Private Tales Patience..

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.

He paced, unseen within the stones as they came to him.

A creature of smoke and shadow, of memory and fury, bound within the runed stones of the Hollow. He had watched as the witches arrived, twelve in number, their chants spilling across the veil like ripples on still water. He heard them, he always heard them, but he did not listen. They were echoes now. Familiar rituals. Cold offerings to hold him here, not free him.

But her, the red haired maiden, she drew his gaze.

He had watched her long before the blood was spilled. Watched her laughter, soft and serpentine, as she lured the man into the trees. Watched the way her fingers brushed his chest, then tore the shirt from it, casting it aside like a broken promise. It landed short of the circle’s edge. Clever girl. She knew the rules.

And he had watched, hungering, as her blade caught the moonlight. The blood sang to him when it spilled.

His hunger was a pain, old and gnawing, a wound that never closed. But soon. Soon, he would feed.

The veil shimmered.

Where once the earth lay still, the stones began to hum, low and dreadful, vibrating with a resonance that did not belong to the world of the living. The runes carved into the standing stones flared with pale, eerie light, not gold nor silver, but the blue-white of a dying star. The Hollow was waking.

The circle breathed in. The mist that clung to the stones thickened, crawled inward, and then recoiled like smoke. Shadows condensed where the sacrifice lay, crawling up his prone body like fingers of oil. Blood fed the ground, soaked into the runes.

Now, they would leave.. Or, they should have left. But she remained. He walked to the edge of the circle, slowly lowering himself to the ground, staring through the veil, his eyes black as void, but she could not see him.

A whisper, no louder than dead leaves rustling, curled through the trees.

"s̴͓͐̋t̸̳͌e̶̛̱͐p̸̘̀ ̷̡̎ i̶̛ͅn̸̪̈́s̷͇̕i̴̜̓d̶̘̓ë̷̢́" he beckoned.

The voice came from everywhere, from nowhere. It was a thing that slithered into ears and under skin, like silk soaked in malice.

If she could only see how the gold swirled in his black eyes as he studied her. A pretty thing, this witch, her skin soft and pale like untouched parchment begging for ink. If he could only reach out and splay his fingers around her throat, feel her pulse flutter like a trapped bird, squeeze until it stilled.

But not yet.
He wanted more than blood and flesh.
He wanted fear.
He wanted power.
He wanted souls.
And above all, he wanted his freedom.

“Hail me, do you?” he murmured, stepping as close as he dared. “Spirit of the Hollow… You flatter me, witch... But I am so much more than spirit.”

A dark chuckle pulled from his chest, low and hungry, curling around them like smoke. It shook the circle, made the trees tremble and the last breath in Landyn’s lungs rattle free.

The body twitched no more. The blood-soaked earth drank deep beneath him, and above, the trees stilled, as if even the breeze held its breath.

Then like steam curling off ice, a pale shape began to rise from the man’s chest. His soul. Fragile, untethered, the echo of Landyn's final breath. It lifted slowly, as if unsure of where to go, drawn upward by some invisible instinct. But it never got the chance to flee.

His hand rose, fingers twitching with the whisper of ancient runes. Power curled at his palm, hot enough to burn through realms. The veil crackled behind him, straining to hold him in place.

The soul stopped.
It struggled.

A soft, anguished moan filled the circle. The soul twisted in agony, panicked, trying to resist. It could feel him. It knew him. And still it came to him, dragged against its will. Against the will of the Gods.

Its pale light dimmed as it was pulled down, down, down into the void where he waited.

Soladrien fed.

He inhaled the soul like breath, drinking in every shred of memory, of pain, of life not yet finished. The taste was bitter, regret, love, fear, but he fed until there was nothing left but ash drifting in the Hollow.

Strength returned to him, but only a little. He looked down at the runes etched into his skin, at how they glowed faintly with the soul's energy, now his. He remembered the witch watching him, he returned his attention to her, his gaze dragged over her, deliberate, slow, like a blade deciding where to cut. He could taste her power, the pull of blood-magic soaked into her skin. And she had stayed. Watched. Spoken.. Heard.. She was different from the others.

A witch, yes. And perhaps… a key. Witches trapped him here, so long ago, and witches could free him.

"Feed me again, little witch.." he spoke, his gravely voice clearer this time, the words caressing her throat and cheek as though they held a physical presence.

"Come to me, and I'll share my power.."

He pressed a fang into his lower lip, a grin curling sharp and wicked as he watched her. Little rabbit indeed. She had wandered too close to the snare, too curious for her own survival. Finally.

The moment her feet crossed the ancient threshold, the power of the Hollow answered him. The unseen chains of the veil snapped taut, and then gave way not to formless magic, but to the weight of his own hands. Flesh. Blood. Claws closing firm around her ankles.

Her nails tore earth in desperation, but he only laughed, dark and low, the sound like rolling thunder. With a violent pull he dragged her the rest of the way, her body skidding over the dirt until she lay sprawled beside the boy she had bled for him.

Smoke and fire bled into shape, his shadow splitting into form as he rose to his full height. His rune-marked, obsidian skin split with glowing veins of molten gold, the heat of his body warping the air around him. Great horns curled upward from his skull, wreathed in embers, his eyes burning like twin suns as they devoured her. His talons flexed, catching the glow of his own fire, as though they had been forged to rip through both flesh and soul alike.

He dropped to a knee, his shadow spilling across her, laughter still rumbling in his chest as he reached to tip her chin up with a clawed finger. Gods, her terror was intoxicating. The salt of her tears, the quickening of her pulse, the hot shimmer of blood racing beneath fragile skin, it all sang to him. He had not feasted on fear so pure in centuries.

“Kind of you,” he growled, his voice like gravel, “to accept my invitation, witchling.”

His eyes devoured her as though she were laid upon an altar meant for him alone, her soft skin bared,, the tear-streaked flush of her terror like the sweetest perfume. It had been so long since he’d felt a hunger not for souls, but for flesh. For beauty. For fear clothed in silks and skin.

His knuckles grazed the fragile line of her jaw, trailing lower, over the porcelain slope of her throat, lingering where her pulse beat quick and frantic. He pressed along her collarbone, savouring every quiver of her, every tremor of air as she tried to draw breath. He leaned close, heat rolling from him in waves, the sharp glow of his molten veins lighting her face as he bared his sharp teeth in a grin, until she spoke.

The word struck him like iron to the chest. Power surged outward, slamming against him, hurling him back. His talons dragged molten lines across the earth as he steadied himself, smoke and shadow rippling from his frame.

For a moment, silence stretched... And then he laughed.

The sound was dark, broken into layers, rumbling through the Hollow like grinding stone. His laughter was not of defeat but of delight and wicked amusement. She dared to bite the hand that held her, and he relished it. A game. A challenge.

“Where are you going, witchling?” his voice split the night, echoing in every direction, impossible to tell where it came from. “We were only just getting acquainted…”

As his words faded, the circle around them blazed to life in fire, an infernal mimic of the very one they had used to hold him. From its edges slithered venomous serpents, fangs snapping at her heels as they coiled toward her.

And behind her, his shadow fell across her once more.