Jacob ran, but the corridor stretched longer than it should have.
His boots splashed through puddles that hadn't been there moments before—thick, dark liquid that clung to his soles like tar. The air smelled of wet earth and burnt hair. Behind them, the dragging sound grew closer, accompanied by a low, childlike humming that set Jacob's teeth on edge.
"You're remembering wrong."
Eleanor's voice came from beside him, but when he glanced over, her mask had changed again. The crack now split her face diagonally, the porcelain edges jagged like broken bone. One eye was hers—wide and terrified. The other, visible through the crack, was milky-white, pupil dilated too large.
Dead.
Jacob's breath hitched. "What's happening to you?"
The mask's painted lips twitched into a smile. "Nothing that hasn't happened before."
A memory flickered—
—Emily's small hands pressing a damp cloth to his forehead. "You have to stay awake, Jakey," she begged. The cottage smelled of smoke and copper. Outside, something scratched at the door—
The vision shattered as Eleanor yanked him sideways into a crumbling alcove. Her fingers were too cold. "Don't." Her voice trembled. "Don't let it make you remember. Not here."
The humming stopped.
Silence. Then—
A wet click of a dislocated jaw.
The Hollow Priest stood at the end of the hall, his tattered robes dragging through the black puddles. His mask was simple—unpainted wood, featureless save for two uneven holes for eyes. Yet Jacob knew the Priest was smiling.
"Little liar," the Priest crooned. His voice was wrong—layered, as if multiple people spoke through him. "You promised to protect her. Just like you promised to burn with the rest."
Jacob's dagger trembled in his grip. "I don't know you."
The Priest tilted his head. "Liar," he whispered—and this time, it was Emily's voice.
The walls breathed.
Jacob's vision doubled—
—A younger version of himself, standing in the Blackwood garden, hands sticky with blood that wasn't his. Eleanor, small and sobbing, clutching his sleeve. "They'll make us forget," she whispered. "Like they always do."
The memory dissolved as the Priest lunged.
Jacob barely dodged, but the Priest's fingers grazed his cheek—and burned. Not with heat, but with a cold so deep it felt like his skin was peeling away. He stumbled back, his free hand flying to his face. His fingertips came away black with rot.
Eleanor screamed—a raw, broken sound—as the Priest turned to her.
"Time to come home, Eleanor," the Priest murmured, reaching for her mask. "You've been lost so long."
Jacob moved without thinking.
His dagger sank into the Priest's wrist, but no blood came. Only a thick, black smoke that coiled up his arm like vines. The Priest didn't flinch. He turned his hollow gaze back to Jacob.
"You always try to save them," he said, almost sadly. "But you never save yourself."
Then the floor gave way beneath them.