The Hollow King was waking.
Not fully. Not yet.
But piece by piece, heartbeat by heartbeat, he was peeling through the seams of Amara’s soul, stitching himself in with every breath she took.
Raze watched her sleep.
It wasn’t peaceful.
Her body twitched, jaw clenched like she was fighting something in her dreams. The thin, jagged scar on her collarbone—the one that had never quite healed—was glowing faintly now. A sickly, shifting gold. Not the light of life. Something… other.
He reached to brush her hair back from her face—and froze.
For the briefest second, her eyes opened.
But they weren’t hers.
They were black. Entirely. Like a mirror with no reflection.
Then she blinked, and it was gone.
“Amara,” he whispered.
She didn’t respond. Just rolled onto her side, still half-trappe
