The Hollow

Chapter 2•1 The Choosing

The square had been transformed.

Where there had once been a modest market with wooden stalls and muddy paths, there was now a stage of dark polished wood, carved with intricate vines and flowers, floated into place by magic Sheraya could not begin to understand. Banners of deep crimson and gold hung from every building, bearing the crest of House Belak—a phoenix rising from flames, its wings spread wide. Torches lined the square, their flames warm and golden, casting a soft glow over the crowd.

The whole village had turned out. Mothers in their finest dresses. Fathers in polished boots. Maidens lined up at the edge of the square, their hands clasped, their eyes wide.

Sheraya stood at the back of the crowd, pressed against the wall of the baker's shop, trying to disappear. Beside her, Nola shifted from foot to foot, restless as a caged animal.

"I do not understand why I cannot be in the line," Nola muttered.

"Because you are not a maiden presenting yourself," Sheraya said. "You are a spectator. Like me."

"I am a warrior."

"You are a spectator today."

Nola scowled but said nothing.

Before Sheraya could respond, the crowd went silent.

A horn sounded—deep, resonant, echoing off the buildings. The golden torches flared brighter. And at the edge of the square, a rift opened in the air.

Sheraya had never seen anything like it. Darkness split by light. Shadows folding in on themselves. And then, stepping through the rift, came the Fae Lord.

Lord Varek Belak was beautiful in the way a blade was beautiful—sharp, cold, made for cutting. His hair was dark as midnight, black as a moonless sky, falling across his forehead in waves that looked unkempt but deliberate. His face was carved from marble, high cheekbones, a jaw that could cut glass. Grief had etched shadows beneath his eyes, deep and permanent.

But it was his eyes that stopped her heart.

Silver and deep blue. A storm over the sea. Cold. Piercing. Unreadable. They swept over the crowd like a blade, and everyone who met them looked away.

Everyone except Sheraya.

She could not look away.

Behind him came two figures. The first was a tall man with broad shoulders and a hard, stoic face—Lord Orion of House Dain, the Fae Lord's right hand. He was all sharp angles and military precision, his eyes cold and assessing. The second was younger, with the same sharp features as Varek but softer—Caelum, the younger brother. Where Orion was stone, Caelum was warmth. His eyes were kind, his expression gentle.

The three of them walked to the stage. The crowd parted before them like water before a blade.

No one spoke.

Varek climbed the steps of the polished wooden stage and turned to face the village. His gaze swept over the crowd—slow, deliberate, assessing.

Sheraya pressed herself harder against the wall.

"Present them," Varek said. His voice was low, rough, like stones grinding together. It carried across the square without effort.

The maidens began to walk forward, one by one.

Each stepped onto the stage. Each gave her name. Each stood before the Fae Lord while he looked at her—really looked, as if he could see through skin and bone and into the soul beneath.

And each one, he rejected.

"Young."

"Eager."

"Afraid."

"Ambitious."

The words were not cruel. They were simply factual. As if he were sorting through stones, looking for one that fit, and finding none.

Orion stepped forward. "My lord, that is the last of the presented maidens."

Varek stood at the edge of the stage, his gaze drifting over the crowd. His face was unreadable. Cold. Empty.

Another town. Another line of desperate maidens. Another rejection.

He had lost count of how many he had seen. How many faces blurred together. How many times he had said "no" and walked away.

The council wanted him to choose. They pushed. They prodded. They whispered in his ear about heirs and bloodlines and duty.

He did not want any of them.

He turned to leave.

And then he saw her.