Logan woke to the sound of rain hammering the cabin roof, a steady rhythm like a heartbeat. He sat up on the small cot Mara had given him, rubbing the grit from his eyes. His muscles ached, not from exhaustion, but from something deeper—a strain in the bones, like his body wasn't sure what shape it wanted to keep.
The tea had dulled the sharper edges of the night before, but the visions still clung to him: the Mother's antlered silhouette, the door of wolves, the voice whispering in a tongue older than language.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. Through the window, the forest stretched endlessly, shrouded in morning mist. Somewhere out there, Juno was still missing. And the Hollow was still watching.
Mara stood at the stove, stirring a pot of oatmeal. She glanced over her shoulder. "You look better. Color's back in your face."
"Doesn't feel like it," Logan muttered.
She handed him a bowl. "Eat anyway."
He took it, sitting at the rough-hewn table. The warmth of the food was grounding. For a few minutes, there was only the sound of spoons scraping bowls, the ticking of a clock, the soft crackle of the fire.
"Had another dream last night," Mara said quietly.
Logan looked up. "About the Hollow?"
She nodded. "I was standing in a clearing. The moon was red. There were bones everywhere, arranged in spirals. And in the center… you. But you weren't you."
He froze. "What was I?"
"A shadow with eyes like fire." Her gaze was distant. "You kept saying my name, but it wasn't my name."
Logan set his spoon down. "Sounds about right."
They ate in silence a while longer.
When the dishes were cleared, Mara spread a map across the table. It was hand-drawn, faded in places, with notes scrawled in the margins. "This is everything I've marked over the years—disappearances, sightings, places where the woods… shift."
Logan traced a finger along the jagged lines. "And the spire?"
She tapped a spot deep inside the Hollow, marked with a circle and a question mark. "Closest I could guess."
Logan studied it. "We'll need to cut through the south ridge."
"It's risky. That's Bloodhowl territory."
"I don't think they'll be our biggest problem."
Mara gave him a look. "You're too calm about this."
"I'm too tired not to be."
She sighed, folding the map. "We'll leave after sundown. Give the Hollow time to… settle."
Logan stood, stretching. "In the meantime?"
"There's a ritual my mother used to do," Mara said. "For protection. Might be worth trying."
"Does it work?"
"Depends who's asking."
They spent the afternoon preparing: gathering herbs, carving symbols into small stones, mixing ash and salt into lines across the thresholds. Mara hummed under her breath, old songs whose meanings had been lost long before either of them were born.
Logan found himself pacing. His body thrummed with restless energy, like a current pulling him forward. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the door again—etched wolves chasing their tails around a silver lock. Juno's face flickering behind it.
When dusk bled into night, they stood at the cabin's edge, packs slung over their shoulders, weapons secured. Mara handed him a small charm on a leather cord. "Wear this. It won't stop the Hollow, but it might make it hesitate."
Logan slipped it over his neck. "That's all I need."
They set out under a rising moon, the forest unfolding before them like a dark promise.
The path wound deeper, narrower. Branches clawed at their sleeves. Strange lights flickered between the trees—too quick for fireflies, too soft for lanterns.
At the ridge, they paused. Below, shadows moved: figures on two legs, then four, then something in between. The Bloodhowl.
Mara touched his arm. "We could go around."
Logan shook his head. "No more detours."
They descended.
Halfway down, a shape stepped from the gloom—a man, tall and gaunt, his mouth stretched into an unnatural grin. "You shouldn't be here," he rasped.
"We're just passing through," Mara said carefully.
The man tilted his head. "There's no 'just' in the Hollow."
Others emerged behind him, their eyes gleaming. Logan's hand drifted toward his knife.
"We're looking for the girl," he said. "Juno."
The man's grin widened. "The key."
Logan's blood chilled. "You know her?"
"She's already inside."
"Inside what?"
The man pointed toward the forest. "The door's open, wolf."
A howl split the night, closer than before.
Logan's pulse quickened. "We don't have much time."
The man stepped aside, bowing low. "Then you'd better run."
They ran.
Branches lashed their faces. Roots grabbed at their feet. Behind them, the Bloodhowl followed—not chasing, but watching, waiting.
Ahead, the trees thinned.
And there it stood.
The spire.
A tower of bone and black stone, rising from the earth like a tooth. Around its base, the ground spiraled inward, carved with the same symbols Logan had seen in his visions.
At its base, a door.
The wolves etched around it glowed faintly, their eyes shimmering with pale light.
Mara gasped. "It's real."
Logan approached, heart pounding.
The door pulsed beneath his palm.
Somewhere inside, he felt it stir—the thing the Mother had awakened.
The lock.
The key.
The door.
He turned to Mara. "We go together."
She nodded, gripping his hand.
And as the Hollow howled around them, they stepped forward.
Into the dark.
Into whatever waited beyond.