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From the fog, the voices shifted—mocking, distorted:

Not here. Noooot here. Not heerre.

It wasn’t mimicking Jessa. It was Tavrin’s voice again. And maybe Cerys for Calen, too, because his grip on Jessa trembled violently. Jessa whispered something urgent to him—too low to hear—and he swallowed, forcing himself to keep stepping forward. For a breath, the Hollow went still.

Then a different voice slid through—deep and gruff but loving, with an accent carried by those from the Auric Shore.

Bed now, boy. Fires need rest.

The ring of a hammer on an anvil followed—warped and distant, as though the sound had been rebuilt from scraps. Orzen stiffened behind her. She gripped his fingers tighter, but they were slick with cold sweat and already slipping.

The hollow quieted, as if the space itself was listening, searching them for something deeper. Wren’s scalp itched and tingled, but she didn’t dare let go as they stepped carefully along the path. The air shifted wrong, a metallic scent heavy in the mist.

The silence shattered. A multitude of voices crashed over them. So many cried out at once, Wren’s ears rang with the sound. Some she recognized. Others she couldn’t place. All of them pounded into her skull. The line stopped as their steps faltered.

They’re gone, Jessie. A voice old and cracked. I’ll care for you.

I trusted you. You should’ve let me die. Wren was eight again, holding Auren’s hand, desperate for him to understand.

I want you to have it. The thin, unmistakable sound of a bone-reed flute. Play it for me when I get too weak.

If anything happens to me…Pavric. But the words weren’t meant for her. They were meant for Garin. Beneath her hand, his shoulder shivered.

I thought I wanted this. But I don’t. Cold. Rejecting. A wound that never healed. Lie to the boy if you must.

The voices overlapped, lengthened, warped—bouncing through the hollow. Each repetition grew louder, distorting until the very air vibrated with the words.

Calen broke through the momentary hesitation, dragging the line behind him. His body shook from head to heel, but he didn’t stop. They were nearly halfway across. Too late to turn back. Too far to escape.

The whispers chased them, too jumbled to form words anymore. A suffocating wall of sound pressed in all around them. The noise stilled all at once. The final echoes died. Laughter stirred—brittle and cruel—a sound like metal scraping across stone. It vibrated through the mist itself, grinding along Wren’s bones, rattling her teeth. She clutched the fabric at Garin’s shoulder.

Behind her, Orzen’s palm grew hot within her grip. When the laughter stopped, the voice crooned once more.

You. Come.

Orzen’s palm twitched in hers, slick with sweat. He tugged away from her. His fingers slipped. She dug her nails in, but he ignored the scrape, yanking free before she could stop him.

“Orzen!”

When she spun to reach him, she caught only empty air. He was already stepping off the path, tears streaking his cheeks freely, eyes wide but unseeing, as if he was experiencing something beyond the hollow entirely. His boots sloshed into stagnant water, each step sinking deeper until it rose to his knees.

A shadow stirred in the mist near the wall of the hollow—formless at first, then stretching taller, limbs unfurling like a nightmare waking. Too far to reach Orzen yet, but every step drew him nearer.

Join me. You belong here. Because of you.

The same deep, accented voice that had spoken to him before—a voice not so different from Orzen’s own. He froze then, staring into the fog, his muscles rigid with anguish.

Wren’s grip loosened on Garin’s shoulder but he clamped his own hand around hers. “Wren, don’t!”

“No! Let me go—” She tore free. “I can’t leave him!” She lunged into the murky water after Orzen. Mud sucked at her hooves, dragging her down.

A figure skittered into shape as the fog thinned before Orzen—aberration made flesh. Leora’s warning on the map.

The Matriarch. Too many spindly black legs bore an elongated spider-like body clad in scarred chitinous armor. Four human arms unfurled from the Matriarch’s torso, claws glinting. Wet strands of web-like hair drifted in the air, moving in an unseen gust.

Clusters of shiny black eyes twitched across its face. Mouths opened and closed along its body, a legion of voices whispering out of sync, fangs dripping.

He is mine. Now. Mine. Now miiiine.