The morning fog hadn’t lifted, and it clung to the ground like smoke. The MRAP rumbled along a broken dirt road, tires kicking up mud as the vehicle swayed from the uneven path. No one spoke for the first hour. The silence wasn’t awkward. It was caution. Everyone felt it—the pressure, like sothing was watching just outside the treeline.
Inigo sat behind the wheel, eyes fixed on the road ahead. The trees around them had changed. No more birds. No bugs. Just pale trunks and black branches, so of them rotting, so still dripping with leftover rain. The marshland had started about an hour back. Now, the forest floor was more mud than soil.
"Tracefinder still pointing?" he asked without taking his eyes off the road.
Arienne nodded from the passenger seat. "Yeah. Still south-southwest. Getting stronger."
Lyra had the turret hatch open, her bow resting across her lap. She didn’t like swamps. She’d said it ten tis by now. Korrik sat near the back, sharpening his axe even though it was already clean. Garen rode alongside on his horse, sticking close to the MRAP’s right flank. He didn’t like being confined in the vehicle, said it dulled his awareness.
About two hours later, the trees started to thin out.
"Up ahead," Arienne said, squinting.
Inigo slowed the vehicle. He could see it too now. Wooden posts. Fence remains. Rotting signs barely standing in shallow puddles. One of them had sothing written in black paint, faded by age and moss.
WEL... TO HOL...ERE.
"This is it," Inigo muttered. He eased the brake and brought the MRAP to a full stop.
No one spoke.
From where they stood, Hollowre looked like a place ti had abandoned. What used to be houses were now skeletons—fras of timber leaning against each other like drunk n trying to stay upright. Roofs had caved in. Doors hung off hinges. Black mold covered almost every surface, and pools of standing water filled what might’ve once been the town’s main square.
Lyra climbed down first. She looked around, bow already in hand. "I don’t like this."
"No one does," Korrik replied, stepping out behind her and sniffing the air like a dog. "Slls wrong. Rotting, but not just wood."
Garen dismounted slowly. His horse made a low grunt but stayed still. He patted its neck and gave it a soft word before turning toward the group. "I’ll circle the periter. Half a klick. Make sure nothing’s moving in or out."
"Take a flare," Inigo said, handing him one from the MRAP’s storage rack. "Signal red if anything follows you."
The others nodded and began to move carefully into the town.
Arienne held up the tracefinder again. The disc pulsed softly, not spinning now, just glowing—pale blue and steady.
"This is the place," she confird. "The signal’s embedded deep. Probably underground or within a sealed structure."
Inigo looked around. "Alright. Fan out. Stay in pairs. Don’t touch anything unless you have to."
The town had a strange weight to it. Not just the silence, but the way sound didn’t seem to travel far. Their boots splashed in shallow puddles, but the noise faded almost instantly. No echoes. No feedback. Even their own breathing felt muffled.
Korrik took point near an old blacksmith’s ruin. He poked at a rusted anvil with the tip of his axe.
"Tools still here," he muttered. "But no bones."
"Maybe they buried their dead," Arienne offered from a few feet away.
Lyra checked an overturned cart near what used to be the trading post. "Or maybe sothing took them."
She pointed to the mud. Footprints. Recent.
Inigo knelt beside them. "One set. Barefoot. Adult-sized. Days old at most."
"They’re still here?" Lyra asked.
"Or they ca back for sothing," he replied. "Keep your eyes sharp."
They pressed deeper. What they found next made them all stop.
A house—mostly intact—had light coming from within. Not torchlight. Sothing fainter. Magical, maybe. A dull blue flickering, like a soul lantern. It glowed behind one of the broken window slats, then vanished.
Inigo signaled with two fingers. "Stack up."
They approached slowly. No sound. No movent.
Korrik kicked the door in.
It creaked, then collapsed entirely.
Inside, the place was... clean. Not perfect, but swept. Dust pushed into corners. A wooden table still stood upright with two chairs on either side. And on the table: a sealed bottle of water and a blank sheet of parchnt.
Lyra picked it up. "No writing."
Arienne stepped forward and held her hand over the page. "There’s a faint trace of mana. Illusion magic. Old."
Garen ca back in at that mont, breathing a little faster. "No one on the periter. But sothing’s wrong. Even the animals avoid this place."
"We’re not alone," Inigo said. "Soone’s been maintaining this house. Or soone very recently did."
Arienne adjusted her gloves. "We should set up here. Use this building as our base."
"I agree," Inigo nodded. "Secure the periter. Check the attic and basent. I want full visibility."
They swept the house top to bottom. The attic was empty—just rafters and a broken window. The basent was worse. Wet. Cracked stone. But nothing moved. No hidden rooms.
They returned to the ground floor and began unpacking light gear.
The sun had started to dip by then. What little warmth the day had was fading.
Korrik blocked the windows with planks. Lyra laid out tripwire alarms around the front entrance. Garen refilled his water from his horse’s supply bag and stood by the window, watching.
Arienne sat cross-legged in one corner, tracefinder in hand. "It’s still glowing. Whatever power source or magic signature it’s tracking... it’s nearby."
Inigo cleaned his gun silently.
The wind picked up outside.
But it didn’t sound like wind.
It sounded like breathing.
They all froze.
"What the hell was that?" Lyra whispered.
No one answered.
They waited.
The sound faded again. Just wind now.
Inigo stood. "We hold position tonight. No one sleeps at the sa ti. Rotate watches. We move again at sunrise."
Everyone nodded.
Outside, Hollowre remained silent.
But it was listening.
And sothing inside the town... wasn’t ready to be found.
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