We camped in the ruins of the Second City, about halfway to the Altar. Or maybe it was two-thirds. Distance in the Hollows was a slippery concept, bending and stretching like taffy in the sun.
The truck, our rust-bucket savior, had given up the ghost three miles back. The engine block had cracked down the middle, split open by a stray pulse of wild magic that shot up from a fissure in the road. We had walked the rest of the way, the silence between us heavy, charged, and filled with the unspoken acknowledgment that we were running out of time.
Now, we were huddled in the shell of what used to be a cathedral. The roof was long gone, blown away in some forgotten war, leaving the sanctuary open to the swirling, bruised purple vortex of the Hollows sky. The black moon hung directly overhead,
