The canal stank of old stone, algae, and secrets.
Veylen stood just beyond the crumbling balustrade, his boots whispering over lichen-stained steps as he descended toward the water's edge. The city loomed behind him like a sleeping beast, unaware of the mouth yawning open beneath its skin.
The Hollow wasn't marked on any map. It didn't need to be.
It remembered those who had come before.
He paused near the base of the old aqueduct, where the current slowed to a crawl. There, set into the ancient canal wall, was a stone face—weathered, leering, silent. No eyes. No nose. Just a gaping maw where a mouth should be, large enough to crawl through if one lacked both dignity and better options.
But first—guardians.
He smelled them before he saw them. Two vampires, lean and tall, flanked the mouth with bored menace. Their eyes glowed faintly red beneath thick brows. The third figure—a werewolf—paced nearby on heavy limbs, sniffing the air like a hound scenting prophecy.
"Three," Veylen murmured to the wind. "Cute."
His two undead flanked him like loyal shadows. Veiled in illusion, their corpses wore glamours of flesh and breath, but death clung to them in ways only magic could ignore.
The werewolf turned first, growling low.
"Evening," Veylen said pleasantly.
"You're trespassing," one vampire snapped, voice flat with authority it didn't truly own.
"I'm investigating." He took another step forward. "Big difference."
"No one gets through the Hollow without the Choir's blessing."
"Then consider me a choirboy," Veylen replied, baring a wry grin. "Out of tune, but enthusiastic."
The werewolf lunged.
Veylen sidestepped with fluid ease, dragging a fingertip across his palm in one swift motion. Blood welled up, shimmered red-gold, and then vanished into the air like ink into water.
His undead surged forward—silent, brutal. One caught the lunging beast mid-leap, hurling it into the canal wall with enough force to leave a dent. The other parried the first vampire's claws with bone-reinforced arms, its own teeth bared in a mockery of life.
The second vampire—faster—closed the distance between itself and Veylen in a blink. But the Bloodkeeper was already moving.
He twisted his body low, summoned blood from his sliced palm, and slashed it through the air in a tight arc. It solidified mid-motion into a blade of crimson pressure—razor-fine and burning hot.
The vamp shrieked as the edge sliced through its thigh, severing muscle and bone in a spray of ash and ichor.
"Amateur," Veylen muttered, ducking behind his undead as it finished the job—snapping the creature's neck with a single bone-hardened twist.
The werewolf roared back into the fray, bloodied but livid, eyes wide with something between fury and pain. Veylen met it head-on this time, dancing under its claws with a grace too sharp for someone living. He reached out—just a tap on its temple with his blood-coated finger.
"Shh," he whispered.
The creature froze mid-lunge.
Blood magic flared. Its limbs seized. The wolf's eyes rolled white as it toppled to the ground, locked in a paralysis not of muscle, but of blood.
"You'll thank me later," he muttered.
He knelt beside the unconscious forms—one vampire still twitching, the werewolf barely breathing—and pressed a finger to each one's neck. From his fingertip, a droplet of blood seeped into their skin—small, subtle, invisible to the naked eye.
A mark.
Not enough to control. But enough to track. To hear. To learn.
He stood again, brushing his hands clean.
"Into the mouth," he commanded, and his undead obeyed—one stepping ahead, the other falling behind.
The mouth in stone yawned wider, stone parting with an ancient groan as if the Hollow itself were exhaling in recognition.
The chamber beyond was vast—circular, carved deep into the stone like the belly of a forgotten cathedral. Faint red sigils glowed across the walls—alive, pulsing with slow rhythm. Choir magic. The blood in the air was thick, sweet, half-sung.
Sylith waited near the center, dressed in black silk that shimmered like venom. Her hair coiled down her back like a living shadow, and her eyes were smiling before her lips ever moved.
"Graveblood," she purred.
Veylen stepped forward, eyes glinting with that familiar disdain.
"You've come," she said. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd disappoint me."
"Well, I'd hate to disappoint a woman such as yourself… Now would that be human woman or…?"
She tilted her head. "What else would I be?"
"I've been trying to figure that out actually…" Veylen smirked, "Feel free to come out anytime."
Silence fell as she narrowed her eyes.
She stepped closer, circling him, slowly—like a blade dancing around a throat.
"You know, I heard things. That you'd been digging where you shouldn't. That you've been sniffing after secrets not meant for you. And yet here you are." She reached out to brush his cheek.
"Where else would I be darling?"
"Still so arrogant."
Then, without warning she struck.
One flash of fang, one surge of motion—her claws raked into his side and she bit deep into his neck, fangs drinking greedily—
Then paused.
Her expression changed.
Confusion.
Then—
Rage.
"What—what are you—"
Veylen fell lifeless and slack, glamour fading to reveal a lifeless corpse.
Then its head lifted toward her, and its mouth opened—and Veylen's voice issued out, crisp, taunting, echoing across the chamber like a curse. "Bad taste, isn't it?"
Sylith spun, already snarling.
The true Veylen stood in the archway, relaxed, elegant, one hand glowing with blood-fire and the other tucked behind his back.
"Next time," he said, "try the vintage." He laughed.
From the shadows behind her, out of a nearby tunnel, figures moved—fast, silent, armed.
She stared at him with pure condescension and sneered, "Pretty trick, but I'd prefer to dance with a REAL man."
Veylen jumped down, landing mere meters away, and cracked smiled. "Let's dance, then."
And the Hollow screamed.
The moment fractured with the sound of steel kissing air.
Sylith moved first— charging at him fast, sinuous. Her finely manicured nails morphed into claws gleaming like carved obsidian in the dim Hollow light. She came low, then upward in a fluid arc, her body pirouetting with inhuman grace. Veylen met her head-on, his coat flaring like smoke, one hand sweeping her strike aside as if warding off a breeze.
She was exquisite.
Every motion a line of poetry written in blood and threat.
"Still smiling?" she hissed as their limbs broke apart, danced again, reconnected.
"Shouldn't I be?" Veylen's voice was velvet. "You're giving me quite the warm-up."
She lunged again, feinting left, then twisting mid-air. Her foot came around in a brutal crescent kick, claws meant to rip—not slash. Veylen dipped just beneath it, one hand brushing the stone floor for balance before catching her wrist on her next strike and twisting it just so.
She rolled with the motion, a flare of magic shielding her from the snap of his counter. Their shadows blurred against the cracked walls as they moved—a symphony of threat and precision.
"Still holding back," she said, breathless but laughing now.
"You noticed." He let her break the lock and step away, his smirk shaded with something darker. "Didn't want to ruin the mood."
Sylith's eyes narrowed, something sharp glinting behind them.
Then, with one smooth motion, she drew a weapon from the crimson sash at her hip—a slender dagger, curved like a serpent fang, glowing faintly red.
"I was hoping you'd make this fun," she said, eyes glowing with mirth and menace.
Their blades met—his blood-tempered knife flashing to parry hers. Sparks danced between them. Her strikes came faster now, punctuated with clawed jabs and cuts, but Veylen kept the tempo, weaving through each flourish with infuriating ease. He struck once, twice—nothing lethal, just enough to test her reflexes, to provoke.
She growled.
Behind them, chaos unfurled.
Figures swarmed from the tunnel mouth—quick, masked, and unknown. Not Red Choir. Not Veylen's. A third presence, violent and unsignaled.
Sylith turned mid-swing, assessing.
Veylen pivoted, instinct flaring.
Her Red Choir acolytes shrieked warnings and clashed with the sudden invaders, blades and blood lighting the Hollow in bursts of terrible clarity. Veylen's two undead servants—previously veiled in the shadows—leapt into the fray with bone-piercing strength, their blades carving through the frenzied dark.
Sylith's lips curled in frustration.
"This isn't my party," she muttered. "Nor yours, I think."
"Not unless they're uninvited admirers," Veylen replied, dodging a wild projectile and slashing its caster's wrist.
She hissed an order in a tongue older than city stone.
Her Choir obeyed instantly—retreating in practiced formation. Then she turned, locking eyes with Veylen one last time. "Until next time, Blood Keeper."
"Don't be a stranger," he called.
She gave a half-smile—and vanished.
Not fled. Dissolved.
A whisper of crimson fog curled where she'd been.
Veylen didn't linger.
A jagged blade swung toward him from one of the masked attackers—narrowly missing his throat. He turned just in time to land a flat palm strike that crushed the foe's sternum with unnatural strength. Another surged from the flank—feral and armored.
Veylen ducked, boots skimming dust, then sidestepped with an elegant spin. "No introductions?"
His undead covered his retreat, blades and fists lashing out in a flurry of deathless resistance. But even as they pressed the new threat back, Veylen felt the itch of caution crawling up his spine.
Too many unknowns.
Too many masked.
Too much blood in the wrong hands.
He reached down—pressed his palm to the cracked floor.
And called.
The Hollow trembled.
The dead beneath the stone stirred.
A gout of dust erupted from the earth as skeletal limbs clawed their way free, their ragged forms flaring with red sigils of control. The attackers flinched—some fleeing, others panicking as the dead closed in.
Veylen stood amidst the haze, eyes catching a single flash of movement.
A cloak—tattered, dark, and marked with something odd. He couldn't read it through the swirling air, but he knew it wasn't Choir-made.
He memorized it.
That would matter later.
One final mark—his blood flicked subtly onto the unconscious form of a surviving attacker. It vanished instantly into skin, the sigil buried beneath flesh and secrecy.
Now I'll hear what you hear.
With a final gesture, Veylen turned, his undead flanking him once more.
The Hollow screamed behind them as the dead sang their way through the chaos.
But Veylen was already gone—shadow-bound, silent, and smiling darkly.