The forest east of Blackthorn was older than anything written in history. The trees were twisted and gnarled, some with bark as black as coal, others growing in impossible shapes — like fingers reaching toward the sky, frozen mid-scream.
It had no name on any map.
But Elian knew what it was.
Briar Hollow.
He moved silently, blade strapped to his back, coat heavy with damp mist. Even with his power, the deeper he walked, the more the forest resisted. Roots shifted underfoot. Fog grew thicker. Birds flew in tight circles overhead before vanishing altogether.
The Hollow didn't like intruders.
But Elian wasn't an intruder. Not exactly.
He was returning.
The wind whispered his name as he reached a clearing.
At its center stood a cottage — if you could call it that. Twisted wood and rusted iron formed its jagged frame. Vines bloomed with black flowers across its walls. Crows sat motionless on the crooked roof, their eyes white, their heads turning in perfect sync as he approached.
The door creaked open on its own.
Inside, the air was thick with spice, smoke, and memory. Herbs hung from the ceiling. Bones dangled from red cords. A fire crackled in a hearth, but the room remained oddly cold.
And there she was.
Sitting at a table, stirring a cup of something too dark to be tea.
"You look older, Elian," she said without looking up.
"You look exactly the same," he replied.
She smiled — slow, secretive, dangerous.
"I cheat."
Nyra. The Witch of Briar Hollow. One of the last of the original Circle. Once his closest ally. Once… something more.
"I need your help," Elian said, getting to the point.
"You always do."
"They've started moving again. They sent a Hunter. The Cult's preparing the Host. Malrek's awake. The seal—"
"I know about the seal," she interrupted sharply. "Do you think the Hollow sleeps, just because you walked away from your duties for a few decades?"
Elian frowned. "It wasn't like that."
"It's always like that. You vanish. People die. Blood soaks the soil. Then you return, haunted and grim, asking favors."
He stiffened, but she sighed and waved her hand.
"Sit. Drink. You look like hell."
He sat.
She poured a second cup of whatever was steaming in the kettle. It smelled like cinnamon, but underneath that — power. Thick and bitter.
"You're asking me to re-bind the seal, aren't you?" Nyra asked.
"Yes."
"Even if it kills me?"
He paused.
Nyra laughed, sharp and cold. "Still terrible at lying."
Elian looked away. "We need to rally what's left of the bloodlines. You and I are the last that still carry the original rites. Everyone else is scattered or turned."
Nyra stared into her drink. "I saw what the Cult did to Rowan. Twisted his mind. Made him eat his own tongue before they fed him to the Host."
Elian's jaw clenched. He hadn't known about Rowan.
"I have the names of three others," he said finally. "Two in hiding. One imprisoned in the deep cells under Veilspire Asylum. But I need you to start the first chant. If we don't reconnect the Weaving Lines, the next breach will collapse the wards over this entire region."
Nyra sipped from her cup, her eyes distant. "You're asking for a bloodsong. From the Hollow. That's not magic, Elian. That's sacrifice."
"I'll offer what's needed."
She looked at him then — truly looked. Her eyes, dark as pitch, softened with something close to sadness.
"You already gave your life once. What more do you have left to give?"
Elian answered without flinching. "My name. My soul. My silence. Whatever it takes."
Nyra stood, her long coat rustling as she stepped toward a wooden chest in the corner. She opened it, revealing an object wrapped in cloth.
She unwrapped it slowly — reverently — revealing an old, curved dagger with silver runes along its edge.
"You swore an oath," she said, pressing it into his hands. "On this blade. Before you ever became what you are."
Elian remembered. Gods, he remembered.
"You still trust me with it?"
Nyra shook her head. "No. But I trust the Hollow. And if it hasn't devoured you yet… maybe it still has plans for you."
That night, in the heart of the Hollow, Elian stood within a circle etched into the earth, surrounded by ancient stones that pulsed with low, rhythmic hums. Nyra stood opposite him, blade in hand, hair loose, eyes burning with witchfire.
She began the bloodsong.
The words weren't in any human tongue. They were old. Hungry. Sacred.
Elian opened his veins.
As the blood fell, the stones drank.
The forest howled.
Far away, in the old chapel beneath Blackthorn, the Cult's high priest screamed suddenly — clutching his chest as the earth pulsed beneath his feet.
"The Weave!" he shouted. "They've reawakened the Weave!"
Around him, black candles burst into green fire.
The Host — a monstrous figure in the shadows behind him — stirred restlessly.
Back in Briar Hollow, Elian collapsed to his knees. Nyra caught him, her fingers pressed tightly over his chest.
"You idiot," she whispered, breath ragged. "You gave it your name. It took your name."
"Had to be done," he murmured.
"Do you even remember who you are anymore?"
He opened his mouth.
Paused.
No answer came.
Just the wind — carrying whispers that had no source.
The Hollow had accepted his offering.
The seal was reforging.
But the price had only just begun.