. "Still trusting it'll hold."
His jaw clenched.
That tone. That weary, annoyed edge. That was Maren, through and through.
But it wasn't.
He knelt, touched the slag plate with his palm.
It was warm.
There were no roots here. No vents. No Hollow reach.
But something was listening.
And something wanted to be heard.
Sira arrived moments later, bow slung low. "Heard it on the way down," she said. "Sounded like it knew I was coming. Called me 'Red-Eye.' Only three people ever used that."
Ilven joined them last, unusually sober.
"It said my birth name," he muttered. "No one alive should know that."
They stood together in the low dark, ash drifting like snow through the broken tower vents above.
Riku made his choice.
"Seal this place again. No patrols. No posts. Set the alert glyphs to perimeter only. I want no one speaking of this."
Kael nodded. "And if the voice moves?"
Riku looked at the barrier one last time.
"If it moves, it'll make a mistake."
That night, sleep was a thin, brittle thing.
Riku stood alone in the forge again, holding one of the root-forged knives. It was perfect. Cold. Balanced. And in the steel's faint shimmer, for a heartbeat, he thought he saw her face.
Not a memory.
A mimic.
It didn't speak.
Didn't move.
But it watched.
He placed the knife down and stepped back.
Then walked out to the drake pens.
The eggs had not stirred. The vents were stable. But he found Veit standing outside the enclosure, head bowed.
"She's not gone," Veit said softly.
"Yes," Riku replied. "She is."
Veit turned, eyes red. "Then what's down there?"
He had no answer.
Instead, Riku stepped beside him, laid a hand on the iron-wood rail.
"Whatever it is," he said, "it thinks if it wears our skin and speaks our grief, it'll belong."
"And it's wrong?"
Riku nodded slowly. "It's not about looking like us. It's about losing like us. That's what it doesn't understand."
Behind them, the Hollow shifted.
Silent.
Listening.
Always listening.