chapter 2:The Hollow Bleeds
1299 Words
He didn’t remember being moved.
Only the cold, and then the smell of ash.
Smoke still clung to the bones of the outpost. Burned wood. Old stone. Charred furs. As Ronan's eyes cracked open, the brittle scent filled his nostrils like dust in his lungs. The ceiling above him was half-collapsed—timber beams hung like ribs over a stone chamber long forgotten by the world. Snow drifted in through gaps in the roof, falling soft and pale over the blackened flagstone floor.
He didn’t know how he got here.
But he recognized the place.
The Hollow.
Not the stronghold itself—this was one of the outposts on the southern ridge, where young warriors trained, drank, f****d, and bled. Where Ronan had first fought his brother. Where he'd buried his first kill.
Now, it was just a ruin.
He moved to sit up, wincing as his side screamed in protest. Someone had wrapped it—tight, efficient, clean. He felt dried poultice on the wound and smelled crushed pine bark. He touched the wrappings. No blood. It had been treated.
He blinked slowly. His memory caught up in pieces.
The figure in the woods. The silver knife. The voice like snowfall.
You shouldn’t be alive.
He looked around. The place was empty.
His sword was gone. His dagger, too.
Ronan braced his arm against a beam and pushed to his feet, breath ragged. The pain flared, but he was steadier now. Some strength had returned, though it felt… artificial. Borrowed.
He stepped forward. Every movement ached. Dust clung to his boots, and blood marked the floor behind him in a fading trail. He followed it.
The outpost had been looted long ago. No weapons. No bedding. The walls still bore claw marks from some ancient scuffle. The only sign of life was the dying warmth of a fire pit tucked into the corner, embers glowing faintly beneath the ash. Someone had stayed here recently. Someone had tended him.
His jaw clenched.
Why?
He made it into the inner chamber—bare stone walls, shattered chairs, a table collapsed under its own age. A cracked mirror hung crooked on a rusted nail. Its silver backing was peeling. Most would have walked past it.
Ronan didn’t.
He moved toward it like a man approaching a grave.
He stared at his reflection.
He barely recognized himself.
The man looking back was gaunt—cheekbones sharp beneath his skin, stubble thick with dried blood, hair matted and curling at the edges. But it was the eyes that caught him.
Once, they had been gold. A wolf's gold.
Now they were clouded. The irises had faded to a pale amber, ringed in sickly gray. Like smoke had seeped into the color.
Wolfless eyes.
He reached up, touched the mark just beneath his ribs. It ached faintly, pulsing with his heartbeat.
The Hollow.
That’s what Castor had called it.
“I’ll leave you with nothing, brother. Not even your beast. Not even your soul.”
Ronan tore his gaze from the mirror and punched the stone wall beside it. A jolt of agony shot up his arm. He welcomed it.
A sound behind him—soft, deliberate.
He turned sharply, limping into the main chamber, and found her standing in the archway.
Sylra.
No hood this time. No weapon in hand. Her silver eyes gleamed like coins in shadow, and her cloak was half-open, revealing the dark bodice and rough-hewn leggings beneath. She carried a small satchel, her fingers curled around the strap like she was ready to run.
They stared at each other.
“You brought me here,” Ronan said.
“I did.” Her voice was careful, measured.
“Why?”
“I didn’t want you to die in the dirt.”
He studied her.
Her face didn’t move, but he caught the flicker in her jaw—the tiniest tic. Lie. Not a full one. A shaded truth. He’d told enough of those to recognize it.
“You could’ve finished me,” he said.
“Didn’t seem like much sport.”
He took a step forward. She didn’t flinch. But her eyes flicked down—sizing him up.
“You’re not a traveler.”
“I never said I was.”
“You didn’t say anything.”
“That’s safer, sometimes.”
He exhaled slowly. “What do you want?”
Sylra tilted her head slightly, as if that question bored her. “You were bleeding out. Now you're not. You're welcome.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You felt it, didn’t you?”
“Felt what?”
He didn’t answer. He watched her instead.
The bond still stirred beneath his skin. Subtle. Electric. Like a thread wrapped through muscle and bone, pulled tighter the longer he looked at her.
Ronan had never believed in Luna tales. Fated mates were a myth told to heat-struck pups and old widows.
But he felt it now.
And worse—she felt it too.
She blinked. "Whatever you're imagining, it isn’t that."
“You sure about that?” he asked.
“I’m not here for you,” she replied, voice hardening.
“Then why are you still here?”
She hesitated.
Just long enough.
“Because if you stay in these woods alone, you’ll die,” she said. “And despite what you may think, I’m not cruel.”
“Cruel’s not the word I’d use,” Ronan muttered.
She arched a brow. “What is?”
“Careless.”
“Only with those who bite.”
He gave a tired half-smile. It hurt his mouth.
Sylra stepped forward and set the satchel down by the fire. “You’re in no shape to move. The bloodhounds are still in the east forest. You have until nightfall. Maybe.”
“And then?”
“You’ll need to move. Unless you’d rather let them rip you open.”
Ronan didn’t answer. He watched her.
She crouched by the fire, stirring the ash with a twig, feeding it dry moss and bark from her satchel. The flames grew, casting gold across her face. She didn’t look at him.
He hated how calm she was. How practiced.
“I’ve never met a herbalist who carries silver,” he said.
“I’ve never met an Alpha who couldn’t shift,” she countered.
Silence stretched.
The fire popped softly.
“You saw the mark,” he said finally.
“Yes.”
“Know what it is?”
Sylra’s eyes stayed on the fire. “I’ve heard stories.”
“Then you know I’m already dead.”
She looked up at him. Her gaze was flat, unreadable.
“Not yet.”
He wasn’t sure if it was mercy or threat.
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