The Hollowing

Chapter 1

My heart pounded like a war drum, faster than I could breathe, faster than I could think. The soldiers dragged me down the Sanctum of Purity, my bare feet scraping against the cold marble. I kicked, twisted, fought, but their grip only tightened, iron fingers digging into my arms. My cries of rebellion echoed through the cathedral—swallowed by the vast, hollow space. No one would come. No one would help. I was alone.

As we neared the main hall, a low hum resonated in the air—a deep, vibrating frequency that rattled my bones. The hollowed believed it instilled calmness. I only felt dread.

The soldiers threw me to the floor. Pain shot through my knees as they scraped against the stone, fresh blood pooling in thin lines. I sucked in a sharp breath. No time to recover.

“Kneel.”

The command was absolute.

Slowly, I shifted, my body trembling, my pulse pounding against my skull. This was it. The beginning of the end.

In Elythia, the Hollowing is more than a ceremony—it is a reckoning. A sacred rite that strips away fear, insecurities, and the raw chaos of human emotion. What’s left behind is the best version of themselves. Something flawless. Perfect. Controlled. Worthy.

I was meant to become one of them.

The ceremony begins in suffocating stillness as if the world itself is holding its breath. The only light comes from flickering candles, casting restless shadows across the towering stained-glass windows ahead of me. Their colors should be vibrant, but in this dim glow, they seem muted—watchful. Behind me, the massive iron doors creak open, their hinges grinding like the gears of an ancient clock tower. A chill runs through me as I step forward.

The air inside is thick with the scent of melting wax and burning myrrh. Hooded figures fill the room, their faces concealed by deep black veils. They do not whisper, do not shift, do not even breathe loudly. Their silence is suffocating. I focus ahead, toward the Altar of the Hollowing—a towering slab of polished obsidian, its surface carved with sigils that seem to ripple and shift when I’m not looking directly at them. It stands beneath the vaulted ceiling, waiting.

My feet are bare against the cold stone, my crimson robes trailing behind me as I walk down the endless aisle. My steps echo like hammer blows, too loud, too sharp. The weight of unseen eyes presses against me. My heart pounds, but I do not falter. I cannot.

At the altar, the Arch Harbinger steps forward. In their hands, they hold the ancient dagger—carved from the fang of something that should not have existed. Its edge gleams even in the dim light. From the altar, the Veilkeepers begin the Chant of the Hollowing, their voices rising in discordant harmony, stretching beyond the limits of human sound. It is not a song. It is not even speech. It is something old, something vast, weaving itself through the air, wrapping around my skin like unseen hands.

The shadows around me shift, stretching unnaturally. The great stained-glass window trembles in its frame.

Then, the moment comes.

I must speak the Name of the Hollowing—the word given to me in whispers, the name meant only for my soul. My voice must carry it into the Veil, must claim the power that waits beyond it.

I part my lips.

"Juniper, "I whisper.

And the world rejects me.

The cathedral shudders—not with power, but with something wrong. The violet flames that should rise and consume me in transformation instead lash out, wild and untamed. The sigils on the altar don’t glow; they blacken, curling in on themselves like something rotting. The Veilkeepers hesitate in their chant. I feel it, the moment their voices waver—the moment they realize something is not right.

I try to breathe, but my breath is stolen as the fire turns on me. It does not fill me with power. It devours. My veins burn, but not with the divine light of the Hallowed. This is something else—something hollow, something ruined. I clutch my wrist as pain lances through it, searing my skin like molten glass. When I look down, a mark has formed there—black, jagged, fractured like a cracked mirror.

The stained-glass window behind the altar shatters.

A terrible, hollow wind howls through the cathedral. The shadows pull away from me, recoiling. The Veilkeepers stumble back, their bone masks cracking as if the very air rejects what I have become. The Arch Harbinger steps forward, their expression hidden beneath their hood, but I see it in the way they hesitate.

Then they touch my forehead.

And flinch.

"This one is unworthy," they breathe. Their voice is unreadable. Disappointment? No. Something deeper.

Fear.

The cathedral reacts.

The floor beneath me splinters, black cracks spreading outward like veins of rot. The air distorts, warps, as if reality itself is unraveling, unable to decide if I belong here or somewhere else.

Then—I fall.

Not onto the stone. Not into the mortal world. But into shattered glass, into shifting reflections, into a place where nothing stays whole.

The Mirrorlands.

The last thing I hear is the Arch Harbinger’s voice, distant, fading, cutting through the air like the final toll of a funeral bell.

"This one does not belong."

Then the cathedral is gone.

And the endless, shifting world of reflections swallows me whole.