The Hollowborne knelt before Elara, their movements slow, almost reverent, as if the weight of a thousand forgotten years pressed down on their ghostly forms. Their translucent bodies shimmered beneath the bruised, violet sky, not quite flesh, not quite spirit—like memories made solid. Their eyes, bright like twin stars burning in an endless void, watched her with a patience that made her chest tighten.
They weren't here to fight. They weren't here to help, either.
They were here because fate had dragged them all into the same ruin.
And Elara could feel it—deep, soul-deep—the moment cracking through her ribs like a lightning strike. The sigil on her skin burned, pulsing with something too ancient to name. She curled her fingers into fists, trying to steady herself, but her hands still shook.
Kael stood close, too close, his hand hovering near his sword, ready to draw—but not yet. His eyes weren't on the Hollowborne. They were locked on her. Watching her. As if he could somehow shoulder even a fragment of what she was feeling.
He knew this wasn't about enemies or blades.
This was about destiny—and how sometimes it felt like a noose tightening around your throat.
The Hollowborne let out a soft exhale—a sigh, a song, a prayer. It was hard to tell. Then one of them spoke, and the words seemed to sink straight into Elara's bones:
> "The Stormwalker will rise.
The storms will come.
And with them, death—and rebirth."
Elara's heart slammed against her ribs so hard it hurt.
Stormwalker.
The word tasted foreign in her mouth, like a promise she hadn't agreed to, like a future already written in someone else's blood.
For a moment she wanted to run. She wanted to shove the sigil off her skin, to tear it out of her soul. But she didn't move.
Because she had always known.
Somewhere deep inside, in the hidden corners where hope and fear tangled together, she had always known this moment would come.
Swallowing hard, she stepped forward. "What do you want from me?" she asked, though part of her already knew the answer.
The Hollowborne didn't speak. They simply raised their hands, offering them like a gift—or a command. An invitation written in silence.
The sigil blazed against her wrist, throwing a harsh, silver light across her face.
Elara hesitated.
And then she moved.
She reached out—not because she trusted them, but because some doors, once opened, could never be closed.
The moment her fingers brushed the shimmering air between them, magic rushed through her like a flood. It was raw and wild, ancient and grieving, furious and begging. Her knees buckled. She almost fell.
Somewhere inside that storm of power, a voice—not the Hollowborne's—curled against her mind like smoke:
> "You are the key.
The sigil will lead you to the heart of the storm.
But to wield it…
You must sacrifice what you cherish most."
Sacrifice.
The word tore through her like a blade.
"What do you mean?" she gasped aloud, but the Hollowborne were already dissolving, their forms unraveling into mist and memory, leaving nothing behind but the hollow ache of knowing.
Kael's hand found her shoulder, steady and warm. She leaned into it before she even thought about it, her body betraying her fear even when her mouth stayed silent.
"Elara," he said, voice low, careful. "What did they mean by sacrifice?"
She turned toward him, looking into his eyes—the familiar brown she had anchored herself to more times than she could count—and for the first time, she couldn't find the words.
So she lied.
Just a little.
"I don't know," she whispered.
But she did.
She could feel it already, heavy and sharp: This journey would cost her something she wasn't ready to lose.
Maybe Kael saw it too, because something flickered across his face. Fear. Sadness. Resignation. He squeezed her shoulder once, a silent promise neither of them knew how to keep.
> Whatever happens, we'll face it together.
She wanted to believe him. She needed to believe him.
But somewhere deep inside, a cruel, knowing voice whispered: Not all storms can be weathered together.
---
The Hollowborne's warning clung to Elara like a second skin as they pushed deeper into the Hollow Realm.
The world grew stranger the further they walked. Forests twisted in on themselves, breathing like sleeping beasts. Rivers of shadow slithered past their feet, whispering secrets no one wanted to hear.
And ahead—always ahead—the heart of the storm waited.
Thorne, ever skeptical, broke the brittle silence. "You really believe all this?" he asked, walking just a few steps behind her. "That you're the Stormwalker? That this sigil's the key to... whatever this is?"
Elara glanced back at him, her voice scraped raw. "I don't believe it," she said. "I know it."
She didn't have the luxury of doubt anymore.
Liora, walking close to Kael, bit her lip, worry etched into every line of her face. "And if the storm can't be stopped?" she asked. "If it just... destroys everything?"
Kael's voice was quick, almost too quick. "Then we stop it ourselves."
Elara didn't argue. She didn't say what she was thinking—that you don't stop a storm. You survive it, if you're lucky. You endure it. Or it breaks you apart.
By dusk, they reached the Hollow Citadel.
The towers scraped the bruised sky like broken teeth. A sickly glow pulsed from deep within its walls, and the very air around it seemed heavier, thicker, harder to breathe.
The sigil on Elara's skin thrummed violently now, like a second heartbeat.
This was where everything had begun.
And where everything would end.
She stood before the colossal gates, the others gathering behind her, silent, waiting.
"What now?" Liora asked, her voice barely more than a breath.
Elara let her gaze sweep over her companions—Kael, Thorne, Liora, Nyra, Talon—every scar, every hesitation, every ounce of faith that still clung to them.
> I owe them everything.
She swallowed the lump in her throat and lifted her chin.
"It's time," she said.
And with that, they stepped into the dark.
Into the storm.
Into whatever fate had been waiting for them all this time.