The sigil weighed heavy in Lyra's hands, though it was only cloth and wax and fading ink. She kept it close, folded tightly inside her coat pocket, as though the name on it might vanish if exposed to light.
Amaris.
She whispered it once in the garden, alone.
The trees bowed as if hearing a command. The wind died instantly, and for a moment, everything—the birds, the rustling grass, the far hum of the forest—held its breath.
When the wind returned, it wasn't familiar. It carried the scent of old fire and dried flowers. Something ancient had stirred.
---
Velan sat by the hearth with a mug he didn't drink from. He hadn't slept. His eyes watched the flames, as if searching for shapes.
"She was the first one to bind her soul to this place," he said. "The Hollow is made of her grief."
Lyra joined him slowly. "And Elira?"
"She tried to continue the cycle. But the Hollow—Amaris—it didn't want her. Not fully. It fractured her."
"And me?"
Velan looked at her. "You didn't come to serve it. You came to question it. That makes you dangerous."
Lyra crossed her arms. "Then why hasn't it hurt me?"
He gave a half-smile. "Maybe it's curious."
---
Elias returned with pages he'd torn from a side volume they'd missed before. He laid them on the table, and Lyra leaned in to read.
They described an altar beneath the house.
Not the basin in the memory cavern—something deeper.
The Door Beneath the Name, it read. Only those who carry the seed may enter. Only those who speak the First Name may open it.
Elias traced a line with his finger. "I think the Hollow has one last secret. Something even Elira never reached."
Lyra stared at the phrase. "Only those who carry the seed…"
"That's you," Elias said softly. "It's always been you."
---
They descended that night.
All three of them—Lyra, Elias, and Velan—moved through the winding root-veined passages below the Hollow. They passed the basin, passed the flickering memory chambers, until they reached a wall that should not have existed. Smooth, seamless stone. Cold as ice.
Lyra stepped forward and pressed the sigil to the surface.
Nothing happened.
Velan's brow creased. "You have to say it."
Lyra's throat tightened. "What if it changes everything?"
"It already has," Elias said gently.
She drew a breath. Then spoke the name aloud.
"Amaris."
---
The wall cracked down the center.
Not violently. Elegantly.
A faint golden light spilled through the seam, warm and humming, like a pulse. When the stone doors opened, they revealed a small circular chamber beyond.
At its center stood a single pedestal.
On it: a mirror.
Not reflective—transparent.
Lyra approached slowly, heart pounding.
The surface rippled as she neared, showing not her face, but her past.
Her childhood.
Her parents' silence.
Elira's death.
The day she first felt the Hollow call to her.
The mirror whispered:
Now name yourself.
---
She backed away.
"I can't."
"You must," Velan said. "To claim the Hollow fully. To make it yours. That is the final rite."
Lyra looked at Elias. "What if I become something else?"
"Then we stay with you," he said. "No matter what."
She stepped forward again. Hands trembling.
Looked into the mirror.
"I am Lyra."
The light dimmed slightly.
"I am Elira's heir."
Dimmer.
"I am…"
She closed her eyes.
"I am the last memory. I am the keeper of Amaris. I name myself—Lyra of the Hollow."
---
The mirror absorbed the words.
And shattered.
Silently, beautifully—into a rain of gold that hung in the air like stardust.
The room breathed.
And the Hollow changed shape.