The Hollow was not a place of mercy. It was a prison carved out of despair, a realm where time itself seemed to rot. Here, the guardians who had broken the sacred laws were cast away, stripped of hope, severed from their families, and condemned to eternity. No redemption, no return—only endless shadows.
At the heart of this forsaken place sat Malric.
He had been there longer than any soul could remember. Thousands of years had passed, though the number meant little to him now. He had seen worlds rise from dust and crumble back into it. He had watched civilizations bloom like flowers, only to wither under the weight of their own ambition. Time had become a blur, a tide that carried him forward without end.
Once, Malric had been a council member among the guardians—a voice of wisdom, a man of conviction. But conviction can be dangerous. He broke one of the laws, a transgression so grave that even his brilliance could not shield him from punishment. Cast into the Hollow, he should have been swallowed by despair like the others.
But Malric was different.
Where others wept, he observed. Where others surrendered, he commanded. His presence was undeniable, his leadership instinctive. The fallen guardians, broken and bitter, found themselves drawn to him. In time, he became their leader—not by force, but by the sheer gravity of his will.
Malric ruled the Hollow not with cruelty, but with order. He gave structure to chaos, purpose to the damned. Yet even as he led, he carried the weight of his own failure, the memory of the council he had once served, and the law he had shattered.
Now, as the firelight flickered across his ancient face, Malric looked upon Isabella—the child of prophecy—and saw something he had not seen in millennia. Hope.
Malric's voice grew heavy as he spoke, the firelight flickering across his ancient features.
"There was a law," he said slowly, "older than the guardians themselves. A law that no one dared to question. No guardian may use their power to alter the fate of mortals. We were sworn to protect, to guide, but never to interfere with destiny itself."
Isabella's eyes widened, her small hands clutching the chair's arms.
Malric's gaze drifted into the flames, as though he could still see the moment that had condemned him. "I broke that law. I saw a kingdom on the brink of ruin, its people innocent, its children doomed to suffer. I could not stand by. I used my power to turn the tide of war, to save them from destruction. And in doing so, I altered the fate of thousands."
His voice faltered, but only for a moment. "The council judged me guilty. They said I had corrupted the balance, that I had placed myself above destiny. And so, they stripped me of my place among them and cast me into the Hollow — the very prison we had created."
The irony hung heavy in the air. Malric, the architect of eternal punishment, had become its ruler.
He turned his gaze back to Isabella, his eyes sharp yet sorrowful. "That is the truth of my fall. I broke the law of fate. And now, child, you must learn from my mistake. Your power is greater than mine ever was. If you wield it without control, you could shatter the very fabric of this world."
The firelight flickered across Malric's ancient face, and for the first time, Isabella saw something in his eyes that was not power or command, but sorrow.
"I had a family once," Malric said quietly, his voice heavy with centuries of grief. "A wife, children… laughter in the halls, warmth in my heart. They were my world."
Isabella's small hands tightened around the chair's arms; her wide eyes fixed on him.
Malric's gaze drifted into the flames, as though he could see them there. "When the war came, I could not stand by. I broke the law of the guardians to save millions of lives. I turned the tide of battle, and the kingdom endured. But in the chaos… my family was lost. My children, my beloved… all taken from me."
His voice faltered, and for a moment, the leader of the Hollow seemed less like an immortal figure and more like a man broken by loss. "I saved the world, but I could not save them. That is the burden I carry. That is the punishment I live with every day."
Isabella's lips trembled. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her child's voice fragile.
Malric looked at her then, his eyes softened by her innocence. "Do not be sorry, child. Learn from it. Power is a gift, but it is also a curse. It demands sacrifice. I have lived five hundred years in the Hollow with that truth carved into my soul."
He leaned forward, his tone firm but gentle. "You must understand, Isabella. You will face choices that will tear at your heart. You will save many, but you may lose much. That is the path of the prophecy. That is the path of power."
The fire roared louder, as though echoing his words. Isabella's tears shimmered in the glow, but deep within her, a spark of determination flickered.
The fire's glow painted Isabella's face in shifting shades of gold and shadow. Her small hands trembled in her lap, but her eyes—wide, uncertain, and glistening with tears—did not look away from Malric.
She was only five years old, yet the words he had spoken pressed down on her like a mountain. Child of prophecy. Darkness worse than the Hollow. A destiny to save the world.
At first, the words had seemed too large for her to hold. But now, as silence stretched between them, Isabella felt something stir inside her—a fragile awareness, a spark of understanding.
Her voice was soft, hesitant, but steady. "If I don't learn… if I don't try… then everyone will be hurt, won't they?"
Alaric's hand tightened gently on her shoulder, pride and sorrow mingling in his eyes. "Yes," he said quietly. "But you won't face it alone."
Isabella's gaze dropped to the floor, her small toes curling against the rug. She thought of Samael, of the way his body had fallen, of the healers' desperate hands. She thought of Malric's story, of his family lost in the war he had tried to save. And she thought of the darkness Malric had warned her about—something vast, something worse than anything she could imagine.
Her chest rose and fell quickly, but she lifted her chin, her child's voice trembling with new resolve. "I don't want anyone else to die because of me. I'll… I'll learn. I'll try to be strong."
Malric's ancient eyes softened, and for the first time in centuries, a faint smile touched his lips. "That is the beginning, child. Not fear, not denial—but acceptance. You are young, but destiny does not wait for age. It waits for courage."
The fire roared, casting long shadows across the room. Isabella sat straighter in her chair, her tears drying on her cheeks. She was still a child, still fragile, but in that moment, she began to carry the weight of her destiny.