The retreat was not a rout—but it felt like one.
Elves, dwarves, and humans stumbled through the eastern gates of Lyothara in ragged columns, armor dented, faces streaked with soot and blood. Behind them, the Plains of Mourning burned. Not with fire, but with void-light—a sickly violet glow that pulsed from the First Hollow's army as it advanced.
They did not rush.
They did not roar.
They marched in perfect silence, goblin shrieks hushed, orc drums stilled, stone-giants stepping in eerie unison.
As if the world itself held its breath.
Inside the city, chaos threatened to boil over.
Refugees filled every courtyard. Dwarven smiths hammered day and night, reforging broken shields. Human healers worked alongside elven loremasters, stitching wounds with thread spun from moon-moss and spider-silk. But supplies dwindled. Morale crumbled.
Worst of all—the Great Tree stood dark.
No golden light. No rustling leaves. Only bare branches clawing at a gray sky.
In the Chamber of Roots, King Aerion sat with his head in his hands.
"We lost three thousand on the plains," Thorin reported, voice hoarse. "Half our cavalry. A third of the dwarven vanguard. And the stone-giants… they tore through our lines like paper."
Prince Kaelin added, "The human legions are down to two thousand. Queen Elira says they'll hold the southern wall—but only if we give them more sunfire oil."
Elyar Morindel knelt by a basin of black water. "The dryads have fled. The earth is poisoned. Even the roots of the Tree recoil from the Hollow's presence."
Silence.
Then Malrik appeared in the shadows. "They've surrounded us. Goblins in the northern hills. Orcs at the eastern ford. And the stone-giants… they're building something."
"What?" Aerion asked.
"A siege tower," Malrik said. "From the bones of fallen giants and the ruins of Orion's Gate."
A cold dread settled over the room.
They were not just under siege.
They were being prepared for harvest.
In Elmara's library, Lira had not slept in four days.
The breathing book lay open, its pages now covered in frantic notes, sketches of goblin runes, orcish battle formations, and fragments of dwarven Voidstone lore.
She had found something.
Buried in a human prophecy scroll from Valeris—a single line:
"When the Hollow walks, only the Unlight-Born may wound it… but at the cost of their name."
"What does that mean?" she whispered.
Darien stood in the doorway, leaning on a crutch, ribs bound in white linen. His ash-hand was weaker now—flickering, unstable.
"It means," he said, voice rough, "that to hurt it… I must become more like it."
Lira's eyes widened. "No. You're already losing yourself. Yesterday, you didn't recognize your own reflection."
"I know," he said. "But if I don't go deeper into the Unlight… we all become hollow."
He limped forward and placed a hand on the book.
New words bloomed:
"To wound the First, walk the Path of Names.
Speak the true name of the Hollow… and it will bleed."
"But we don't know its name," Lira said.
Darien looked east, toward the silent army outside the walls.
"Then we find it."
That night, Darien summoned the leaders.
"I'm going out there," he said.
"You'll die," Thorin growled.
"Maybe," Darien replied. "But I saw something on the plains. The goblins—they weren't just attacking. They were carving symbols into the earth. In circles. Like a ritual."
Aelarion, who had stayed silent until now, spoke softly:
"They're not preparing to break the walls. They're preparing to awaken something beneath the city."
"The Deep Seal," Malrik realized. "If they breach it under Lyothara…"
"The Tree dies," Elyar finished. "And with it, all of us."
Darien tightened his grip on his axe. "Then I stop them before the ritual completes."
"How?" Kaelin asked.
Darien looked at his ash-hand—now barely holding its form.
"I let the Unlight consume me… just enough to walk among them unseen."
"No!" Lira cried. "You won't come back!"
He turned to her, eyes weary but resolute.
"If I don't go… none of us will."
At midnight, Darien slipped through a hidden sewer gate beneath the western wall.
Behind him, the city slept in fear.
Before him, an ocean of eyes—goblin green, orc black, giant stone-gray—all turned toward Lyothara.
And atop a mound of rubble, the First Hollow watched the stars…
and waited.