My mother is a witch

Chapter 9: The Hollow That Remains

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I woke up to rain.

Cold, bitter drops falling through the canopy onto my face. My shirt was soaked with blood—mine. The wound over my heart had sealed, but a scar remained. A jagged starburst of dead flesh. The mark was gone, but I felt no victory.

Only emptiness.

Like something sacred had been carved out of me.

I staggered to my feet, dizzy, vision swimming. The grimoire was gone, burned to ash in the ritual. The dagger lay beside me, rusted now, the edge blackened like it had eaten something it shouldn’t have.

And deep in my bones, I felt it.

The bond was broken—but Enoch wasn’t gone.

Something had shifted.

A c***k had opened. Not wide enough for him to step through—but wide enough to whisper. And I could still hear his voice, faint as a dying wind, curling inside my skull.

The walk back to camp felt endless. Every shadow seemed to move. Every tree felt like it was watching me breathe.

When I arrived, Lira was waiting. Alone.

The others were gone.

“What happened?” I rasped.

She looked at me like I was a ghost. “They left. Cael said you’d already made your choice. That you were corrupted.”

“Are they right?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “But you’re still breathing. That means something.”

I sank beside the firepit, staring at the grey ash where flame used to live.

“I saw my mother in the ritual. She didn’t try to trap him out of hate. She did it to save him. And me. I think… I think she loved him.”

“She did,” Lira said. “That’s the worst part about witches. We love our monsters.”

We sat in silence for a long time.

Eventually, Lira handed me a scrap of parchment—worn, blood-stained, torn from a much older book. On it was a drawing of the starburst scar. My scar. Beneath it, in red ink, were three words:

THE HOLLOW KING.

“What is this?” I asked.

“A prophecy. Or a warning. The Hollow King is the name given to the child of Enoch. The one who bears the mark, breaks the bond, and opens the final door.”

“I broke the bond,” I said. “That means I stopped it, right?”

She didn’t answer.

Because we both knew the truth.

I didn’t close the door. I just unlocked the first one.

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That night, I dreamed again.

Not of fire, not of chains—but of emptiness.

A massive black field. A throne made of antlers and bone. And sitting on it—me.

Crowned in flame.

Eyes like my father’s.

Mouth smiling wide.

The Hollow King.

And beneath my feet—London. Burning.

I woke screaming.

Lira held me down, whispering spells, runes glowing on her palms. It took minutes before my breath slowed, before I realized I’d clawed my own arms b****y in the dream.

“I’m becoming him,” I whispered.

“No,” she said. “You’re still fighting.”

“But for how long?”

She didn’t answer.

Because we both heard it—behind the trees.

A voice calling my name.

Not my father’s.

My mother’s.

Calling from the forest. Soft. Gentle.

But wrong.

Because my mother had been dead for days.

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