The air was thick with the scent of burning metal. Even as I stumbled away from the circle, I felt the woman's gaze pressing against my spine, her hum weaving through the ground beneath me. Each step I took felt heavier than the last, as if the earth itself were resisting my escape.
I turned, breath heaving, just in time to see the machine shudder violently. Its surface cracked like ice under pressure, light leaking through the fractures. A sound rose from its core—a deep, grinding groan, almost a voice, almost a scream.
The circle of armoured figures withdrew slightly, lowering their spears. The woman—her lips stitched shut—lifted her hands and spread her fingers wide. Her eyes burned black, mirroring the machine's glow.
The Hollow March has begun.
The phrase echoed through the ground, rippling out like a shockwave. It wasn't her voice that spoke—it was the world itself, as if her presence were a conduit for something much older, much darker.
I staggered backward, but the machine's light speared through the dust and smoke, catching me squarely. My limbs convulsed, a cold fire licking through my veins. The ember—the one I thought I'd stolen, or that had stolen me—burned brighter, reacting to the machine's pulse.
"No," I gasped. "Not this."
But it was already happening.
The machine's seams tore open, revealing intricate, shifting gears lined with veins of molten light. Steam hissed through its joints, and what had seemed lifeless began to move—tentative at first, like a creature waking from a long, enforced sleep. Plates locked into place, and limbs unfolded from its core, jagged and asymmetrical. The surface glistened with a sheen of oily light.
I felt the vibration underfoot intensify. The air thickened further, each breath harder to draw. My skin tingled as if brushed by static, and when I tried to step back again, my foot sank into the ground—into the living, breathing earth. It clung to me, tendrils of wet soil wrapping around my ankle.
Above, the woman lowered her hands. The machine's head—or what passed for one—swiveled, a slit of burning gold focusing on me. It emitted a low, echoing hum, not unlike the woman's own voice.
"You were meant to wake it," she said, her voice an ancient rasp not tied to her lips. "The ember you carry—our light stolen, our song broken. It calls to the machine. It answers you."
I shook my head, desperation clawing at my throat. "I didn't steal anything! I don't know what you're talking about!"
But even as I said it, I could feel the ember pulsing faster, matching the machine's beat.
The woman's expression—or what passed for one behind her stitched mouth—tightened. "You don't remember. But it remembers you."
With a shuddering groan, the machine stepped forward. Its weight shook the ground, sending cracks spiderwebbing across the slag fields. Figures scrambled aside, but they didn't flee. They stood firm, waiting, like worshippers witnessing a god's slow, inevitable return.
I tried to pull my foot free, but the earth refused to let go. My other foot sank as well, the soil thickening into a grip like stone. Panic surged through me.
"You can't," I whispered. "I won't let you."
The woman tilted her head, a mocking gesture, her eyes glittering like polished obsidian. "It was never your choice."
The machine's massive limbs reached out, one hand—if it could be called that—descending toward me. The air vibrated with the promise of impact, of being crushed, consumed, devoured by whatever this thing had become.
But then—
A flash of movement from the edge of the circle. A sharp, whistling cry, like the sound of a blade slicing through air.
A figure broke through the line of armoured watchers, a blur of motion and light. A blade glinted, catching the machine's glow, and it struck the descending limb with a force that sent sparks flying. The machine reeled back, groaning, its balance shifting.
I gasped, straining against the earth's grasp. The newcomer—a woman, clad in tattered, dust-caked leathers—landed between me and the machine. Her blade, long and curved, shimmered faintly with the same sickly light as the ember.
"Get up!" she snapped, her voice rough but alive. "If you want to live, move now!"
I didn't hesitate. The shock of her arrival snapped something loose in me, and I tore my legs free from the soil's grip. The earth hissed as if reluctant to let me go.
Together, we ran, dodging the machine's next strike as it lunged, the ground quaking beneath it. The woman slashed at its joints, aiming for weak points. Sparks flared, and though her blade couldn't stop it completely, it bought us precious seconds.
Behind us, the woman with the stitched mouth raised her hands again, her voice rising in a keening wail that resonated with the ground. The circle of armoured figures surged forward, shadows stretching, weapons raised.
We fled into the smoke, the machine's roar echoing behind us, the woman's hum rising into a scream of rage and loss.
The Hollow March had begun.
But we were still running.
And the ember in my chest burned hotter than ever.