They stayed in the Hollow. For one night. Maybe two.
Time folded strangely here. Minutes stretched. Hours curled into dreams. The Hollow didn't obey clocks—it followed memory, and Kaelira had so many she couldn't touch. They slept beneath crumbling archways, side by side, like children playing pretend under the stars.
Elarin didn't speak much the first night. Neither did Kaelira. But in the silence, something softened.
Not forgiveness.
Not yet.
But familiarity.
---
The second day, they explored. Elarin showed her the stream that shimmered silver and whispered voices if you leaned too close.
"The Hollow remembers everyone who dies with something left unsaid," she told Kaelira. "That's why I stayed."
Kaelira knelt beside the water. For a moment, she thought she saw Dorian's reflection. Or maybe her own, before the fire.
"I don't know what's real anymore."
Elarin shrugged. "Neither do I. But here… does it matter?"
---
Later, they gathered herbs with glowing roots and brewed bitter tea Kaelira didn't entirely trust.
"You always hated this," Elarin said, smirking faintly. "You used to spit it into your sleeve when the priestesses weren't looking."
Kaelira blinked. A flicker of a memory. A cup. A sleeve. A giggle not her own. She laughed softly. "That does sound like me."
Elarin raised her brow. "You think you remember?"
"No. But I want to."
---
They spoke of small things next. The way their mother sang to the moon. The scent of burnt clove in the temple halls. The night their powers first bloomed—Kaelira with fire, Elarin with shadows.
"Yours was stronger," Kaelira murmured.
Elarin looked away. "And yours was brighter."
---
They trained the third day. Just like they might have, long ago. A circle drawn in ash. No magic—only movement. Kaelira spun with grace born of survival.
Elarin danced with elegance shaped by absence. They moved like mirrors. Unspoken, perfect rhythm.
Until Kaelira slipped. Elarin caught her.
Their eyes met—two halves of a whole fate.
"You could stay," Elarin said quietly.
Kaelira didn't pull away. "And if I did?"
Elarin's breath caught. "We'd burn the world down… together."
---
That night, they didn't sleep under stone. They built a fire, small and flickering, and sat close. The stars above the Hollow were unfamiliar—spiraling patterns like ancient sigils. Kaelira leaned back, her shoulder brushing Elarin's.
"I'm afraid," she said.
"So am I," Elarin whispered. "But we're not children anymore."
"No," Kaelira agreed. "We're what's left of them."
---
In the firelight, something between them finally softened.
Not trust. But something like it.
---
And still, beneath it all, the Hollow watched. Because memory was a fragile thing…
…and the truth hadn't been told yet.