Logan gasped awake.
Cold air burned his lungs. Rain peppered his skin. He lay sprawled in the wet grass at the forest's edge, the sky above smeared in streaks of dawn light.
For a long moment, he didn't move.
Was it a dream? A vision? The Hollow's doing? The memory of the Mother's touch still lingered on his chest, like a brand beneath the skin.
He sat up slowly.
The world felt sharper. Every sound—the flutter of a crow's wings, the drip of water from a branch—rang clear and crystalline. His nose caught a thousand scents layered in the air: earth, moss, the faint copper of distant blood.
The transformation wasn't gone.
It wasn't rage or pain this time. It thrummed steady beneath his skin, like an engine idling. His body felt lighter. Stronger. Balanced on a knife's edge between man and beast.
He stood, stretching limbs that weren't quite his, but weren't entirely other anymore.
A figure approached from the treeline.
It was Mara.
She carried a battered lantern and a tired smile. Her coat was soaked, her braid undone.
"You're back," she said softly.
Logan nodded. "I… think so."
She stepped closer, peering into his face. "But different."
"Yeah."
She handed him a thermos. "Coffee. Figured you'd need it."
He took it gratefully, sipping the hot liquid, letting its warmth chase away the night's chill.
Mara sat beside him on a fallen log. For a while, neither spoke. The forest around them slowly woke—the rustle of small animals, the distant cry of a hawk.
Finally, she asked, "Did you find anything?"
Logan stared into the trees. "I found… something. Someone."
He told her about the spire. The pale man. The Mother of the Hollow. The door with wolves chasing their tails.
Mara listened, her face unreadable.
When he finished, she was quiet a long time.
"I've heard stories about the Mother," she said. "Old ones. Back when the Hollow was worshiped, not feared. They called her the heart beneath the roots."
Logan frowned. "She called me a lock."
"And Juno the key," Mara murmured.
He looked at her sharply. "You believe it?"
Mara shrugged. "Doesn't matter what I believe. The Hollow believes it. That's enough."
Logan drained the thermos. "We need to find her."
Mara nodded. "We will. But you need rest first."
"I don't have time—"
"You have to rest," Mara insisted. "That place you went? It's not meant for us. You'll break if you push again too soon."
Logan hated that she was right.
He sighed, rubbing his face. "A couple hours. Then we move."
She smiled faintly. "Deal."
She stood, offering him a hand. "Come on. My cabin's not far."
Logan took her hand, letting her pull him up. Together they walked toward the faint glow of a lantern deeper in the woods.
As they went, Logan glanced back once.
The Hollow loomed behind them, quiet now, but watching.
He could feel it in his bones.
Something had changed.
Something was waiting.
He wasn't sure if it was hope—or a warning.
Mara's cabin was tucked beneath the shelter of old pines, half swallowed by vines and moss. Smoke rose faintly from a metal chimney. A pair of boots and a muddy shovel leaned against the door. Inside, the warm glow of lantern light spilled from the windows.
Logan paused at the threshold, taking it in—the cracked shutters, the worn welcome mat, the faint sound of a radio playing an old folk song inside. It felt… normal. Human.
He didn't feel entirely human anymore.
Mara pushed open the door, ushering him in. "Take off those wet clothes. There's a towel by the stove."
The cabin smelled of cedar, old books, and herbs. A kettle steamed quietly on the wood-burning stove. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with jars, maps, and faded photographs. A rifle hung over the mantle.
Logan peeled off his damp jacket, hanging it by the door. He stood for a moment, letting the warmth soak into his bones.
Mara handed him a towel, then poured two mugs of tea. She sank into an armchair, curling her legs beneath her.
He joined her across the small room, sitting on a battered ottoman.
"I thought I lost you last night," she admitted quietly. "You were gone for hours."
Logan sipped the tea. "Felt longer than that."
Mara studied him over the rim of her mug. "Something's different in your eyes. Not just… the shine. It's like you're seeing more than you should."
He looked away. "Maybe I am."
"Do you remember what she showed you? The Mother?"
"Fragments." Logan exhaled. "A door. Wolves. A throne of antlers. She said Juno's the key. And that I'm the lock."
Mara frowned thoughtfully. "If you're the lock… what happens when someone opens you?"
He didn't have an answer.
The radio crackled, shifting to static. Mara rose, adjusting the dial. Logan's gaze drifted to a photograph on the mantle: Mara as a teenager, standing beside an older woman with the same sharp eyes. A handwritten note at the bottom read: To my daughter—never forget who walks with you.
"She believed in the Hollow," Mara said softly, catching his stare. "My mother. Used to say it wasn't just a place, but a… presence."
"She was right," Logan murmured.
Mara nodded. "Yeah."
Outside, the wind picked up. A faint howl rose in the distance—not an animal. Something older.
Mara moved to the window, drawing the curtain. "We've got until sundown. Then we go back in."
Logan stood, setting his empty mug down. "And if it doesn't let us back in?"
"It will." She faced him. "It wants you."
Their eyes met.
Logan felt the weight of her words settle over him like a mantle.
It wants you.
He wasn't sure if he was ready to be wanted by the Hollow.
But he wasn't turning back.
Not now.