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Chapter 11 - The Hollows Claim

Corin walked alone.

The forest didn't whisper—it echoed. Every step stirred a voice.

"Monster.""Run.""He's not ours."

Then softer ones.

"He was just a boy.""I saw him cry.""I should've said something."

The Hollow didn't forget. It held every word like a wound.

He reached the clearing.

The altar stood crooked, veined with sap that pulsed like blood. Moss curled around its base, and the air felt thick—like breath held too long.

Corin knelt.

He placed a stone on the altar. Not just any stone. The one they'd tied to his wrist when they cast him out. Still stained. Still heavy.

"I remember," he said.

The forest stirred.

Branches bent. Roots shifted. The altar cracked wider.

And from the split, light poured—not warm, not cold, but ancient. It wrapped around Corin's chest, his throat, his hands.

He didn't scream.

He didn't speak.

He just changed.

The forest didn't ask. It chose.

Maer found him at dawn.

He stood beneath the bent trees, eyes pale gold, antlers shadowed behind him—not grown, but mirrored in the light.

"You're the Hollow's now," she said.

Corin nodded. "I didn't fight it."

She touched his shoulder. "Then you're its guardian."

The wind shifted.

A figure approached.

A villager. One of the elders.

He carried a torch. Not for light. For defense.

"I came to speak," the elder said.

Corin didn't move.

"You cast me out," he said. "Now you want words."

The elder hesitated. "We were wrong."

Corin's voice was quiet. "You were cruel."

The elder lowered the torch. "Then choose. Justice or mercy."

Corin looked at Maer.

She didn't answer.

The forest didn't speak.

Only the altar pulsed.

Corin stepped forward.

"I choose," he said.

And the Hollow listened.

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