Day one on the road tasted like dust and pine needles ground together under iron wagon wheels.
The sun climbed slow and merciless, by noon, turned the air into shimmering glass. Heat rose off the dirt in visible waves, carrying the smell of sun-baked ox dung, hot canvas wagon covers, and the sharp resin of the pine forest pressing close on both sides. Every breath felt thick, tasting of sap and horse sweat. Cicadas screamed in the branches overhead, a constant, sawing wall of sound that drilled into the skull.
I rode on the rearmost wagon, legs dangling over the tailgate, boots already gray with road dust that clung to the new leather like fine ash. The wood beneath me was sun-bleached almost white and radiated heat straight through my trousers, branding the backs of my thighs. Every rut jolted the wagon; crates rattled behind me, spices leaking their perfume (clove, star-anise, something smoky that stung the eyes). The fire-opal on my staff glowed like a coal, pulsing in time with the oxen's slow heartbeats.
Rill prowled the wagon roofs like a bored cat, tail flicking dust devils, ears swiveling at every bird call. Sweat darkened the fur along her spine and made her new armor stick to her skin; the leather creaked when she moved, releasing little puffs of lavender and fresh dye. Lioren rode sidesaddle on the lead wagon, hood thrown back, silver hair braided tight so the wind could only tease loose wisps that glittered like spider silk. She tasted the air every few minutes, eyes narrowed, bow across her lap like a sleeping predator.
By late afternoon the road narrowed and the pines closed in. The light turned green-gold, filtered through needles that smelled sharp and clean when the breeze moved them. Shadows stretched long and cool across the ruts. Somewhere a stream gurgled nearby; I could taste cold water on the back of my tongue just thinking about it.
We stopped at dusk in a clearing that smelled of moss and old campfires. The merchants moved fast, nervous, building a ring of wagons while the sun bled out behind the trees in streaks of bruised purple and molten orange. Cooking smoke rose almost immediately: fatty mutton sizzling over flames, onions hitting hot iron and hissing like angry snakes, coarse salt thrown into a pot and releasing clouds of rosemary and woodsmoke that made my stomach twist with hunger.
I helped dig the firepit; the soil was black and rich, full of pine roots that snapped with a green, sappy smell when the shovel bit in. Sparks flew upward in slow orange galaxies when the first log caught. Someone produced a battered fiddle; the notes floated out sweet and mournful, curling around the crackle of fat dripping into the flames.
Night dropped like a curtain. The temperature plunged. Suddenly the air tasted thin and metallic, pine so sharp it burned the nose. Stars crowded the sky thick as salt spilled on black velvet. Rill curled against my side on a log, tail wrapped around my ankle for warmth, her breath warm against my neck smelling of mutton grease and cider. Lioren sat on my other side, close enough that our shoulders touched; the heat of her skin through two layers of leather felt like a secret fire.
We ate straight from the pot with wooden spoons: lamb so tender it fell apart, potatoes creamy with fat, broth thick enough to coat the tongue and hot enough to scald. Cider followed, passed hand to hand in a leather jack that left my lips sticky-sweet. Someone told a dirty joke in dwarvish; laughter rolled around the fire like thunder.
Later, when the merchants slept and the guards rotated watch, the three of us slipped away to the edge of the clearing. The moss was cold and damp under my new boots, smelling of mushrooms and secrets. Moonlight filtered through the pines in silver blades, painting everything monochrome and sharp. Somewhere an owl called, low and lonely.
Rill pressed her forehead to my shoulder, claws pricking lightly through my sleeve. "Tomorrow we hit the Hollow proper," she whispered, voice rough with smoke and anticipation.
Lioren's fingers found mine in the dark, cool and steady. "Sleep light," she murmured against my ear, breath stirring the fine hairs at my temple.
I could taste tomorrow already: iron on the wind, old blood baked into the soil, the ozone bite of someone else's magic waiting in the shadows.
I squeezed both their hands, felt calluses and claws and bowstring scars, and grinned into the dark.
"Let them come," I said.
The fire behind us popped once, bright and defiant, throwing our shadows tall against the trees.
Somewhere deeper in the forest, something big moved through the underbrush and decided tonight was not the night.
We walked back to our bedrolls smelling of pine smoke, lamb fat, and the promise of violence, hearts beating loud and fearless under the indifferent stars
Day two the road turned ugly.
The pines thinned and the Ashen Hollow opened around us like a scar: black soil, gray grass, trees bleached bone-white by some ancient fire, their trunks twisted into screaming shapes. The air tasted of old smoke and rust; every breath coated the tongue with the faint iron tang of spilled blood long soaked into the ground. Even the wind sounded wrong (thin, whistling through hollow trunks like breath through broken teeth).
Heat gave way to a damp, clinging chill that crawled under armor and refused to leave. Mist rose from the earth in slow, oily coils, smelling of rot and wet ash. The wagon wheels left dark tracks that steamed faintly, as if the ground itself resented being touched.
Birdsong died. Only crows remained, perched on dead branches, glossy black eyes watching us pass, wings rustling like dry parchment. When the oxen lowed it came out muffled, swallowed by the mist.
Rill's ears stayed flat. Her tail barely moved; the tip twitched only when something cracked in the underbrush. Lioren rode with an arrow already nocked, the black fletching brushing her cheek each time the wagon lurched. I walked beside the last wagon, staff in hand, fire-opal glowing sullen red like an ember refusing to die.
By noon the mist thickened until the lead wagon was only a ghost shape ahead. Sound warped: hoofbeats arrived late, voices stretched and echoed, the creak of leather came from everywhere and nowhere. The merchants' fear had a smell now (sharp sweat, sour wine on nervous breath, the metallic edge of drawn steel).
Then the first arrow came.
It punched through the canvas cover beside my head with a flat, wet thunk, buried itself in a spice crate. Cinnamon exploded into the air in a red cloud that stung my eyes and tasted like burning Christmas.
Everything happened at once.
Rill vaulted the wagon side, blades flashing out with a hiss of steel on leather. Lioren stood on the driver's bench, bow singing three times so fast the string blurred. I spun, staff raised, and felt the fire-opal flare white-hot against my palm.
They came from the mist like nightmares someone had forgotten to bury: twenty, maybe thirty Red Fang bandits in patchwork armor painted rust-red, wolf skulls over their faces, moving silent until the last second. Then the screaming started (high, animal, hungry).
The air filled with smells in layers: fresh blood, split bowels, burning canvas when someone's torch hit a wagon, the ozone crackle of the enemy mage's spell charging somewhere in the gray.
I tasted all of it and smiled with teeth.
"Ignis globus."
The fireball left my staff like a newborn sun, roaring, blinding, turning the mist blood-orange. It detonated in the center of their charge and painted the dead trees with liquid fire. Screams cut off into wet gurgles. The shockwave slapped my face with heat and flying cinders; ash rained down soft and hot on my tongue.
Rill laughed (wild, joyous) and vanished into the smoke. Steel rang. Someone close by gurgled and fell. Lioren's arrows whistled overhead, finding throats with soft, intimate thunks. The mist turned pink.
I walked forward into the burning chaos, boots splashing through blood already cooling on the black earth, fire-opal singing in my grip, every heartbeat loud in my ears.
The Hollow smelled like war now, and it smelled like home.
We had work to do.
The mist turned into a living thing, thick, wet, tasting of iron and burnt sugar.
Every breath dragged across my tongue like licking a sword blade. Blood mist. Fire mist. The two braided together until I couldn't tell which was which.
The ground under my new boots had gone soft, spongy with spilled life. Each step made a wet sucking sound and released little puffs of steam that smelled of hot pennies and scorched hair. Charred bodies lay twisted like broken dolls, armor melted into flesh, mouths still open in silent screams. The fire-opal on my staff pulsed so hot it seared my palm through the leather wrap; the pain felt righteous.
Somewhere to my left Rill was a blur of steel and calico fury. I caught flashes: the wet flash of a throat opening, arterial spray painting the mist bright scarlet, her laughter high and cracked with joy. The air around her carried the sharp copper reek of fresh slaughter and the faint mint of her fur when she spun past me close enough that her tail brushed my cheek, leaving a warm stripe through the blood already drying there.
Lioren's arrows kept coming, steady as a heartbeat. I heard the soft kiss of fletching leaving string, the heavier thud of impact, the sudden absence of a scream that had been there a second ago. One arrow passed so close I felt the wind of it tug my hair; the shaft was slick with something dark and glistening.
Then the mage stepped out of the smoke.
He stood on a fallen log twenty paces away, robes the color of dried blood, staff crowned with a human jawbone still wearing scraps of beard. The air around him warped and shimmered with heatless violet fire. When he spoke the words tasted like spoiled honey and grave dirt; the mist recoiled from him, forming a perfect circle of clear air that revealed the blackened earth and the white bones poking through it.
I felt his spell building in my teeth, in my bones, like the pressure before a thunderstorm inside my skull.
I answered the only way I knew how.
Both hands on the staff. Fire-opal screaming white.
"Ignis globus—maxima."
The fireball that left me was no pumpkin this time. It was a sun ripped bleeding from the sky, roaring loud enough to slap ears flat, bright enough that even through closed eyelids I saw the red of my own blood. It hit the mage dead center and detonated with a sound like the world cracking its knuckles.
The shockwave punched the mist away in a hundred paces in every direction. Trees bent outward, leaves igniting mid-air into brief orange butterflies. The mage's shield flared violet once, then shattered like sugar glass; what was left of him painted the log in a steaming red-black fan.
Silence fell, sudden and absolute except for the soft patter of burning meat hitting the ground.
Then the mist rolled back in, cooler now, smelling of wet ash and sudden rain.
Rill stepped out of it, blades dripping, chest heaving, eyes luminous gold. A long cut across her cheek welled slow crimson; she licked it absently and grinned like a demon who'd just found religion.
Lioren appeared on my other side, bow still half-drawn, hair escaped from its braid and floating in smoke-charged strands. Her lips were parted, breath fast, pupils blown wide. A single drop of someone else's blood slid down her throat and disappeared under her collar.
We looked at each other across the smoking ruin of the battlefield, three silhouettes haloed in drifting ember-light, and started laughing, low, ragged, unstoppable.
The mist tasted like victory and funeral pyres.
The caravan guards stared at us like we'd grown new heads. The merchants wept openly.
I wiped my face with the back of my wrist and only succeeded in smearing more blood. My palms were black with soot, my tongue thick with smoke and iron.
Rill flicked an ear, cleaning blood from it with one claw. "Ears," she rasped, voice hoarse from screaming laughter. "We need ears."
Lioren's smile was slow, beautiful, terrible. "And one very crispy mage," she added.
I looked at the staff in my hand, opal still glowing like a satisfied heart, and felt the Hollow breathe around us, quiet now, almost respectful.
We had work to finish.
The ashes settled soft and warm on our shoulders like gray snow while we walked among the dead, harvesting proof, humming off-key under our breath, tasting tomorrow in every copper-sweet drop of blood still falling from the sky.