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The hollow pulses again, faint but insistent, as you sit against the cold concrete of the underground chamber. Your hands rest lightly on your knees, but every nerve is coiled tight, ready to spring. Outside, the wind rattles the walls, carrying a sound you can't quite place — a whisper of movement, distant yet deliberate.
Azael is across the room, sharpening his blade with mechanical precision. The steel glints in the dim light, each scrape sending sparks into the shadows. You watch him, studying his movements, memorizing the rhythm. He doesn't glance at you. He doesn't need to. You know he's aware of every vibration in the room, every sound, every subtle shift in the air.
"They'll come," you whisper, almost to yourself.
"They will," Azael replies without looking up. His voice is calm, controlled, but there's tension coiled beneath it like a drawn bowstring. "It's only a matter of when. And they'll strike when we least expect it."
You close your eyes for a moment, feeling the hollow thrum beneath your skin. Its pulse is steady but impatient, like it knows what's coming before you do. You draw a slow breath, forcing your body to match the rhythm, forcing yourself to wait.
Hours pass. Or at least, that's how it feels. You've lost all sense of time. Every creak of the building, every distant whisper of wind, sends your heart hammering in your chest. You move carefully through the chamber, checking barricades, scanning shadows, testing lines of sight. Every corner could hide a strike. Every shadow could conceal a Thing.
Azael calls you over. You step toward him, careful not to make a sound. He points to a section of wall near the stairwell. "Notice that?"
You frown. "What?"
"Pressure," he says. "Subtle. Almost imperceptible if you weren't trained. But it's there. Something brushing against the structure from the outside."
The hollow in your chest reacts instantly, flaring faintly. You feel it brush against the walls, trying to sense the disturbance. "So they're close," you murmur.
"Yes," Azael says. "And they're watching. Every second we hesitate, every second we move without purpose, gives them data."
You nod. The weight of it presses into your chest. You pace slowly, testing angles, checking every blind spot. The hollow hums under your skin, restless, waiting.
"They've learned from the last strike," Azael adds, his voice low. "They'll be more cautious this time. More precise."
A shiver runs down your spine. You feel it too — the building itself seems to lean closer, as if aware of the impending danger. The shadows stretch, the cold settles deeper into your bones, and the hollow coils tighter beneath your skin, responding to the pressure.
You glance at Azael. "Do you think Kaelthyr is behind this? Watching directly?"
He hesitates, then shakes his head slightly. "Not directly. Not yet. But he's close. Always close. The Things learn fast. They adapt. And he will use them to test us, weaken us, wear us down."
Your stomach tightens. "So we just… wait?"
"Not wait," he says sharply. "Prepare. Observe. React. Every movement counts. Every decision matters. Hesitate, and you lose. Act too quickly, and you make a mistake. Either way, it will cost you."
You nod again, swallowing hard. The hollow pulses stronger, almost painfully, in response to the tension. You feel it brush against the edges of the chamber, pushing against the concrete, sensing the slightest imperfection.
Hours—or maybe minutes—later, you hear it. Not a sound exactly. More a vibration in the air, subtle but insistent. The hollow flares sharply, reacting instantly.
"They're moving," you whisper.
Azael's blade is already in his hand. He doesn't even glance at you. "Stay ready," he says. "Don't move until I signal. Observe first."
You freeze, muscles coiled, every sense stretched tight. You feel the pressure building, the hollow reacting to something beyond your sight. Then, from the shadows at the far end of the chamber, movement.
Small at first. Subtle. Almost… patient.
You hold your breath. The hollow surges faintly, thrumming in warning. It's a whisper of energy, almost a premonition. The first figure emerges from the darkness. Its shape is wrong — elongated, limbs moving faster than they should. You flare the hollow instinctively, light spilling from your skin in a sharp, controlled arc. The Thing falters, recoiling.
"Now!" Azael shouts.
You lunge forward, striking with the hollow. Energy lashes out, slamming into the figure. It screams — or something like a scream — and collapses, dissolving into shadows.
But more appear instantly. Three, then five, then a wave you can barely comprehend. They move with coordination, fluid, precise, relentless. You spin, blast light, duck, strike, roll. Each motion flows into the hollow, each pulse amplifying your reactions.
Azael meets them head-on. Steel flashes, clashing with shadow. Sparks fly, concrete cracks. The hollow surges around you, feeding your instincts, lending power to every strike. You move almost automatically, your mind focused on nothing but survival and precision.
The larger figure appears again, stepping from the far shadows. Its presence presses against the hollow like a weight. The other Things hesitate, giving it space.
"This is it," you murmur.
Azael nods. "Don't let it break you."
The figure lunges. Faster than any before. You meet its strike head-on, hollow flaring violently. The impact shakes the chamber, sending dust and debris into the air. Sparks fly from the metal surrounding you, walls cracking, machinery groaning.
You push harder, striking again and again, the hollow coiling, feeding on your fear, your adrenaline, your focus. The figure falters but doesn't fall. It's stronger, sharper, more refined.
You grit your teeth. "We end this now."
Azael joins your side. Together, you strike in unison, hollow and blade moving in perfect synchronization. Energy explodes outward, forcing the figure back.
It screams — a sound that rips through the room, unnatural, painful — and collapses. The remaining Things dissolve, retreating into shadows, leaving the chamber empty.
Silence falls, heavy and suffocating.
You collapse to the floor, muscles trembling, hollow dimming but still present, restless. Azael leans against a crate, breathing hard, eyes scanning for any remaining threats.
"For now," he says, voice low. "But Kaelthyr will learn. He will adapt. And the next strike will be worse."
You feel the hollow pulse in your chest, alive, hungry, restless. You know he's right. This isn't over. It's just another wave.
Outside, the wind rattles the walls. Shadows stretch, shift, and deepen. Somewhere, far away, Kaelthyr watches. And somewhere, beyond your perception, the next move is already being planned.
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