Kael dreamed of footsteps—thousands of them, marching over stone. Bare soles torn raw, voices whispering in languages he'd never heard. A river of flesh and faith, moving toward a black spire that clawed at the sky. He didn't know how he knew, but they were pilgrims. Hollow ones.
He woke to the taste of iron on his tongue.
The fire had burned down to cinders. Thorne was awake, sharpening his blade again—though Kael wasn't sure the man ever slept.
"You were mumbling," Thorne said without looking at him.
Kael wiped the blood from his nose. "Dreams again."
"Not dreams. Memories. You're closer now."
Kael sat up, heart hammering. "Closer to what?"
Thorne paused. "Avelrath. Or something that remembers him."
Kael looked out at the road ahead. A broken stone path led between hills that rose like ribs from the earth, coated in mist and twisted brambles. The sky was gray, but not clouded—more like stained. The air carried no birdsong. No insects. Only the occasional groan of shifting trees and the smell of things left too long beneath the earth.
They set out within the hour.
Kael kept a hand near his belt knife, though he doubted it would help against whatever the Codex had shown him in his sleep. His veins felt tight with pressure, and the mark on his forearm throbbed with each step.
The landscape changed as they went.
Not gradually—wrongly.
A hill they passed once seemed to repeat hours later, identical down to the broken cairn and the leaning oak. A herd of black deer with too many legs watched them from the treeline, unmoving, eyes glowing faintly violet.
And then the path vanished entirely.
One moment it was there. The next, only weeds and dead earth.
Kael turned to speak to Thorne, but the Warden had stopped. His expression had gone blank.
He was staring at something in the distance.
Kael followed his gaze.
There, standing amid the deadwood and ash, rose the broken bones of a cathedral.
Tall, narrow, shaped like a spear plunged into the world. Its spire had long since fallen, lying half-buried beneath overgrowth. But the structure still bled presence. Half the roof was gone, and what remained had been blackened by fire. Vines climbed the walls, but they didn't look natural—more like veins, pulsating faintly.
"Saint's Light," Thorne muttered. "I didn't think it would still be standing."
Kael tilted his head. "What is it?"
"Sanctum of the Twelfth Gate," Thorne said, voice hushed. "An old place. Older than the Codex, maybe. This is where the Wardens of the Hollow once trained."
"I thought there were only six orders."
"There were twelve," Thorne said, stepping forward slowly. "Six were erased. Not killed. Erased. Their names, their crests, even their deaths—gone. This was one of their strongholds."
Kael swallowed dryly. "Is it safe?"
Thorne smirked. "Not even slightly."
The cathedral's interior was cold, even compared to the wind outside. It was built from black stone streaked with silver, and its pillars were shaped like hooded figures, all facing inward. As Kael passed under them, he could almost hear breathing.
The floor was covered in fallen leaves and dried blood.
Thorne moved ahead, brushing dust from a cracked wall. Symbols had been carved into it—circular glyphs with thorns spiraling inward.
"The sigil of the Hollow Wardens," he whispered. "They dealt with Name-Binding and Veil Echoes. Dangerous work."
Kael traced one of the runes with his fingers. It felt warm.
Then—his vision changed.
Suddenly, the cathedral was whole. Clean. Filled with the hum of chanting voices. Dozens of acolytes knelt in rows, heads bowed, as a tall figure in white robes strode between them. The Codex—his Codex—hovered above the altar, open, its pages flickering with light.
And at the center of it all stood a boy.
Him.
But not.
This version of Kael wore white robes, and the mark on his arm was not a brand—it was carved into bone.
The robed figure spoke a word Kael didn't understand.
The other him screamed.
Then the vision shattered.
Kael stumbled back, gasping.
Thorne caught his arm. "You saw something."
Kael nodded slowly. "A memory. Maybe not mine. I was here. I was them."
Thorne looked around. "Echoes linger in places like this. Especially if blood was spilled."
Kael's mark still burned.
He felt pulled forward, deeper into the nave, past the collapsed altar and into a narrow corridor that descended beneath the cathedral. There, at the end of a spiral stair, he found a heavy door sealed in wax and bone.
He didn't ask permission.
He opened it.
Inside was a small chamber, walls carved with the same spiraling runes, and at its center—
A corpse.
Seated upright in a prayer pose, arms folded, dressed in rusted Warden armor with the sigil of the Hollow Order etched across the chest. A veil covered its face. The air around it pulsed like breath.
Then the corpse spoke.
But not aloud.
You walk a path that ends in silence.
Kael stepped back, blade half drawn.
Thorne didn't move. "Don't speak to it."
The corpse continued.
The Codex remembers. The debt rises. Will you bear the Thorn-Crown, vessel? Will you name the wound?
Kael clenched his fists. "What does Avelrath want from me?"
To be remembered. To be reborn.
To speak the Final Thorn.
The corpse's head tilted—and then it collapsed into dust.
Only its armor remained.
Kael stumbled from the chamber, heart racing.
Thorne followed. "We need to leave. Now."
Kael nodded, dazed. "Why?"
"Because that wasn't a memory. That was present tense. That thing was aware. That means something's watching this place from beyond the Veil."
They left the cathedral as wind howled behind them like laughter.
Kael didn't look back.
The land twisted after they left the cathedral.
Not metaphorically—physically. Hills warped in impossible directions, trees leaned toward them even when there was no wind, and Kael felt as though the world shifted behind his back every time he blinked.
"Is this the Veil?" he asked Thorne.
"No," Thorne muttered, eyes sharp. "This is what happens when the Veil bleeds."
They traveled in tense silence, following no road, only instinct and compass—though even that began to fail. The needle spun unpredictably, pausing now and again to point north, but never for long.
By the time night fell, the mist had returned. It clung to the ground in ropes, hiding the underbrush and sucking all warmth from the air. They made camp in the hollow of a dead tree split by lightning.
Kael stared into the fire, fingers twitching.
"You keep touching your arm," Thorne noted.
Kael nodded. "It hurts."
The mark burned like acid now, especially after the encounter in the cathedral. The more Kael thought about the veiled corpse's words, the heavier the Codex felt in his pack.
"To speak the Final Thorn," he said aloud. "What does that mean?"
Thorne didn't answer right away. Instead, he leaned forward, eyes scanning the trees.
"I've heard the phrase before," he said finally. "Old tales. Not in any Warden scrolls. Only whispered in certain crypts… places we never map."
He exhaled slowly. "They say the world was once named whole—everything known, everything contained. Then something unwound the Names. The Thorn was its weapon. A word that doesn't end."
Kael frowned. "A word?"
Thorne nodded. "A name that undoes other names. Avelrath may have spoken it. Or become it."
Kael rubbed his temples. "So if I speak it…"
"You don't speak it," Thorne snapped. "You survive it."
That night, Kael dreamed again—but this time, it didn't feel like memory. It felt like invitation.
He stood atop a staircase that never ended, spiraling down into a black abyss. Voices called to him from below, soft as lullabies. Each step he took made the Codex glow brighter, until the air itself shimmered with glyphs.
Then a figure appeared on the steps beneath him.
She wore robes of ash-gray, stained with ink, and a white mask without a mouth. Her hands were marked with spirals like the ones in the cathedral. And in one palm, she held a thorn.
Kael stopped.
The masked figure raised the thorn, pressing it to her mask.
Then she turned—and walked deeper into the dark.
Kael awoke with a jolt, cold sweat running down his back.
The fire had died.
The mist had returned.
And someone stood at the edge of their camp.
Kael shot to his feet, grabbing his blade. "Thorne—"
"I see her," Thorne said, already up and armed.
The figure didn't move.
She wore robes of ash-gray, like in the dream. A white mask hid her face, smooth and featureless save for a single crack down the middle. She carried a staff wrapped in black cloth, and her presence didn't feel hostile—but it didn't feel human, either.
Thorne stepped forward.
"Name yourself."
The figure tilted her head.
Then she raised a hand and touched the crack in her mask.
"Veyra," came a voice—not from her mouth, but from somewhere between Kael's ears.
He staggered slightly, unbalanced by the sound.
Veyra lowered her hand. The voice faded.
Kael recovered first. "You followed me."
She nodded once.
"Why?"
Veyra stepped closer. Her robes rustled like dry pages. When she spoke again, the voice returned—soft, female, but distant, like memory played through glass.
"The Hollow sees you."
Kael blinked. "You're a pilgrim."
"I am the last."
Thorne's jaw tightened. "The Hollow Order is gone."
"Gone, but not undone. Some names do not forget. Some marks do not fade."
Kael took a step forward. "You know what I carry."
Veyra nodded slowly. Then she reached into her sleeve and produced a single black thorn—long, thin, and wet with sap.
She offered it to him.
He didn't take it.
"What is it?"
"A shard of the First Word. It called to you in your dream."
Kael's heart thudded painfully.
Thorne held out an arm, barring him. "Don't take anything from her. She's a guide, yes—but not for the living."
Veyra remained motionless.
"The Codex stirs. The path to Avelrath opens. But the world will not let you pass unchanged. This thorn will wound you. And in that wound, you may see."
Kael looked from her to Thorne.
"Do you trust her?" he asked.
"No," Thorne said immediately. "But that doesn't mean she's lying."
Kael hesitated.
Then—he reached out and took the thorn.
It stabbed into his palm the moment he touched it.
He gasped as heat flared up his arm, surging into the mark and exploding behind his eyes. The world shifted. The trees pulsed. The fire turned violet.
And for one brief instant—
He saw himself.
Standing in a mirror of thorns.
Wearing a crown.
He dropped the thorn, breathing hard.
It burned away into smoke.
Veyra bowed her head.
"You walk the Hollow Pilgrimage," she said aloud now—her voice real, hoarse. "Three echoes. Three trials. One wound."
Then she turned and walked into the fog.
Kael stared after her. "Should we follow?"
Thorne shook his head. "She's not leading us. She's marking the way."
He pointed to the path ahead.
Kael followed his gaze.
The mist had parted.
A road of black stones now cut through the forest—unearthed, untouched by time.
And lining the path, every few paces, were shards of bone carved with spirals.
"Pilgrims walked this trail," Thorne murmured. "And not all of them died."
Kael flexed his wounded hand. The mark had grown again—veins of silver now threaded through the brand like veins in marble.
"Let's walk it," he said.
They stepped onto the path.
The wind held its breath.
And far ahead, in the deepest part of the fog, something stirred in the dark—watching, waiting