Chapter 229
Chapter 229
*Jiselle*
The sound came first.
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Not claws, not teeth, not the guttural growl of wolves that had forgotten how to be wolves. It was softer, stranger–like breath pulled through hollow reeds. A whistle threaded with grief, not rage. My skin prickled, every hair along my arms rising as the wind carried it closer.
We were outside the eastern wall when the scouts dragged them in–four Hollow–born, bound in chains of silver and veilstone. Their bodies twitched against the restraints, muscles jerking as if fighting something inside rather than outside. Their eyes glowed faintly with that fractured gold–violet hue I had come to dread.
But one of them… one of them looked at me.
Not at my flame, not at Nate who stood half a step in front of me with his sword ready, not at the coalition of wolves gathered in a tense semicircle. At me. Directly.
And then he spoke.
The words scraped from his throat like rust tearing loose from iron, rough and strangled, but undeniably words. “Not… Hollow.” His head jerked once, twice, as though something tried to silence him. “Not… yet.”
Gasps rippled through the ranks. Wolves pressed closer, snarls rising. No Hollow–born had ever spoken before.
I stepped forward. Nate’s arm shot out instinctively, barring my way. “Jiselle—”
“I have to.” My voice carried, firm but quiet enough for only him to hear. “If they can still speak, if there’s anything left of them, then we need to know.”
His jaw clenched, but he lowered his arm.
I moved closer until I could see the detail of the boy’s skin. And that’s what struck me most. He wasn’t a man twisted by centuries. He was young. Too young. His cheeks were hollow from hunger, his limbs thin, his wrists scarred from shackles.
“Who are you?” I asked softly.
He shuddered, his chains rattling. His mouth opened, lips trembling around sounds his throat seemed to resist. “Stolen.” His chest heaved. “Children. Taken… from Gate’s edge.”
The silence that followed was heavier than any roar.
Eva’s hands pressed against her mouth. Ethan went utterly still. Even Bastain, who had seen more horrors than most, looked stricken.
The boy’s head snapped sideways, his body convulsing as if some unseen hand twisted him. His voice dropped into a rasp. “He made us. Hollow. Not born. Stolen.”
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Chapter 227
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When dawn broke, the light carried no warmth. The sky bled red over the horizon, streaked with ash clouds. The leyline beneath us pulsed once, violently, and the ground shook. Dust fell from the rafters.
And then, from the far side of the chamber, came a sound. A crack. Sharp. Echoing.
We all turned.
The relic–the stone monolith that once held Serina’s first mark–stood against the wall, untouched for centuries. Its surface had always been smooth, lifeless. But now, a fissure split down its center, glowing faintly from within.
The crack spread slowly, splintering outward like veins. Heat rolled off it, thick and heavy.
I rose to my feet, Solara still in my arms. Her eyes snapped open, glowing violet–gold, and she reached toward the relic with a small, steady hand.
The fissure widened, and inside–pulsing, alive–was an ember.
Shaped like a heartbeat.
The chamber shook again.
And none of us breathed.
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16:14 Mon, Sep 29
Chapter 229
My stomach churned. “How many?”
His eyes rolled white. His breath hitched. “All.”
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The chain snapped taut as he lurched against it, snarling, the wolf inside him breaking through. Soldiers leapt forward, dragging him back, but not before the others began to thrash as well. Their voices cracked the air- screams, howls, broken syllables of words that might have once been prayers.
Solara, who had been standing quiet against Nate’s leg, began to cry. Not the thin cry of a babe, not even the sharper wail of a child startled awake. This was deeper. Her whole body trembled as sound burst from her lungs, and the air itself shivered with it.
The Hollow–born froze.
Every single one.
Chains rattled, claws scraped, but their bodies went rigid. Their heads turned as one, their broken eyes locking onto the small figure in Nate’s arms.
The boy spoke again, softer now. “The second flame.” His voice cracked. “She… will unmake us.”
A ripple of unease surged through the gathered wolves. Alphas muttered, warriors exchanged glances, even Eva’s face drained of color.
I reached instinctively for Solara, but Nate held her tighter, his own jaw stiff with fury. “You don’t get to touch her,” he said in a growl low enough for only me to hear, though his eyes never left the Hollow–born. “You don’t even get to look at her.”
But they kept looking.
Every broken child trapped in those monstrous bodies stared as though Solara was the only thing in the world they recognized.
Her crying stopped as suddenly as it had begun. She blinked up at me when Nate finally handed her over, her small hands clutching my tunic. Her eyes glowed faintly–violet and gold–and she whispered one word against my neck.
“Home.”
The Hollow–born screamed as one.
It wasn’t rage. It wasn’t pain. It was despair, long and drawn–out, the sound of children who had forgotten. where they came from but not what they had lost.
Ethan dropped to one knee, clutching his head, his mark blazing on his shoulder. “They’re inside,” he gasped. “I can feel them. Gods—they were meant to be us. They were meant to be wolves.”
“Enough,” Bastain barked, though his voice shook. He signaled, and the soldiers dragged the Hollow–born back toward the warded cells. “They’ll tear this stronghold apart if we let them linger.”
I wanted to protest. I wanted to follow. I wanted to scream with them. But Solara shifted in my arms, resting
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Chapter 220
her head against my chest, and my flame quicted with hers.
Nate touched my arm. “Jis, look at me.”
I forced my gaze away from the retreating chains, from the boy’s hollow eyes.
“We can’t save everyone,” Nate said quietly. “But we can save her.”
I nodded, though my throat burned.
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The crowd began to disperse, whispers hissing through the air like snakes. Old rivalries momentarily forgotten, replaced with something worse: fear. Not just of the Hollow–born. Of what they meant. Of what Solara meant.
Later, when the stronghold quieted and Solara finally slept, I sat alone by the window, the memory of those broken voices still clawing at me.
And that was when I heard it.
A whisper. Not from inside. Not from Solara. Not from my flame.
From the Hollow itself.
It slid through the night air like smoke, curling into my ears, pressing into my skull until my vision blurred.
“Not enemies,” it hissed. “Not children. Echoes.”
My pulse raced. I staggered back from the window, clutching the sill.
And then the voice deepened, hollow and ancient, stretching through the leyline itself.
“Sovereign. Come and see what you have made.”
The glass splintered outward, shards scattering across the floor.
And the night burned violet.
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Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.
