The dawn was a pale smear of ash across the sky. Reth Vale never truly felt light, not anymore. The ruins seemed to breathe in the quiet, broken air, and I could feel the fragment pulsing against my palm like a heartbeat out of sync with my own. Each pulse was a reminder. Each pulse was a cost.
Ryven had left early, claiming we needed to scout further into the city's inner districts. I remained in the Refuge, attempting to anchor the fragment to something I could still call my own. Memory fragments of my family, small joys from my childhood, names I was terrified of forgetting—I pressed them into the shard, hoping to stabilize it. It throbbed, resisting, but allowed a faint tether. One more day, one more victory.
Then the noise began.
Not the wind, not the creak of stone or the drip of rain from the collapsed roofs. Something sharper, more deliberate. Footsteps, echoing across the empty streets. And the whisper, faint at first, threading through my mind. The Hollow was near.
---
I moved silently, holding the fragment tight, feeling the pulse in my veins. My senses were stretched, attuned to the slightest shift in air, the smallest movement of shadow. Hunters did not make mistakes. They could feel the pulse of a fragment from blocks away, sense its intent, even its hunger.
The figure emerged from the alley ahead. Cloaked, faceless, the kind of presence that made the hair on my neck stand at attention. This was no scout, no minor pursuer. This was a binder of experience, someone who had survived fragments before and worn them like armor.
"You hold it," the voice said, smooth, without fear. "The shard of the Hollow. You do not know what you carry, do you?"
I gripped it tighter. "I know enough," I said. My voice sounded hollow even to me.
The figure tilted their head. "Enough to survive the day? Enough to pay the price? Or will you be another ash in Reth Vale?"
---
The first strike was sudden. Shadows erupted from the alley like fingers reaching for me. The fragment flared, bending reality in a burst of controlled chaos. Stones and splinters rose, twisting around the attacker. But this hunter did not hesitate. He—or it—sliced through the shards as if they were smoke, advancing without fear.
Pain struck my shoulder, sharp, unexpected. A taste of blood filled my mouth as the shard reacted instinctively, expanding, bending the air into a jagged barrier that pushed the hunter back. But each reaction cost something—memories flickered, small faces I remembered vanished from the edges of my mind.
"You will pay," the hunter whispered, voice calm but deadly. "Every choice has a price."
I did not respond. I could not. I focused on survival, on controlling the shard, on anchoring my intent.
---
Time became strange. Seconds stretched into long, echoing minutes as we danced a deadly ballet of fragment and skill. The streets warped around us. Puddles froze midair, glass twisted into impossible shapes, shadows that should have been behind walls moved forward, guided by the shard's pulse.
I felt the cost deep within me. Every small success shredded another layer of memory. My childhood laughter felt distant, names of friends blurred into uncertainty. Yet I could not stop. I could not hesitate. Each hesitation risked death, or worse—the fragment consuming what remained of me.
The hunter paused. "You cling to fragments of yourself. Do you know what remains once you are hollowed? Do you understand the truth of your power?"
"I survive," I said. It was more than a statement. It was a declaration, a tether to what remained of my identity. The fragment pulsed in agreement, or maybe in recognition. It was hard to tell anymore.
---
The battle shifted as we moved through the ruins. Walls crumbled, streetstones fractured, and the air itself seemed to resist the manipulation of the fragment. I realized something I had not before: the Hollow responded to intent but also to fear. If I allowed doubt to enter my mind, it would twist the fragment against me.
I steadied myself. Focus. Anchor. Control.
The hunter struck again, a blur of motion, and I barely reacted in time. The fragment expanded, snapping reality into jagged shapes to block the attack. A section of roof collapsed, dust filling my lungs, coughing and choking me. But I held on, tighter than ever, willing myself to remain in control.
"You are not ready," the hunter said, striking with a shard that tore a deep gash across my arm. The pain was sharp, real, grounding me. And yet I felt something else—the fragment screaming for action, for release, for dominance.
I bit back the urge to let it consume everything in a wave of power. Control was the lesson Ryven drilled into me. I anchored, held my intent like a lifeline, and the fragment pulsed obediently. The hunter recoiled slightly, surprised by the precision and restraint.
---
Hours—or maybe minutes—passed. Each strike, each block, each manipulation felt like a test against my very existence. Faces, names, fragments of memory fell away. I began to notice empty spaces in my mind where once I had certainty. The Hollow was patient. It would take everything if allowed.
Finally, the hunter retreated, leaving a whisper of warning that echoed in my skull:
Every fragment leaves a scar. Every choice leaves ash. Do not think you escape the Hollow.
I collapsed against a ruined wall, blood and rain mixing, sweat stinging my eyes. The fragment throbbed faintly in my pocket, almost human, almost alive. I had survived. But the cost was becoming undeniable.
---
Ryven returned as the sky darkened, their expression unreadable. "You are alive," they said, voice low. "And that is all that matters. But the Hollow will test you again. Others are watching. Others will come. You cannot hide."
I nodded, swallowing the taste of iron in my mouth. Each heartbeat felt heavy, weighted by the fragment's demand and my fading memories. The city outside was no sanctuary. Every shadow held potential death, every echo a predator waiting for a mistake.
"We need to move deeper," Ryven said. "The fragment grows. You grow. But growth is a dangerous thing. You must learn its hunger, its rhythm, or it will claim everything."
I clenched the shard in my hand. The pulse was steady now, a faint rhythm I could almost follow. Almost control.
---
That night, sleep was impossible. Dreams of fire and ash returned, more vivid, more terrifying. Faces I once knew whispered from the darkness, calling me, pleading, accusing. The fragment vibrated in my pocket as if aware of my fear. I pressed it into the bed beside me, feeling its weight, feeling its demand.
The Hollow's voice was clear now, threaded through every shadow in the Refuge:
Remember or be forgotten. Survive or be hollowed.
I whispered back, though my words were fragile, almost lost:
I will not be ash.
---
Morning came with no relief. The city remained a skeleton of broken stone and twisted metal. Hunters were still out there, fragments still pulsing in the shadows, and the Hollow waited patiently, watching, testing, luring.
Ryven taught me new techniques that day. How to anchor fragments to intentions stronger than memory. How to manipulate multiple shards without losing oneself entirely. How to push the fragment without letting it consume my soul.
It was exhausting, terrifying, and exhilarating all at once.
By nightfall, I could manipulate several small fragments at once. I could sense the edges of memory fraying in real-time. I could hear the Hollow whispering, demanding, warning. I could feel pieces of myself fading, but I also felt the pulse of survival, sharp and steady.
---
The Hollow's patience and the hunters' persistence had become my reality. Every step forward was a gamble. Every victory came at a cost. And yet, I could not stop. The fragment would not allow it, and neither could I.
By the time I finally rested, the shard lay beside me. It pulsed faintly, almost soothingly. I knew the path ahead was darker than anything I had faced. I knew more hunters would come, more fragments would call, more pieces of myself would vanish.
But I also knew something else: I had survived another day.
And that was enough.