The mask was heavier than it looked.
Lyra held it with both hands, feeling the chill soak into her palms. Its surface was etched with symbols she didn't recognize—older than the Vale rites, older even than the Hollow itself, perhaps.
Elias lit another lantern and stepped closer to the shelves. "There are names here," he said, brushing dust from a stone tablet. "Carved into the walls. I think this was a burial site… not for bodies, but for memories."
Lyra turned the mask over. A single rune glowed faintly at its center.
It didn't say Elira.
It said "Velan."
"Who was he?" she asked.
Elias's face darkened. "One of the first."
---
They took the mask back to the library. Lyra placed it on the hearthstone, where the morning light could touch it.
"Why would the Hollow keep this buried?" she asked aloud. "Why protect it like a relic, but hide it like a curse?"
Elias paced. "What if he was bound to the Hollow—like Elira—but didn't merge?"
"What if he refused?" Lyra added.
Outside, the sky was clouding. A storm built behind the hills. The house groaned as if sensing it.
Lyra looked toward the cellar. "There's more down there."
---
That night, the dreams changed.
No longer Elira's memories—but another's.
Velan's voice filled her head like a low wind: She is not the last. The Hollow remembers all its children.
She awoke with a start. Her skin was cold, her breath sharp.
The mask was gone from the fireplace.
And the cellar door was open again.