The Hollow wasn’t marked on any map.
It existed in whispers. In lullabies sung by grieving mothers, in the old poems tucked into the margins of forbidden books.
It was a place not just forgotten—but erased.
Elira found it in a dream first.
She stood at the edge of a forest made of bone-colored trees, their branches reaching like fingers toward a violet sky. The air shimmered with something ancient. Something waiting.
When she woke, the scent of burnt sage clung to her skin.
And in her hand—a single acacia seed.
Not a dream.
A summons.
Damian didn’t want her to go.
“The Founders are moving,” he said. “We should stay. Prepare defenses. Protect the manor.”
Elira kissed him once, slowly. “And if I don’t find the Hollow, nothing we build here will matter. They’ll keep coming. They’ll
