Hollowmere.
Even the name carried weight, like an echo from some ancient nightmare. As the truck rattled over broken asphalt roads and dipped into shadowed woods, Kael could feel the land change. Trees grew too close to the road. The birdsong disappeared. Everything felt… held. Like the forest was holding its breath.
Marek hadn't said a word for over an hour. His jaw clenched tight, one hand gripping the wheel while the other rested on the hilt of a long, narrow blade strapped across his chest.
Kael shifted in the passenger seat. "You're gonna tell me what Hollowmere is now, right?"
Marek didn't take his eyes off the road. "It's a place where hunters die."
"Sounds cheerful."
"You should've never had to go near it," Marek muttered. "But your mother left a trail. That means whatever she fought there—she didn't finish it."
They arrived at dawn.
Hollowmere was hidden deep in the southern hills, surrounded by a sunken forest with trees so dense they blotted out the sky. The path leading into the clearing was broken stone and half-swallowed by roots. Ahead stood a stone chapel, similar in shape to the one Kael had fought in—but much older. It was crumbling, weather-beaten, and covered in thick black moss.
But the worst part?
The silence.
Not a single sound. No birds. No wind. Not even insects.
It was like the place existed outside of time.
Kael's breath caught in his throat as he stepped closer. His dagger, sheathed on his back, grew warm. It pulsed like it was afraid.
Marek pulled out a vial of glowing white liquid and drew a circle on the ground around the chapel.
"Ward," he explained. "Keeps things from crossing over while we're inside."
Kael frowned. "Crossing over from where?"
Marek looked at him, and this time, there was no hint of sarcasm in his voice.
"From below."
The interior of the chapel was worse than Kael expected. The walls were smeared with old blood. Bones—animal, maybe human—lay piled in the corners. Broken pews were scattered like shrapnel, and the altar was split down the middle.
But what truly chilled him was what lay beneath the altar.
A trapdoor.
Carved with the same sigil Kael had seen in his mother's old notes.
"You ever hear of the Ashen Pact?" Marek asked, kneeling beside it.
Kael shook his head.
"Four hunters, fifty years ago. They made a deal with a demon prince to gain power—immortality, strength, speed. It worked. But the price?"
Marek opened the trapdoor slowly. A staircase spiraled downward into blackness.
"They became the first Ashborn. Half-man, half-void."
Kael's skin crawled. "Are they still alive?"
"One of them is. And I think your mother came here to kill him."
The descent was steep and cold.
Every step echoed like it was being swallowed by something beneath them. The air turned thick, sticky. The walls were marked with strange carvings, some written in blood. Kael could feel it pressing into his mind—whispers, creeping along the edges of his thoughts.
They reached the bottom, and the passage opened into a wide stone chamber. At the center stood a single stone throne, carved from black obsidian. Dust floated in the stale air.
The throne was empty.
But something was wrong.
Kael stepped forward, eyes scanning the chamber, heart pounding.
Then—a voice.
From behind.
"You carry her scent."
Kael spun around, dagger already drawn.
Out of the shadows stepped a man.
Or what had once been a man.
His skin was pale gray, like marble soaked in ash. His eyes were pits of glowing coal. His mouth split too wide when he smiled.
"Elaine's boy," he hissed.
Marek moved like lightning—blade out, swinging for the creature's throat. But the Ashborn vanished in a flicker of smoke and reappeared on the far side of the room.
"So eager to die," it whispered.
Marek cursed under his breath. "He's stronger than I thought."
The Ashborn raised a hand. Black veins exploded from the floor like tendrils, slashing through the air. Kael ducked, rolled, and came up with his dagger flashing. One of the tendrils whipped toward him, but the blade sliced through it like paper, spraying sparks.
The Ashborn's smile vanished.
"That blade," it growled. "Where did you—"
Kael struck.
He lunged forward, blade glowing, and drove it toward the Ashborn's chest. The creature caught his wrist with inhuman speed and snarled. Its breath stank of sulfur and blood.
Kael twisted—and slashed upward, tearing across its cheek.
Black smoke poured from the wound.
"You'll regret that, child," it hissed, retreating into the shadows.
The ground shook. The chamber began to collapse.
"Now!" Marek shouted.
They sprinted for the stairs, the ceiling cracking above them. Stone rained down as they climbed, and Kael nearly tripped twice. Behind them, a scream echoed—high and shrill, like the sound of a soul being ripped apart.
They burst from the chapel just as the ground beneath it imploded, the entire structure sinking into a pit of black smoke and flame. The ward flared, then shattered.
Kael fell to his knees, coughing.
Marek stood over him, panting.
"He escaped," Kael gasped.
"Barely," Marek said. "But he won't forget you."
Kael wiped ash from his face.
"I don't want him to."
They camped on a ridge above the valley that night. The stars above Hollowmere didn't shine as brightly. Something in the sky felt cracked, like the world was shifting around them.
Kael sat by the fire, staring into the flames.
"What was he?" he asked.
"His name was Silas," Marek said. "One of the Ashborn. He was the one who killed your grandfather."
Kael turned slowly. "He's the one who started all this?"
"No," Marek replied. "He's just a symptom."
Kael clenched his fists. "Then who's the cause?"
Marek stared into the dark woods, eyes haunted.
"They call him Malrekh, the Demon Father. And if what your mother feared is true… he's waking up."
Kael looked at his dagger. The blade was flickering with a faint violet flame now, as if feeding on the energy of what t
hey'd just faced.
He wasn't just a hunter anymore.
He was a target.
And every step forward would take him deeper into the war his blood had already signed him into.