Ash fell like snow from the bruised sky above the ruins of Caerth Hollow.
Seventeen-year-old Ruzon Altheryn crouched low beneath a broken archway, the hood of his cloak pulled tight against the cold wind. His breath came in short, even puffs, barely misting the air. His eyes—clear silver-gray, sharp as a honed blade—scanned the tree line beyond the road. He moved like a shadow, silent, trained by the Hollow Flame not just to survive but to vanish when needed.
The child had run this way. A girl no older than ten, barefoot and blood-smeared, with eyes like mirrored moons. She had screamed once, then disappeared into the trees.
Now everything was silent.
Too silent.
A whisper in the wind stirred the ash on the ground, forming faint, spiraling patterns in the dust—unmistakably unnatural. Ruzon's heart quickened. He reached for his blade, fingers brushing the cold steel hilt, and waited.
Then he heard it.
A voice, impossibly soft, drifting through the forest like smoke.
"Ruzon…"
His blood turned to ice.
It was his mother's voice.
He stood abruptly, sword half-drawn. "Who's there?" he demanded, voice tight with disbelief.
No answer came—only the low groan of branches shifting, and then, from the mist, the girl emerged.
She stumbled forward, eyes vacant, arms wrapped around herself. Her clothes were torn, and her feet were cut from running on stone. But it was her palm that caught his gaze.
A dark spiral, black as pitch, pulsed in the center of her hand. A Sorrowbrand.
He rushed forward, catching her before she collapsed. "What happened? Who gave you this?"
She blinked once—then her lips moved, and a voice not her own escaped.
> "It's waking."
Then she screamed.
And from the woods behind her, something moved.
A ripple of cold swept through the clearing—so sudden, so unnatural that the fireflies froze mid-air and the wind dropped dead.
Ruzon didn't wait. He scooped her into his arms, turned, and ran.