You wake before dawn. The cold concrete floor beneath the thin mattress is uncomfortable, but you barely notice anymore. Your muscles ache, your ribs throb, but exhaustion is only a background noise now. Your mind is sharper. Always sharper.
Azael is already awake. He sits a few feet away, knees drawn up, elbows resting on them, staring into the darkened corner of the room. Something about the way he's watching makes you tense before you even realize it. Not paranoia. Recognition. You've learned the difference in the last few nights.
"Morning," you say, your voice rough from sleep.
Azael doesn't answer immediately. His eyes don't leave the shadowed corner. When he finally speaks, it's low. "They're active."
You freeze mid-step. "Active? Here?"
He nods. "Not fully here. Not yet. But they're probing. Testing."
Your stomach twists. "Probing? Why now?"
"Because they know we're here. Because Kaelthyr saw last night's fracture. Because you survived."
You glance at him sharply. "So now what?"
He exhales, running a hand over his face. The burn on his chest has scabbed over, but the skin is still red, and you can see the faint outlines of bruising along his ribs. "Now," he says finally, "we move."
You stop, gripping the edge of the mattress. "Move? Where? We can't keep running."
Azael finally stands, brushing the dust from his pants. He moves to the small counter and pours water into a cup. He drinks in silence, then sets the cup down. "We're not running. Not yet. But we're not staying."
You swallow hard. "So what's the plan?"
"The plan," he says, turning toward you, "is simple. We make it impossible for them to predict us. That's all. We prepare. We fight when necessary, and we don't make mistakes."
You feel the hollow stir at his words. Not alarm, not fear. Recognition. It's ready, just as you are. Almost. Not quite yet.
"I'm not sure what that means," you say.
"It means," he replies, "that last night was the warning. What comes next won't be."
The thought hits you in the chest like a physical blow. You nod slowly. "Then we need to be ready."
Azael doesn't argue. Instead, he grabs his bag and slings it over one shoulder. He gestures for you to do the same. You comply, moving automatically, your fingers brushing the hollow along your ribs.
Outside, the air is sharp. Frost has settled over the empty road. You pull your jacket tighter around your shoulders, and Azael falls in beside you. The road ahead is long, the sky still dark, but you feel the first faint light creeping over the horizon.
"This site," you say, breaking the silence. "It didn't feel like a refuge last night. Just… a stopgap."
"It's not supposed to be comfortable," Azael replies. "It's defensible, and it keeps us off the main grid. That's enough."
You glance at him. "Enough for how long?"
Azael shrugs. "Long enough to prepare."
The drive is quiet. You don't know how long you travel before you stop. The car rolls to a halt on a narrow dirt path, surrounded by trees and low hills. The sky is lighter now, faint streaks of orange and gray hinting at the sun, but the air is still cold.
"This is it," Azael says.
You follow him down the path, the car's engine still running behind you. Every step feels deliberate. Every sound echoes too loudly in the crisp morning air. You grip your bag strap tightly, feeling the hollow beneath your skin stir in anticipation.
The site is older than you expected. Concrete walls stained by decades of weathering, small guard towers long since abandoned. Fencing surrounds the perimeter, rusted and partially collapsed. You step inside, and the hollow reacts immediately — a subtle vibration, a recognition of boundaries.
Inside, the main building is dark. You can see the shapes of machinery and storage racks, shadows stretching unnaturally in the weak light filtering through broken windows. Azael gestures toward a stairwell leading underground.
"We'll stay below," he says. "It's easier to defend, and less likely to be seen. Less likely to be predictable."
You nod, following him down into the darkness. The stairwell smells of damp concrete and old oil. Your footsteps echo in the confined space, your breathing loud in your own ears.
At the bottom, the chamber opens into a larger area. The ceiling is low but reinforced. Broken machinery lines the walls. Old control panels still hum faintly with residual power. Dust swirls in the air.
"This will do for now," Azael says. "We can set watches, rotate, train. We can prepare."
You drop your bag onto the floor and sit heavily on the edge of a broken crate. "They'll find us," you say quietly.
"They will," Azael admits. "But we'll make it costly."
You take a deep breath, letting your hands brush your ribs, feeling the hollow pulse faintly beneath your skin. It's not fully awake, not fully ready. But it's close. You're close.
"Do you ever… get used to it?" you ask after a moment. "The feeling that they're always out there?"
Azael looks at you, expression tense but controlled. "No. You don't get used to it. You learn to manage it."
"And if I can't?"
"You will," he says firmly. "Because there's no other choice."
You nod, biting back the tension building in your chest. The hollow stirs again, a low, persistent pulse, like it's testing the room, testing the boundaries. You close your eyes for a moment, letting it settle into place.
"We should run drills," Azael says suddenly, breaking the quiet. "Simulate attacks. Make sure you can react without thinking."
You straighten immediately. "Now?"
"Yes," he says. "We don't have the luxury of waiting."
He gestures toward a narrow corridor leading to a storage area. You follow him, your steps deliberate. Azael pulls out his blade, spinning it lightly in his hand. "Stay focused. Eyes open. Listen to everything."
You nod, feeling the hollow tighten under your skin, ready.
The drills begin. Not theatrical. Not flashy. Real. You react to Azael's movements, to the sounds around you, to the subtle shifts in the room. Every motion, every flicker of light or shadow is a potential threat.
Sweat beads on your forehead. Your muscles ache, but you push through. Each action becomes sharper, faster, more precise. The hollow responds, aligning with your movements, expanding just enough to give you an edge.
Hours pass, though you lose track of time. Azael never lets you rest fully, keeping you moving, testing your reactions, forcing you to anticipate before threats exist.
Finally, you collapse against a crate, panting, muscles trembling. Azael kneels beside you, his own breathing ragged but controlled.
"You're improving," he says simply.
You shake your head, trying to catch your breath. "Feels like barely anything."
"Every second counts," he replies. "Every moment you hesitate is data for them. Every movement you perfect is a step ahead."
You close your eyes, letting the exhaustion wash over you. "Do you think Kaelthyr knows we're here?"
Azael's expression hardens. "He knows. He always knows. That doesn't mean he's coming yet."
You open your eyes and meet his gaze. "And when he does?"
"Then we'll be ready," he says. "Or we die trying."
The hollow pulses once more, stronger this time. Not violently. Not in warning. In preparation.
You feel it align with you, ready. Waiting. Expecting.
And you know, with that sinking certainty, that nothing in the world will ever be the same again.
Because this isn't a battle. Not yet.
It's war.
And Kaelthyr has already made the first move.
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