The woods thickened the deeper Callum walked, like the trees themselves were leaning in to study him. Fog pooled low along the ground, swirling around his ankles like curious fingers. Every step made the air feel heavier, colder, and not quite real. The charm Mora had given him pulsed faintly in his pocket, but it did little to calm the growing sense of being watched.
The map she left him was crudely drawn—just landmarks etched in charcoal on parchment that smelled faintly of old blood and pine. But there it was, near the center of the forest: Rooke Manor, circled in black ink and labeled with a single word: Vault.
He should've turned back.
Instead, he pressed on.
By the time the manor came into view, the sky had dimmed to a twilight gray. The building was colossal, half-swallowed by nature and rot. Ivy strangled its stone walls, and parts of the roof had caved in. The windows, tall and narrow, were blacked out by either filth or something more deliberate. At the very top, the tallest tower leaned at a crooked angle, like it was bowing to the forest.
The iron gates hung open.
They hadn't rusted off. They had been torn off.
Callum's breath hitched as he crossed the threshold. A surge of cold air swept through the yard, carrying the scent of mildew, wet earth, and... something dead.
As he stepped onto the front porch, the air pressure shifted. It wasn't just cold—it was wrong. Like the space he entered didn't quite match the world outside. His fingers brushed the door, and it groaned open on its own.
The Hollow welcomed him.
The entrance hall was massive, and dust lay thick across the floor like ash. Cobwebs draped from broken chandeliers, and portraits hung crooked on the walls—most too decayed to recognize, though a few still had visible names scrawled on brass plates beneath the frames.
AURELIUS ROOKE, 1792-1845.
PRISCILLA ROOKE, 1801-1873.
ELARIA ROOKE, 1986-2009.
His mother.
The last portrait had been slashed across the face.
A gust of wind rushed through the hallway, though none of the windows were open. Something above shifted—a soft creak, like footsteps across ancient floorboards.
Callum gripped the knife Mora had given him.
He kept to the edges, careful not to disturb the dust too loudly. The map had marked a stairwell at the back, leading to the west wing where the Vault supposedly lay.
But as he passed an old mirror mounted on the wall, he caught movement—behind him.
He spun, heart leaping.
Nothing.
Just the hall. Silent. Still.
But when he turned back to the mirror, his reflection was still turning.
He froze.
His reflection stared back at him, eyes hollow and skin gray. A jagged rune glowed faintly across its throat.
Then it smiled.
The mirror cracked.
Callum stumbled backward, blade drawn, but nothing emerged. The reflection was gone.
He kept moving.
The manor shifted as he walked. Doors appeared where there had been none. Walls seemed closer than before. Time stretched and twisted, and by the time he found the western stairwell, he couldn't be sure how long he'd been inside.
The stairs were narrow, lined with decaying red carpet, and as he descended, the temperature dropped. Faint whispers echoed along the stone—too many voices to distinguish, but all whispering the same word:
Heir. Heir. Heir.
At the base of the stairs, the air shimmered. A door stood before him, made of blackened wood and sealed with a rusted iron ring.
On the door, carved deep:
Only the Blood May Enter.
Callum hesitated, then reached into his pocket, pulling out a shard of glass from the cracked mirror upstairs.
With one sharp breath, he sliced a line across his palm.
The blood dripped onto the door.
The runes carved into the wood flared red.
The lock clicked.
The door opened.
The Vault was unlike any room above. It was circular, with walls of polished obsidian and veins of green energy pulsing like a heartbeat. Candles lit themselves as he stepped inside, casting flickering shadows across the strange runes etched into the floor.
In the center, atop a stone pedestal, sat a book.
Leather-bound, chained, and bound shut with silver wire.
As he stepped closer, the book trembled.
Then a voice rasped behind him:
"You should not be here."
Callum spun.
A figure emerged from the shadows—tall, hunched, and wearing a robe that seemed woven from torn flesh and stitched eyes. Its face was hidden by a mask of bone. In one hand, it held a long staff made from a twisted branch covered in runes.
The figure sniffed the air. "You carry the blood, but you are not yet whole."
"Who are you?" Callum asked, knife trembling in his hand.
"I am the Vault's Warden. I am what remains of the oath." It raised the staff, and the runes on the floor glowed.
"You must prove you are worthy. Or the Hollow will claim you."
Callum stood tall. "I drank the blood. I survived the visions. I've come for the truth."
The Warden's voice softened—barely. "Then face it."
It raised its hand.
The runes flared—and Callum's mind fractured.
He saw a battlefield.
Rooke Manor burning.
Creatures with faces like broken dolls and wings made of knives, crawling over the walls.
A man with his face, standing in the flames, screaming as the world died around him.
Then he was yanked back, gasping.
The Warden loomed over him.
"You saw the future," it said. "One path. Not the only one."
Callum staggered to his feet. "What do I have to do?"
"Accept the Hollow's gift," the Warden said, gesturing to the chained book. "And its burden."
Callum stepped forward.
As his hand touched the book, the chains unwrapped themselves like serpents retreating into the stone. The moment his fingers grazed the cover, heat surged into his veins. The runes on his arms returned, glowing brightly.
The book opened on its own.
And Callum read.
He read about the Rookes' covenant with the Hollow.
About the monsters they imprisoned—the Hollowborn, the Pale Ones, the Devourers of Time.
He read of the Sealing, and of the Betrayal.
He read about the False Heir—a boy born from corrupted blood, who would try to claim the Hollow's power for himself.
And most terrifying of all, he read this prophecy, burned into the final page:
"When the Hollow's true heir returns, the seals shall break. Blood shall burn. And only one may rise where the forests fall—Heir or Horror."
Callum stepped back, breath heavy.
Then the Warden turned to him, its mask tilting.
"You've seen what's coming. Now decide."
Callum looked down at the open book, and then up at the Vault.
The choice was gone.
It had already been made the moment he was born.
"I'll stop it," he said. "I'll stop the Hollowborn. I'll finish what my family started."
The Warden stepped aside, letting him pass.
"Then beware," it whispered. "The False Heir walks already. And he wears your face."