They left me alone in the field of slag, but the silence they carried with them never truly left.
I staggered forward, one step at a time, through the broken teeth of the world. The ground crunched beneath my boots, layers of ash and brittle, glassy shards shifting like bones beneath skin. My legs ached with every movement, muscles clenching and trembling, but I forced them to keep moving. Forward was the only direction left, and even if it led deeper into the shadows, it was better than sinking into the breathing ground behind me.
The sky above was dark, bruised violet and black, churning clouds illuminated by a sickly, pulsing light that wasn't moon or sun. It throbbed like a wound, and I realised it was coming from the horizon—where the land dipped into a chasm so wide and deep it swallowed the sky itself. The air shimmered above it, twisting into columns of smoke that writhed like something alive.
The low hum that had whispered through my bones before was louder now, vibrating beneath my feet with each step. It wasn't a sound—it was a presence, a pulse rising from the depths of the earth, matching the beat of something inside my chest that still felt alien.
I reached the edge of a shattered ridge, where jagged slabs of concrete and twisted steel bones jutted from the ground like broken ribs. From here, I could see the chasm more clearly. It wasn't just a hole in the earth—it was a scar, a wound torn open by something vast and terrible. At its edges, the ground crumbled into fine ash and oily sludge, the air shimmering with heat that made my vision blur. Shapes moved within the haze—tall, thin figures like the ones I had seen, their bodies rippling and indistinct, mouths sewn shut and eyes empty.
I crouched low, my breath catching as I tried to make myself smaller. The figures didn't look in my direction, but I felt their attention sweep over the land like a searching hand. I felt it settle on me for a heartbeat, then move on. I wasn't important enough to warrant their gaze. Not yet.
Below, deep in the chasm, something vast and mechanical stirred. The hum intensified, rising into a low, grinding moan, and for a moment, I thought I heard voices—whispers threading through the air, voices calling out in languages I couldn't understand. A sudden shudder passed through the ground beneath me, and cracks split the ridge where I crouched.
I scrambled back, heart racing, and the edge crumbled into the chasm, sending chunks of stone and steel tumbling into the void. I heard them crash far below, swallowed by the grinding roar of machinery.
I couldn't stay here.
Pushing to my feet, I turned away from the chasm and began to move, weaving between skeletal remnants of buildings and machines long dead. The ruins stretched endlessly in every direction, rusted towers leaning at impossible angles, shattered glass glinting like teeth. Every shadow seemed alive, flickering at the edge of my vision, whispering secrets I couldn't understand.
My mouth was dry, my tongue thick with dust. I needed water, food—anything to anchor me to this crumbling world. But there was nothing but ash and ruin. The machines had stripped the land bare, left it hollow and lifeless, and the war had taken whatever scraps were left.
As I stumbled through the wasteland, a sound reached me—faint at first, then growing clearer. A low, rhythmic pounding, like war drums heard through the bones of the earth. It came from ahead, from beyond a curtain of blackened trees whose branches twisted like claws. The trees were dead, charred husks of their former selves, but they stood tall, defiant against the decay. The pounding echoed between them, hollow and relentless.
I hesitated at the edge of the trees, my instincts screaming that this was a mistake. But the alternative was to turn back toward the chasm, and I knew I couldn't face that. So I stepped into the woods, the air growing thicker, the shadows darker. The pounding grew louder, each beat resonating through my skull until it felt like my heartbeat was matching it.
I emerged into a clearing, and the sight froze me in place.
A column of figures stood there, arranged in a circle around a massive machine half-buried in the ground. The machine pulsed with the same sickly light I had seen in the sky, its surface covered in intricate etchings that crawled like living veins. The figures surrounding it were armoured, their bodies encased in blackened plates that glistened with oil and ash. Their faces were hidden behind jagged masks, and each held a long, thin spear tipped with blades that shimmered with faint, green fire.
At the centre of the circle knelt a figure unlike the others. She was tall, her armour marked with sigils that pulsed faintly, her face bare except for a thin line of metal stitching her lips closed. Her eyes were wide, black as the void, and her hands were pressed against the machine's surface. She was humming—a low, mournful sound that echoed the pounding rhythm.
I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. The hum from the earth surged upward, meeting the sound of her voice, and something in the machine stirred. Gears shifted, plates shuddered, and light bloomed from cracks in its surface.
Then the woman's eyes snapped to mine.
I staggered back, but it was too late. She raised a hand, and the circle of armoured figures turned in unison, their spears levelled at me. The machine groaned, its surface rippling as if it were alive, and the ground beneath my feet trembled.
"Bring it forward," the woman's voice rasped, though her lips never moved. The sound came from the air itself, from the bones of the world. "The Hollow March has begun."
Before I could react, the armoured figures surged toward me, shadows stretching like claws. The last thing I saw was the glint of their blades, and the flicker of that sickly, star-like light as the world closed in.