The air in the Hollow did not move. It watched.
A hush settled over the clearing like a breath held too long. Trees ringed the space in solemn reverence, their gnarled limbs twisted skyward, as if straining to hold back the moonlight. Moss blanketed the earth in fading greens and greys, though nothing truly grew here. Not anymore.
At the centre stood stones. Twelve, each carved with runes so old they pulsed faintly with the memory of power. A circle of binding. A cage forged not of steel, but of intention. A prison meant to last forever.
And within it knelt Soladrien.
His form was shadow draped in skin, curled horns arching from his brow like a crown of exile. He rested upon the cold stone veined with memory, his head bowed, not in prayer, but restraint. For centuries he had endured this sanctified trap, etched into the bones of the world by trembling hands who feared him more than they feared the void.
The full moons were rising now. Their light crept over the treetops, too bright, too pure. It bled into the clearing like quicksilver, washing over his form and searing the runes carved into his flesh. He gritted his teeth against the sting. The bindings flared as the moonlight touched them, awakening old magicks that siphoned his strength and thinned the veil that separated this world from the next.
They could not see him, but still, they came. From the mortal side of the veil, he felt them, figures moving through the trees with their offerings, as was customary each night the moons hung full. Fear drove them forward, and fear made them kneel around the stone circle, never setting foot inside.
Sacrifices for the one they called The Black Wolf, The Shadow Warden, The Soulthief.
Soladrien’s dark, golden eyes cracked open. Behind him, shadows twitched and curled, sensing the veil’s growing thinness. The scent of fear reached him first, rich and warm. He starved for it.
A gust of unnatural, cold wind swept through the stones. The bindings held. For now. But the moons would pass, and the veil would part. And when it did, he would rise from the stone and sate the hunger he felt in his bones, in his soul. He would feast.
Let them believe their gifts meant mercy. Let them believe he had forgotten what was taken from him.
A hush settled over the clearing like a breath held too long. Trees ringed the space in solemn reverence, their gnarled limbs twisted skyward, as if straining to hold back the moonlight. Moss blanketed the earth in fading greens and greys, though nothing truly grew here. Not anymore.
At the centre stood stones. Twelve, each carved with runes so old they pulsed faintly with the memory of power. A circle of binding. A cage forged not of steel, but of intention. A prison meant to last forever.
And within it knelt Soladrien.
His form was shadow draped in skin, curled horns arching from his brow like a crown of exile. He rested upon the cold stone veined with memory, his head bowed, not in prayer, but restraint. For centuries he had endured this sanctified trap, etched into the bones of the world by trembling hands who feared him more than they feared the void.
The full moons were rising now. Their light crept over the treetops, too bright, too pure. It bled into the clearing like quicksilver, washing over his form and searing the runes carved into his flesh. He gritted his teeth against the sting. The bindings flared as the moonlight touched them, awakening old magicks that siphoned his strength and thinned the veil that separated this world from the next.
They could not see him, but still, they came. From the mortal side of the veil, he felt them, figures moving through the trees with their offerings, as was customary each night the moons hung full. Fear drove them forward, and fear made them kneel around the stone circle, never setting foot inside.
Sacrifices for the one they called The Black Wolf, The Shadow Warden, The Soulthief.
Soladrien’s dark, golden eyes cracked open. Behind him, shadows twitched and curled, sensing the veil’s growing thinness. The scent of fear reached him first, rich and warm. He starved for it.
A gust of unnatural, cold wind swept through the stones. The bindings held. For now. But the moons would pass, and the veil would part. And when it did, he would rise from the stone and sate the hunger he felt in his bones, in his soul. He would feast.
Let them believe their gifts meant mercy. Let them believe he had forgotten what was taken from him.
