The Obsidian Hollow was not a place marked on any map. It was whispered about in cautionary tales told to young fae—of a sunken kingdom where shadows lived without masters, and light dared not tread. Those who entered without purpose rarely returned, and those who did returned changed.
Iris knew none of this until they were halfway across the Bleeding Marshes, their boots soaking in crimson brine and eyes stinging from salt mists.
"Tell me again," she asked, squinting ahead at the desolate horizon, "why we're walking into a place called Obsidian Hollow?"
Thalen's voice was grim. "Because the Heart's second fragment sleeps in shadow. And the Hollow is where shadow forgets its name."
"And you're just now telling me this?"
"I was hoping we wouldn't have to come here at all."
Nyx, who had been quiet for hours, finally spoke. "There are older things in the Hollow than even the Thorn Court. Things that crawl between dreams and memory. The Obsidian Hollow remembers pain, and it has no mouth to scream."
They arrived at the threshold at dusk—not that the sun shone much in Faerun anymore. The land around the Hollow sank into black glass and brittle ash. The trees were dead, yet their bark pulsed faintly, like old wounds that never healed.
And the Hollow itself… wasn't an entrance.
It was a collapse.
A chasm in the land, yawning wide, the edges jagged like a cracked mirror. Smoke leaked from below in thick ribbons. From deep inside, Iris heard a distant voice—a whisper of her thoughts twisted: You're not real. You're not ready.
She stepped closer, and her watch ticked once.
Time buckled.
For a heartbeat, she stood in Hollowmere again, watching her younger self reach into a fire to save a burning photograph. She could feel the pain, the heat, the crack of bone—but she had no memory of that moment. It had never happened.
"Iris!" Thalen's voice snapped her back. He grabbed her wrist. "The Hollow plays tricks."
"It doesn't just play," Nyx murmured. "It feeds."
Still, they descended.
The descent took hours—or minutes. Time became slippery the deeper they went. The walls of the Hollow pulsed with memories not their own. They passed through ruins of ancient fae halls, where light flickered like breath, and voices echoed without bodies.
At one point, Iris looked down and realized she was walking over a floor made of old dreams—hers, Thalen's, Nyx's—flickering like broken film beneath cracked obsidian.
The air grew colder, but not in temperature—in memory. It stung like regret.
They reached a chamber carved entirely out of shadowglass. In the center stood a monolith, around which coiled an enormous serpent made of smoke and mirrors.
Its eyes opened—two gleaming voids.
"I know your name," the serpent hissed. Its voice came from every surface. "I know all the names you've buried."
Thalen stepped forward, sword in hand.
But the serpent was not hostile. It simply was.
"I guard the fragment," it said. "But it is not mine to give. You must find it within yourselves."
Then it shattered—vanished into shards that spiraled into the ceiling.
And the monolith cracked open.
Inside was not a room, but a memory.
They were in a throne room—familiar yet wrong. Thorn-covered walls, chandeliers made of silvered bones, and a blackened throne. Iris recognized it. The Thorn Queen's throne.
But the queen who sat upon it… was Iris.
Her reflection wore a crown of thorns and ash. Her eyes were hollow. In one hand, she held the Heart, pulsing with stolen light. In the other, a blade made of midnight.
"You wanted power," the reflection said. "And so you took it."
"This isn't real," Iris said.
"Isn't it?" the reflection replied, rising. "You'll have to decide that for yourself."
Thalen raised his blade. "It's a memory, Iris. Nothing more."
But Nyx shook his head. "No. It's a possibility. One she could become."
The reflection attacked.
The battle was not fought with weapons, but with truth.
The reflection struck Iris with doubt—visions of her failing, of everyone she loved falling into the Veil. Iris fought back with hope—memories of her mother's lullabies, of nights spent reading stars from her attic roof.
Each blow was a choice.
Each wound, a memory.
And when the reflection finally knelt, its form flickering, Iris reached forward—and pulled the second fragment of the Heart from its chest.
It burned cold in her hand.
The reflection looked up. "If you take the Heart, there's no going back."
"I know," Iris said.
And then the throne room vanished.
They stood again in the chamber of the monolith.
The serpent's voice returned, distant now. "Two fragments found. One remains. Fire shall test what shadow cannot burn."
A path opened in the wall, lit by veins of glowing ruby.
But before they could follow it, Nyx froze.
He turned slowly.
Something stood at the edge of the chamber.
A figure cloaked in white, faceless. It had no voice, yet its presence screamed.
Thalen drew his sword. "Run."
They didn't argue.
The escape from the Hollow was madness.
Corridors folded. Memory tore. Iris felt her heartbeat in reverse. Nyx used illusions to blind the entity, but it tore through them like cobwebs.
Only when Iris pressed both fragments of the Heart together did the Veil part—just enough for them to step out of the Hollow and into dusk.
They collapsed in the grass beyond the Bleeding Marshes.
And only then did Iris notice the mark on her hand—a spiral of gold and black, pulsing faintly.
"It touched you," Thalen said.
"I'm fine," Iris lied.
But she wasn't.
That night, as the stars shimmered above them, Iris dreamed.
Not of the black rose, or the garden, or Faerun in ruin.
She dreamed of a fire.
A court of flame, crowned by a king with molten eyes.
And beneath his throne, chained in fire, was the final fragment.
When she awoke, the sky had changed.
The moon bore a second crack.
And the Veil was thinning.