The moment Logan stepped across the sanctuary's edge, the world tore itself open.
Colors inverted. Sound warped into a deep underwater hum. The air thickened, folding around him like damp velvet. Gravity lost its grip. He fell—not down, but sideways, tumbling through a tunnel of flickering shadows and whispers. His skin crawled as unseen fingers brushed him, probing, pulling.
Then: stillness.
He landed hard on something damp and soft. Coughing, spitting grit from his mouth, Logan pushed himself up. His breath fogged in the dim light.
The forest was gone.
He stood in a vast plain of ash and bone. Trees like petrified skeletons clawed at a crimson sky. The ground was littered with shattered antlers, broken masks, rusted metal. A smell hung in the air—smoke, iron, old blood.
At the horizon, a black spire rose like a jagged tooth, pulsing faintly with inner light.
Logan wiped mud from his face. His hands still weren't entirely his—half-shifted, veins bulging, nails curved. But the pain had dulled.
Something stirred behind him.
He spun, claws raised.
A tall, pale figure stood watching—a man in a tattered coat, face hidden beneath a hood. His eyes glowed faintly under the shadow.
"Welcome, Wren," the man rasped. "You crossed the threshold."
"Where the hell am I?" Logan demanded.
"The Hollow. The true Hollow. The place between."
Logan's pulse thudded. "Between what?"
"Between all things." The man's lips curled faintly. "Life and death. Man and beast. Memory and oblivion."
Lightning flickered across the sky, revealing hulking shapes dragging themselves across the plains.
"You're not supposed to be here," the man said. "Not yet."
Logan's grip tightened. "Not my style to wait for an invitation."
The man's smile deepened. "No. It isn't."
He gestured toward the spire. "But now that you've entered, the path is set. You'll need to reach the tower. Everything answers there."
Logan eyed the dark tower. "And what happens when I get there?"
"Everything changes."
A low, mournful wail drifted on the wind. Logan felt it vibrate in his bones.
"They're following you," the man warned.
"Who?"
"The ones who lost their faces. The ones who forgot their names."
A chill slid down Logan's spine.
The man took a step back. "Walk carefully, Wren. Every step forward is a step deeper."
Then he dissolved into ash.
Logan turned toward the tower. He started walking.
The ground squelched underfoot, each step sinking into the mire. Shapes drifted at the edges of his vision—figures that shimmered and vanished when he looked directly at them. Voices whispered his name from nowhere.
He kept going.
The closer he drew to the spire, the more the landscape shifted. The barren plain gave way to a forest of blackened trees, their branches strung with cages. Inside the cages, shadows writhed. Some wept. Some laughed. One whispered:
"You've been here before."
Logan stopped. "What?"
The shadow pressed against the bars, a vague shape of a face. "Before you were a man. Before you forgot."
He stepped back.
"I don't know you," he muttered.
But the words felt hollow.
The shadow grinned. "Not yet."
He walked faster.
The path narrowed into a winding trail flanked by stones etched with runes. His skin itched as he passed them. His breath came harder.
He crossed a clearing filled with mirrors—cracked, smeared, leaning at odd angles. Each reflected a different version of him: younger, older, wounded, monstrous.
One reflection lingered. His mother's face behind his shoulder. Her hand on his.
He pressed his palm to the glass. "Mom?"
She smiled sadly. Then faded.
A low growl echoed behind him.
He spun.
A beast stood at the clearing's edge—a wolf, but twisted, its limbs too long, eyes empty hollows. Its skin hung in loose folds, stitched crudely in places. It bared jagged teeth.
Logan backed away.
The creature lunged.
He threw himself sideways as claws raked the ground where he'd stood. Rolling to his feet, he raised his hands—half claws, half fists.
The beast circled him.
"You're not real," Logan said.
The creature snarled.
"Just a memory," Logan growled. "Just fear."
He stepped forward.
The creature faltered.
Logan lunged.
With a snarl, he drove his fist into its throat. The beast collapsed into dust.
He stood panting.
The mirrors shimmered. One shattered. Another showed a door.
He followed it.
A bridge stretched ahead, spanning a chasm filled with swirling mist. At its entrance stood a woman in a red cloak, her face hidden by a wolf mask. She carried a staff topped with an iron crescent.
"You seek answers," she said. "But the Hollow demands a toll."
Logan swallowed. "What kind of toll?"
"A memory."
He frowned. "Whose?"
"Yours."
He hesitated. "I need my memories."
"Not all of them. Just one." Her gaze locked with his. "The one you least want to give."
The wind howled around them.
Logan stepped forward. "Take it."
She touched the staff to his forehead.
A flash.
He saw his mother's face, blurred by tears. Her voice calling him home. His small hand reaching for hers.
Then: nothing.
He staggered as the memory tore free, leaving a hollow ache.
The woman stepped aside. "You may pass."
He crossed the bridge. Each step felt heavier. The mist below churned—shapes rising and falling inside it: hands, wings, teeth.
At the tower's base stood a massive door, carved with interlocking wolves chasing their own tails.
He pressed his palm to it.
The door groaned open.
Inside was darkness.
He stepped through.
The darkness closed around him.
He walked forward, blind.
A voice spoke: "Logan Wren."
Light bloomed—a circle of flame around a stone dais.
On the dais sat a throne of antlers. In the throne, a woman with pale skin and golden eyes, her hair woven with bones.
"You've come far," she said.
"Who are you?" Logan asked.
"I am the Mother of the Hollow."
Her smile was sharp. "And you, my child, carry the blood of both hunter and hunted."
She rose, descending the steps toward him. "You came seeking the girl. But what you seek is deeper."
"Where is she?"
The Mother's eyes gleamed. "She is already part of this place. The Hollow sings through her veins. She is key. And you… are the lock."
Logan shook his head. "No. I'm not—"
She touched his chest.
The pulse inside him surged, bursting outward like fire.
He cried out as his skin shifted again, fur sprouting, bones realigning. But it wasn't violent—it was smoother. Natural.
The Mother smiled. "You've been sleeping a long time, wolf."
The flame circle rose higher, engulfing the chamber.
Her voice echoed: "Wake."
And the Hollow answered.