The fog over Veyle's outskirts was thick as a shroud, curling through gnarled trees that clawed at the dawn's pale light. Elara Wren crouched behind a twisted oak, her breath shallow, her hands gripping Seraphine's journal, its pages damp from the mist. The requiem's wail from last night's encounter in the square—and the archive's hidden passage—still rang in her ears, a chilling cry that had followed the Wraith's red-eyed shadow. Her silver crescent pendant hung heavy, its warmth flickering like a nervous pulse, the journal's warning sharp in her mind: The veiled sorceress binds the vessel's fate. Widow Maren's words in the archive—The order cursed your bloodline—weighed heavier still, tying her to the Wraith, to Lady Seraphine Veyle, to a truth she feared to face.
Torin Hale knelt beside her, his blacksmith's frame tense, his hammer clutched tight, its iron glinting in the fog. His scar—a jagged burn across his cheek—stood out against his pale skin, his gray eyes scanning the hollow ahead, a sunken clearing ringed by stones etched with faint, red-glowing marks. "This place ain't right," he whispered, his voice rough, edged with fear. "That passage led here, Elara. We should've stayed in the village." His hand brushed hers, a fleeting anchor, but his doubt stung. Elara's throat tightened—she trusted Torin, but the journal's map, pointing to this hollow, was a fire in her chest. "We're here for Joren," she said, her voice low but firm. "And for my mother."
Lira lingered behind, her blonde curls sodden, her blue eyes wide with fading faith. She clutched Seraphine's herb vial, her hands shaking, her voice barely audible. "Lady Veyle wouldn't lead us to danger," she said, but her words lacked conviction, her guilt over Joren's loss cracking her trust. Torin's jaw clenched, his voice sharp. "She's no savior, Lira. That thing in the square was hers." Elara's stomach knotted—Lira's loyalty to Seraphine's charity clashed with the journal's accusation, and her own doubt gnawed. Seraphine's shield against the Wraith, her trembling hands—was it protection, or a lie?
The hollow's stones hummed, their red marks glowing brighter, and Elara's pendant flared, its heat prickling her skin. The journal's map marked this place as The Hollow's Edge, a site tied to the order's curse, where her mother had once stood. She opened the journal, her fingers trembling, finding a new page—a sketch of a stone circle, labeled The Vessel's Trial. Her face stared back, etched in ink, and her breath caught. "This is about me," she whispered, her voice raw, her heart racing. The order's curse, Maren had said, marked her blood for the Wraith. Was she its vessel, or its prey?
A twig snapped, and Seraphine Veyle stepped into the hollow, her raven-black hair loose, her velvet gown a shadow against the fog. Her silver eyes glinted, sharp and unreadable, her hands steady but pale, like she'd fought to keep them still. "You're fools to come here," she said, her voice smooth but brittle, like ice about to crack. Her gaze locked on Elara, then the journal, and her lips tightened, a flicker of something—fear?—crossing her face. Elara stood, her voice shaking but bold. "What is this place, Seraphine? The journal calls me the vessel. What do you know?"
Seraphine's laugh was sharp, a sound that cut through the fog, but her hands twitched, betraying her overconfidence. "You think you can unravel centuries in a night?" she said, her voice low, her silver eyes storming with emotion. "The hollow is no place for you." Her words were cold, but her gaze lingered on Elara's pendant, raw with something unspoken. Torin gripped his hammer, his voice a growl. "Enough games. Where's Joren?" Lira stepped forward, her voice trembling. "She's not the enemy, Torin. She's helped us!" But her eyes wavered, her faith crumbling under Seraphine's silence.
The stones' hum grew louder, the fog swirling, and the requiem's wail rose, a low cry from the hollow's center. Elara's pendant burned, its light casting shadows that danced like specters, and a shape moved in the mist—a formless void with red eyes, the Wraith. Its presence pressed against her chest, a hunger she felt in her bones. Seraphine's hands flared with dark energy, a shield crackling around the hollow, but her face was tight, her breath uneven. "Stay back!" she hissed, her voice breaking, her magic trembling like her hands. The Wraith's eyes fixed on Elara, not Seraphine, and her paranoia surged—why her?
Torin swung his hammer at a stone, its runes shattering, and the wail sharpened, the fog thickening. "What's it want?" he shouted, his voice raw, his eyes wild. Seraphine's shield faltered, her silver eyes wide with panic. "You're calling it!" she snapped at Elara, her paranoia flaring, but her voice cracked, raw with desperation. Elara's heart pounded, the journal's sketch heavy in her mind. "Why me?" she demanded, stepping closer, her voice fierce despite her fear. Seraphine's face twisted, a flash of guilt before her mask returned. "You don't understand the cost," she whispered, her hands shaking, her magic fading.
A stone in the circle cracked, revealing a buried relic—a silver ring, etched with Mira, its metal worn like a grieving touch. Elara's breath caught—her mother had whispered that name, tied to the order's betrayal. "Who's Mira?" she asked, her voice raw, holding the ring. Seraphine froze, her face crumpling, a wound laid bare. "Don't," she said, her voice a broken plea, her hands clawing at the air. The Wraith's void swelled, its wail a scream, and the hollow shook, earth splitting beneath them. Elara's pendant dimmed, the fog closing in, and Seraphine's magic collapsed, her eyes locked on Elara. Was she shielding her, or had the Wraith's requiem called them both to ruin?