The Hollow Borne was dead, its body crumbled, but the air hadn't cleared out yet. The space it left behind still pulsed with something heavy.
The remnants didn't settle. The remnants hung around, seemingly unfinished.
Riven stood for a long while, his blade lowered, blood still drying down his side. The rune on his arm burned hot after the fight, sealing the wound, but the pain hadn't fully left.
Veyla watched him silently. She didn't speak because they both felt it.
The Hollow Borne hadn't been just a remnant-infused organism. It had been someone broken, hollowed, and turned into a reflection—and for a few minutes in that fight, Riven hadn't been sure if he'd come out the winner.
They moved on quietly—not far from it, just away from the body of the Hollow Borne—down a cracked stone path that looked like it had once been part of an old Cinder stronghold, long swallowed by roots and mud puddles.
The sky above had faded into a soft gray light, still distant and cold. The trees grew crooked here, split down the middle, and burnt from the inside out.
None of them grew leaves. More like dead trees.
The path led toward a narrow ravine, where the earth curved inward as if something massive had landed there centuries ago.
A tree stood in the middle of it all. It was half-dead and hollow at its base. Its roots coiled like veins, clutching the broken ground. No leaves, just dark, cracked bark and a steady red pulse glowing along its core.
Veyla tensed as they stepped into its domain. "Do you feel that energy?" she asked, stepping closer to him.
Riven nodded. "Yeah, I do," slowing his pace.
It didn't feel like remnants of grace. It felt completely different.
He stepped toward the tree slowly. The closer he got, the harder his rune burned, as if it recognized it.
At the base of the tree was a hollow, jagged, and deep hole, like a wound. He crouched in front of it and reached inside, brushing past a layer of cold ash.
His fingers brushed something smooth. "Something's inside here," he called out to Veyla, who turned around.
"Well, pull it out," she responded.
He pulled it free, and it was a fragment—like a broken rune.
The shard fit in his palm. The material was heavy, not metal or stone. Lines too delicate to fully understand, flickering in and out of view, were carved into its surface.
It glowed dimly the moment he touched it. His chest tightened as a sudden emotion flowed through him.
The air disappeared from his lungs as if he'd been punched in the soul. A weight settled on him—not physically.
He stumbled backward, and Veyla immediately moved toward him. "Riven?" she called out.
He held up a hand. "I'm fine," but he didn't seem to be.
The rune on his arm had begun to glow on its own, a low throb syncing with the shard. He set the fragment down gently, but it hovered—floating in the air for a breath before lowering onto a flat root like it had chosen the spot itself.
He didn't dwell on it. "This place seems safe enough, Veyla," he said. "Let's set up camp here."
"If you say so, then," she responded, drifting toward where he crouched.
That night, he couldn't sleep. The weight of it all pressed against him even from where he laid, half-wrapped in clothes near the campfire.
Veyla had taken the first watch of the night. She kept glancing over at the shard like it might do something.
Eventually, he closed his eyes and fell asleep.
■■■■■■■■■■■
He stood in a clearing, gray sky was as flat as glass. There was no wind and no sun.
He stood over a field of bones. The ground cracked beneath him with each step. The bones weren't just human—some were massive, probably the bones of warped creatures from the world before this one.
At the far end of the field, he saw a beast. It was huge, towering, skeletal—wrapped in burned flesh and broken metal. Its ribs stretched wide like a collapsed cathedral, and its face was hidden under a mass of bones and mud.
It watched him from afar, then shrugged—and he could feel its voice inside his head.
"You carry what cannot be held," it said, its voice resounding in his skull. He held his head as if it would burst.
"A shard of sorrow. A wound that remembers," it continued.
Riven stepped forward, drawn by the presence of the beast.
Its limbs twitched slightly, as if it hadn't moved in centuries and was just remembering how to. Its voice came again, dry and layered, like a hundred voices whispering over each other.
"Bind the shard, boy," it said. The world around Riven began to collapse. "And forge your name on it."
Then, in a blink, everything crumbled to ash, and he woke up gasping for air.
He quickly sat up. "What was that about?!" he whispered firmly.
The fire was still low. Veyla noticed him and looked up from where she'd been sharpening her blade. "A nightmare?" she asked.
"Not this time," he responded. "It was a message."
She raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?" she asked, now interested.
He moved closer and picked up the shard. It felt warmer than before.
"I saw a beast—and it said something," he said, holding the shard firmly in his hands.
She waited for the words to come out of his mouth. "Well, what did it say?"
"It said I had to bind the shard and forge my name on it," he whispered, cold sweat still trickling down his body.
"Did it say why?" she asked, her attention piqued.
"No, it didn't. Everything collapsed after that," he responded, holding the shard up.
The rune responded, and a faint line of light ran from his arm to the broken shard.
"I think it's a piece of something bigger," he said. "A greater shard, maybe."
Veyla's eyes narrowed. "You know what that means, right?"
"Yep. It means more shards I need to find," he nodded, still looking at it.
"And more dreams," she added.
Riven then wrapped the shard in a cloth and inserted it into his pouch.
The tree no longer pulsed behind them. It was hollow and empty now—like it had passed something on and was glad to get rid of it.
And the rune on his arm was still reacting to the shard.
"Means more risks."