INTO THE HOLLOW
1264 Words
Freya didn’t look back.
The cold wind whipped her hair against her cheeks as she tore down the narrow back alley, heart pounding like the thunder that had preceded last night’s storm. Behind her, the Henleys’ shop was swallowed by darkness, the sound of Calen’s voice—“Go!”—still echoing in her ears. Then came the scuffle. A grunt. A body hitting the pavement.
She forced herself not to think of him.
One wrong turn. That was all it would take. One stumble, and she’d be caught—or worse. Her breath rasped as she ran, hand clenched tightly around the leather-bound journal Mrs. Alder had given her. She hadn’t returned it. She’d tucked it away beneath the folds of her skirt, too afraid to open it again but even more afraid to let it go. It felt like the only thread connecting her to something that made sense.
When she reached the end of the alley, she slowed just long enough to press herself against the cold stone wall and listen. Nothing. No footsteps. No voices.
Except—
“Freya!”
She spun, heart slamming against her ribs.
It was Calen’s voice, strained and distant.
“I’m coming! Keep going!”
She hesitated, her hand lifting an inch toward him—though she couldn’t see him, only the shadows shifting at the alley’s mouth.
Then she heard something else. Not a voice, not footsteps.
Silence.
That terrible kind of silence that swallows sound whole. That silence that follows a blow.
“Calen?” she called out, but only the night replied.
A second later, the silence cracked. “Go!” he shouted again, this time hoarser, more desperate. “Don’t stop!”
She turned and ran.
The forest at Blackbridge’s edge swallowed her whole, branches tearing at her sleeves. Her legs ached. Her lungs burned. She didn’t stop until she could no longer feel her feet, and even then she pressed forward. Not until the town was a flicker behind her and the trees had thickened like bars on a cage did she collapse, slumping against the roots of a gnarled oak.
The moon filtered weakly through the canopy. Her fingers trembled as she loosened her shawl and unfolded the journal in her lap. Pages filled with scribbled notes, newspaper clippings, coded diagrams—she didn’t understand most of it. Some of the ink had smudged from being pressed to her ribs as she ran, but one name was circled again and again.
Richard Morisson.
The name struck like a match each time she saw it. She hated how familiar it had become.
What had Mrs. Alder said? “Because someone helped me.” Had she meant Calen?
Freya closed the book. She didn’t want to guess anymore.
A rustle made her snap her head up.
Just a bird. Or wind. Or—
She didn’t want to think of who else might be out there.
It was foolish to stop. She had no idea how far she’d run or where she was. But there was no going back. Not to the Henleys. Not to Mrs. Alder.
She pulled her legs to her chest and buried her face in her knees.
How had her life unraveled so quickly? A week ago, she’d been baking bread and dreaming of the sea. Now she was alone in the woods, running from shadows and holding a book that accused the wealthiest man in Blackbridge of crimes no one else dared whisper.
And then there was Calen.
The way he’d looked at her. Protective, not tender. But there was something behind his eyes. Not softness—something wounded. Haunted.
He had stood between her and danger without flinching.
Why?
The memory struck her—sudden and vivid.
She was ten. Her father had taken her to the city for the first time. They’d stopped at a crowded square where a man had collapsed. No one moved to help. No one except a tall boy, not much older than she was. He’d rushed forward, knees to cobblestone, pressing cloth to the man’s bleeding head.
Freya had watched, too young to understand everything but old enough to remember the boy’s hands shaking. Not with fear, but resolve.
She hadn’t seen him again.
Until now.
She wasn’t sure—but Calen’s voice, the shape of his face… could it be?
She shook her head. It was impossible. Coincidence.
Still, the memory warmed something cold in her chest.
She let her eyes drift closed.
When she woke, the stars had shifted.
And someone was watching her.
Freya sat up so fast the journal toppled from her lap. She scrambled to her feet, heart hammering.
But it was only Calen.
He was leaning against a tree, one arm cradled tight to his side, hair disheveled, a cut on his cheek. Blood stained the cuff of his shirt. But his eyes—gray and storm-lit—were calm.
“I told you I’d catch up,” he said quietly.
“You’re bleeding,” she whispered.
He shrugged. “Not badly.”
She hesitated. “Are you—are they—?”
“Gone. For now.”
He took a cautious step forward, then stopped. “I’m not here to hurt you, Freya. I never was.”
She wanted to believe him.
“Then why follow me?” she asked. “Why scare me? The letter—”
“I didn’t write it.”
“Then who did?”
Calen shook his head. “The people who want you back where they can see you. Richard’s people.”
Her breath hitched. “How do you know that?”
He didn’t answer.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
His silence stretched.
She hugged her arms around herself. “If you know so much, then tell me why. Why am I the one being hunted? Why did Mrs. Alder give me this?” She lifted the journal.
Calen’s eyes flicked to it. “Because you needed to know.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I can’t give you the whole of it. Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because if I tell you now, you’ll run. And not just from them. From me.”
Freya didn’t reply.
The silence grew heavy between them, thick with words neither could say. Finally, Calen reached into his coat and pulled something from an inside pocket.
It was small. Folded.
He held it out to her.
Freya didn’t move.
“It was meant for Mrs. Alder,” he said. “But I think it’s time you read it.”
She took it slowly. Opened the fold.
Inside was a note in a sharp, slanted hand.
He’s alive. He knows. And he’s coming for her.
Burn this.
Freya’s blood ran cold. “Who’s alive?”
But Calen had gone rigid.
She turned. A soft noise—barely a whisper—cut through the trees.
Leaves shifting. A twig snapping.
Not footsteps.
Worse.
A figure. Standing at the edge of the clearing. Watching them.
Not moving.
Just watching.
Calen stepped in front of her instinctively, body tense.
“Is it them?” Freya whispered.
“I don’t know,” he murmured. “But run anyway.”
She didn’t hesitate.
As she darted into the shadows, she cast one last glance behind her.
Calen was moving toward the figure, jaw set.
Then—
A shout. A crash. Steel against stone.
Freya gasped. “Calen!”
“I’ll catch up!” he yelled.
But even as he said it, she knew—
He wouldn’t.
Not tonight.
- Writer
