Chapter Thirty-One
After what feels like an eternity—long enough for my mind to conjure a hundred different ways Ryder could’ve died—the vines snap, not gradually, but violently, tearing themselves apart as if some unseen force cut their strings. They slither back into the forest, disappearing into the undergrowth like they were never there at all.
The path lies open again.
Wide.
Silent.
Empty.
But no Ryder.
River and I rise slowly, like prey coaxed out of hiding. My breath hitches; his hand instinctively hovers near his dagger. We stare at the new clearing formed between the trees—an unnervingly perfect circle of stillness, the kind of quiet that feels wrong, like the forest is holding its breath with us.
“Ryder?” My voice cracks on the second syllable.
I wait for him to step out from behind a tree, rubbing the back of his neck with that awkward half-smile he does when he knows he scared me. Or to hear him curse under his breath, or even storm out in a fury from whatever nightmare the Hollow put him through.
But nothing moves.
Nothing shifts.
Nothing answers.
A cold dread pours through me so fast it steals the feeling from my fingers. My heart sinks like a stone dropped into a lake, splashing panic up my throat until I can barely swallow.
What if he didn’t pass?
The thought strikes like a blade between my ribs. Suddenly, my lungs feel like they’re wrapped in iron bands, every breath shallow, sharp.
A twig snaps somewhere beyond the clearing, and both River and I whip our heads toward the sound. The noise slithers through the trees in a way that feels intentional, almost taunting, the Hollow reminding us that it still has teeth even when the canopy is thin.
Then a voice follows, echoing through the branches.
Ryder’s voice.
Except… something inside me recoils instantly, because it isn’t quite him. It’s as if the forest is stretching his tone across something empty, something that doesn’t fully understand how to mimic warmth or fear or anything human. Every syllable feels like a performance. The sound crawls up my spine like cold fire, igniting the instinctive part of me that knows when I’m being hunted.
And then the Hollow speaks—layered over Ryder’s voice or threaded through it like veins in a leaf:
“Two wear his face—one truth, one lie.
Choose your Ryder.
Kill the other, or the real one dies.”
The words settle into my stomach like stones.
Another snap echoes through the trees—this one closer, heavier—and a figure steps out from behind a tree.
Ryder.
His clothes are torn; there’s a smear of dirt across his cheek, and his chest rises too fast as if he’s been running for far longerthan a human should. When his eyes find mine, they widen with such raw relief that my heart leaps before my head can stop it.
“Asha?” he breathes, voice frayed at the edges. “Thank the Gods—Asha, I’ve been looking everywhere—”
But before the hope blooming in my chest can take shape, another Ryder pushes out from the opposite side of the clearing.
