There was no air.
No sky, no ground, no horizon—only the sensation of falling through a void made of ink and frost. Callum's scream died before it even left his throat. The light from the tree had torn him from the world like a page ripped out of a book, and now he tumbled through a place that obeyed no rules.
Then, without warning, he landed.
But not with a crash.
One moment he was falling, the next he was standing upright in a circular chamber made entirely of stone and root. The walls pulsed faintly with veins of green light, like the walls were breathing. The air smelled of wet earth, rot, and something older—like forgotten magic.
He staggered forward, heart thundering in his chest. The room was quiet, but not silent. There was a low hum, like whispers spoken just below the range of hearing.
The tree.
He was inside the tree.
Somehow, impossibly, the Hollow had opened. And it had let him in.
A stone path spiraled outward from the center of the room, bordered by a black moss that seemed to twitch at his steps. In the center was a pedestal, upon which sat a silver bowl filled with still water. Above it, suspended in midair, was a single drop of blood.
His own.
He didn't know how he knew that—it just was.
A soft voice echoed from behind him.
"Blood binds, blood opens. But blood remembers most of all."
Callum turned.
The woman in the green cloak stood there again—closer this time. Her hood was down, revealing high cheekbones, ash-blonde hair braided with feathers, and those same pitch-black eyes that seemed to drink in the light.
"Where... where am I?" Callum asked.
"In the Hollow," she replied. "But only part of it. You are beneath the roots. Between life and the memory of it."
"Who are you?" His voice came out hoarse.
"My name was Elen Rooke. Your mother's sister. Your aunt." She stepped closer. "Before the Hollow consumed her, she bound her last breath to this place—to keep it hidden. To keep you hidden."
"That doesn't make sense," Callum said. "She died when I was three. There was no one. They told me there was nothing left."
"They lied," Elen said coldly. "As they always do. The Hollow is a place of power, but it is also a prison. What happened to Elaria wasn't death. It was sacrifice."
Callum's hands balled into fists. "Then why was I left out there? In foster homes? Treated like a ghost no one wanted to remember?"
"Because if they found you, they would've killed you too."
The room grew colder. The lights in the walls dimmed as if reacting to her words.
Callum took a step back. "Who? Who would want me dead?"
"The Hollow's enemies. The Hollow's guardians. Sometimes, they are the same," she said with a sad smile. "This world is ruled not by kings or governments, but by old bloodlines. Yours is one of them. And you... you are the last Rooke."
She raised a hand and gestured toward the bowl. "Look. See for yourself."
Callum hesitated, then approached the pedestal. The silver bowl shimmered with an otherworldly sheen. He leaned over it.
The surface rippled.
Then changed.
Images bloomed like ink in water.
A woman with long dark hair cradling a baby wrapped in crimson cloth.
A stone altar soaked in blood.
A cloaked man whispering over a dying fire.
Screams. Wolves. A symbol carved into flesh.
Then the vision shifted again—to a grand house crumbling under vines and rot, its windows shattered, its gates chained.
At its entrance: the same sigil from the letter—three rings, surrounded by thorns.
"The Hollow's heart," Elen said behind him. "The ancestral home of the Rookes. Buried in the forest. Sealed by blood. Guarded by memory."
Callum's voice was barely a whisper. "Why show me this now?"
"Because the seals are breaking," she said. "You're being hunted, Callum. They will come for you, just as they came for her."
A cold dread settled in his stomach. "Who are they?"
Elen tilted her head. "The Hollowborn. The Cursed Kin. The Pale Clerics. They go by many names. But you'll know them by their eyes. Hollow as the grave. Hungrier than death."
A rumble shook the chamber. Faint at first, then louder—like footsteps.
Elen's eyes snapped upward. "Too soon," she hissed. "They've breached the threshold."
She turned to him, her face grim.
"I can't hold this place much longer. When you wake, you must go to the manor. Find the Vault beneath the west wing. There, your true inheritance lies."
Callum blinked. "Wait—what inheritance?"
But her voice was already growing distant, fading with the pulsing lights around them.
"The blood remembers. But so do the monsters."
The stone floor vanished beneath his feet.
He fell—again.
When Callum woke, he was lying in the grass.
The sky above was overcast, and morning birdsong filled the air again. The Hollow tree stood behind him, tall and unmoving, bark cold to the touch.
He sat up with a groan. His clothes were damp with dew, but there was no mud. No signs of the figures in the woods. No sign of the woman.
He could've believed it was a dream.
Except for the silver pendant now hanging from his neck—the same one Elen had shown him. The same one that once belonged to his mother.
He clutched it, breath ragged.
Then something rustled behind him.
He turned.
A man stood there—mid-thirties, sharp suit, and a smile like a knife. His eyes were pale. Too pale.
"You're a hard one to track down," the man said cheerfully. "Your mother was faster. But not faster enough."
Callum took a step back. "Who are you?"
The man took a step forward. "A friend of the family. Though not yours."
A cold pressure filled the air. The man's shadow began to stretch—too long, too alive. It moved on its own, coiling across the grass like a serpent.
Callum turned and ran.
But the forest was different now—twisted, gnarled trees blocking paths that weren't there before.
Branches clawed at his arms and face. Roots tried to trip him. Behind him, he heard the man laughing.
"You can't outrun blood, boy! Not in the Hollow!"
He didn't know how long he ran—minutes, hours, days. But finally, he burst out of the tree line and collapsed on the shoulder of an old country road.
A truck horn blared.
The world spun, then went dark again.
When Callum opened his eyes, he was in a cabin. Warm. Safe—for now. The scent of herbal tea hung in the air. A fireplace crackled nearby.
A woman sat across from him—mid-forties, red dreadlocks, leather coat, and eyes that looked like they'd seen too much.
"You're awake," she said. "Good. I was starting to think the Hollow swallowed you whole."
"Where am I?" Callum croaked.
She handed him a steaming mug. "My name's Mora. I knew your mother. And your aunt."
"You knew Elen?"
Mora's eyes hardened. "Then she's still talking to you."
Callum looked down at the pendant.
"Everything's gone mad," he whispered. "Why me?"
Mora took a long sip of tea. Then she leaned in close.
"Because, Callum Rooke... you're not just the heir to the Hollow."
She set down her cup, her expression deadly serious.
"You're its last line of defense."