The Hollow recognized us.
That sounds like the kind of thing people say about places they love, a projection, sentiment dressed as observation. I mean it literally. When we crossed into the Hollow's inner boundary, the air changed in a specific way it hadn't changed for anyone in the Exile camp, hadn't changed on the road from Thornridge, hadn't changed anywhere in the last weeks of running and planning and barely sleeping. It settled. Like a held breath released. Like something large and patient exhaling after a long wait.
Oren stopped walking and put his hand on the nearest root, one of the great arching ones that rose from the ground in bridges you could walk under. He stood there with his palm flat against the bark and his eyes closed for a moment.
"It remembers the rite," he said q
