The Hollow stood half-rebuilt, scarred yet determined, like the people within it. Morning broke through the mist in fractured rays, casting golden light over what remained of the eastern ridge, where Soren had made his final stand. His absence was a constant ache, his sacrifice etched into every stone we lifted, every wall we mended.
We were not the same wolves who had fled Darrowmere. Not the same warriors who'd fought the phoenix in the Hollowing Caves. The fire in our souls had been tempered by loss and forged into something harder, something unbreakable. Aria, once the fragile ember of prophecy, now blazed like a forge-fire—untamed, unrelenting, and resolute.
A council of war was called in the Heartstone Hall.
Every surviving elder, warrior, and seer gathered. Even packs from the northern highlands and distant river clans sent envoys. The Ashen Faith had grown too bold, their message spreading like a rot through the land—promising power through surrender, peace through dominion.
Aria stood before them all, adorned not in regal silks but in the ash-stained leathers of a fighter. Her hair tied back, scars unhidden. She looked like every survivor in the room. And that made her their queen.
"We have lost too much," she said, voice steady. "But we have more to lose if we don't act now. The Ashen Faith worships the shards, believing the Queen's madness to be salvation. They will not stop. And if they gather the shards before we do... the Queen will rise again—not in body, but in belief. And belief..." She looked around. "...can be more dangerous than any blade."
There was silence.
Then Kael stood. "You have my blade. My sister's. My blood."
Varyn, with a new mechanical brace in place of his missing arm, raised his voice. "They took from me. I will take it back."
One by one, others rose. Pledging themselves not to Aria alone—but to the cause.
A rebellion had begun.
—
Our next target was the Crimson Dunes.
A sea of red sand, where mirages whispered and time bent. It was said that the shard buried there twisted perception—turning allies into enemies, love into hatred. The journey was perilous, even without the shard's corruption.
We traveled with a caravan of desert-born warriors—Sunfangs, led by a fierce woman named Nyra. She walked barefoot on burning sands, her skin marked with inked stories of battles long past. She trusted few, but Aria earned her respect quickly.
"You don't speak like a queen," Nyra said one night, as we sat beneath a star-blasted sky.
"Maybe because I'm not one," Aria replied.
"Oh, you are. Just not the kind that rules with a crown. You rule with fire. With purpose. That's rarer."
We reached the heart of the dunes after ten days.
A monolithic altar of obsidian jutted from the sand, pulsating with a crimson glow. Around it, a maze of shifting glass-like sand had formed. Entering meant surrendering our senses. Hallucinations would assault us. Truth would be warped.
We formed a chain, tethered by enchanted cords. Fen scouted the outer rings. Aria and I led the center.
The first vision struck when we passed the third spiral.
I saw my mother—long dead—calling my name, her face twisted in grief. Her voice told me I had failed, that I was unworthy.
I faltered.
But Aria's grip pulled me back. Her voice cut through the illusion.
"You are more than their fear. You are more than your past."
We pressed on.
Milla screamed, seeing Kael dead beside her.
Kael nearly attacked Fen, mistaking him for an Ashen priest.
The shard corrupted minds with insidious precision.
But Aria's flame burned steady.
We reached the altar. The shard hovered above it, crackling with energy. But this time, there was no guardian beast. The enemy was within.
To destroy it, we had to cleanse our minds.
We each stepped into the circle.
Aria went first, eyes closed, lips moving in ancient tongue. Her flames turned white, pure as starlight. One by one, we added our essence—blood, memory, soul—to the ritual.
The shard screamed—not in sound, but in thought. Our own darkest doubts roared against us.
But we stood firm.
Together.
And the shard shattered.
—
Returning to the Hollow took longer. Ashen cultists stalked us through the desert, ambushing twice. Nyra lost three warriors. Fen was wounded by a poisoned blade. Aria never stopped moving—never stopped planning.
She and I grew closer in those nights. Not just in body, but in truth.
"I used to dream of running," she said as we camped under an eclipse. "Running from fate. From prophecy. From being anything other than a scared girl in a burning world."
"You're not running anymore," I told her.
"No. Now I'm running toward something."
We made love that night not out of desperation, but out of defiance. As if saying—we are still here. Still burning.
—
Back at the Hollow, things had shifted again.
New allies had arrived—the Dryads of the Vale, their bark-skin warriors gliding like shadows through trees. The Stonekin, ancient beings from the underdepths, lent us golems of earth and lava. Even a tentative envoy from the Sirens arrived, offering maps of the oceanic ruins.
But with unity came tension.
Old grudges flared. Dryads distrusted wolves. Sirens hissed at Stonekin. There were fights. Duels. Blood spilled in the very halls meant for strategy.
Aria called another gathering.
"I don't care for your histories," she said coldly. "We are standing on the edge of annihilation. If you can't fight together, then don't fight at all. Go. Leave. But know this—the Queen's essence grows. And it will not spare you because you clung to pride."
No one left.
Instead, they trained.
Together.
An army formed. An alliance unseen in centuries. Not under one banner—but under one purpose.
The Siren Isles were next.
And beyond them, the root of the World Tree.
But before we left, the Ashen Faith struck again.
They infiltrated the Hollow. Poisoned the eastern well. Killed three children.
We caught one of them—a boy no older than sixteen. Eyes glazed in devotion. Skin carved with runes.
Aria interrogated him herself.
"Why do you follow her?" she asked.
"She gives us purpose," he murmured. "She offers freedom from pain. From memory. From self."
"That's not freedom," Aria growled. "That's surrender."
He smiled. "And what are you offering? More pain?"
"No," she said. "I'm offering a chance to fight through it."
He spat at her.
She didn't flinch.
Later that night, she stood on the battlements, watching the stars.
"She's not just a ghost," Aria said. "She's becoming an idea. A religion. The more we fight her, the more they believe."
"Then we change what they believe," I said. "We give them something else. Something real."
She looked at me. "Hope?"
"Yes."
She turned back to the stars.
"Then let's burn bright enough to guide them."
And so we prepared.
For the journey to the Isles.
For the battles to come.
For the world we refused to let die.