Lyra moved through the dark halls barefoot, the floorboards warm beneath her feet. The air was thick, humming with that strange low sound—like a breath held too long. The cellar door stood wide open, the lantern Elias had left now flickering at the top of the stairs.
She called his name once.
No answer.
She took the dagger from the mantle and stepped down into the Hollow's roots.
---
The cellar was colder than before. The soil patch had been disturbed—dug up by hands that moved too carefully to be animal, too clumsy to be ghost. The shelves had been rearranged. The mask was back in the circle, half-buried again, but upright this time. Watching.
She heard something behind her.
"Elias?"
Silence.
She turned slowly, the dagger raised.
Nothing.
Just the quiet curve of the cellar walls. Just the roots. Just the air, still whispering.
And then—footsteps. Quick. Soft.
Coming from deeper in the Hollow.
---
She followed them past the far wall, behind a curtain of vines that hadn't been there before. A narrow tunnel wound downward, carved into stone, lined with pale symbols that pulsed as she passed.
Each step felt colder, but also more familiar.
The tunnel led to a chamber.
Stone circle. High ceiling. Candles floating midair, burning with blue fire.
Elias stood at the center, staring at something on the ground.
Lyra rushed in. "Elias—what are you doing?"
He didn't look at her. "He was awake before she was. Elira wasn't the first. She was trying to stop him from coming back."
Lyra stepped closer and saw what he saw.
A figure on the ground, curled like a seed—skin like bark, hair twisted with vines. Neither living nor dead.
Waiting.
Velan.