I know it's an honor to serve the Watch, but I can't help doubting how hard they make the job seem.
I tell myself this as I stand my first shift of the Watch of the Hollow. The captains repeat prayers often, voices heavy with pride: To stand on the outer walls of the Irminsad, to guard its seed, is the highest trust one may hold. I mutter a prayer similar to theirs, whispering a protection from the silence.
The Hollow is a vast emptiness before me. My eyes drown in shadow. Roots as thick as towers emerge from the sphere's surface and vanish into the dark above, eventually becoming earth above that Koutso's creations, humans, are allowed to live upon.
That word tastes foul in my mouth. They were blessed with everything and no responsibility. All because their souls are eternal unlike us sentinels, whose bodies may be eternal but our fall truly brings about our end.
These roots are arteries of the Irminsad's great seed and the soil above are its branches. Truly, a thing of awe; The sphere beneath my feet holds all of the world aloft, and at its heart sleeps our all-sufficient god.
Faint light bleeds from within the walls of the watch. Not flame. A glow like breath in the cold, as if the walls had a faint luminosity to them.
I shift my stance, leaning on my sword: nearly my height, its hilt broad as my shoulders, standard issue for all sentinels, swords with reach as to hold off that which lies in the darkness.
The first hour passes without sound. I expect more, something to emerge from the shadow. Yet the silence is complete. My pulse slows. My chest eases. For all the grim tales whispered by veterans, watching seems a mundane thing.
I mutter, almost daring for a reply.
"Why did the veterans make it seem so terrible?"
The hollow remains silent. Only the soft hum of the roots, Koutso's sleeping breath.
My eyes wander, almost in a paranoid frenzy. Shadows stretch long and narrow where the roots bend, like fingers clutching stone. The stillness is too perfect; it makes me restless. I shift my feet. Tap my sword against the floor. The sound of metal against stone bounces within the darkness.
Then…I hear it.
Not words, but a low thread of sound, thinner than a sigh, dragged across bark. I hold my breath. Listen. Nothing. Only my own pulse clattering in my ears. The hair stands straight along my arms.
It's nothing. Just the roots growing. I tell myself as if it is a fact.
When my comrades return from their round, the silence breaks.
"Tokarn, anything happen when we were gone?"
"No, nothing, what did you bring for me? I'm starving!" I hid the twitch of my hand behind my back.
"We brought you some of your favorite—fungi."
"Mirela, really? That's not a real meal."
"You can get one when your shift ends. Don't complain. At least I got you something."
"I guess so, thanks."
Behind her were the other men sent to the watch for the next shift, veterans, Othgar and Borros. Older by only a handful of years, but already seasoned. They bring with them the easy laughter of those who have walked the hollow many times before. Relief loosens something tight in my chest.
We sit together on the low steps carved into stone, sharing flasks, breaking bread. Conversation blooms; of partners waiting with warm hearths, of games with dice and carved stones, of children who cry for their parents. Their words are soft but steady, anchors hoisted from the world below into the dark above.
I listen more than I speak. The sound of their voices steady me. I laugh when they laugh, though my thoughts still cling to that whisper.
Later, when the food is gone and our words slow, the talk turns toward the surface. It always does.
"Beyond the Irminsad," Borros says, voice hushed, though there is no need for secrecy. "They say it is a sea of light. No roots, no shadow. Just sky."
Othgar shakes his head. "Stories. If men went there, why have none returned?"
"Because it is not meant for us," I say, surprised at how firm my voice sounds. "The Watch serves here. This is our place."
They glance at me, then nod, though none seems convinced. Their eyes drift upward, to the darkness above that no torch can pierce. I follow their gaze. I have never seen the sky, only the dark that presses forever above. Yet some part of me wonders.
Does light truly lie beyond it? If there was truly light above why do we never…
The thought shatters.
Not a thin whisper this time. Something sharper. Clatter, sudden and near, like stones knocked loose or the dry scrape of many legs.
We freeze.
Flasks hang suspended in their hands. Silence presses heavy, as if the hollow itself leans to listen.
Another sound follows, faint but unmistakable: chitin brushing stone, an insect's rustle magnified in the cavernous dark.
Mirela sets down her bread, eyes wide, mouth closed. None of us speak. The sound carries again but closer, then gone, like something moving just beyond the roots.
The hollow tightens around me. The air is thick, damp, close to my skin. My grip on my sword slickens. I want to speak, to break the silence, but the words do not come. My mouth would not let me.
We listen. Waiting. The hollow gives nothing back.
I heard nothing but my own pulse in my ear.
I leave. My shift has ended, yet I still do not break the silence. I felt a shadow watching, I turned. Nothing.
Another day passed inside the outer wall. It was all mundane, but something felt wrong. When I … I couldn't remember what I had done, only that I felt eyes. So many of them, and the clicking of chitin kept repeating in my head.