Ryder points his sword in front, his voice stern. He’s carried his annoyances with him since we accused him of lying. The only words that have come out of his mouth have been to warn us of thick brush or sudden dips in the terrain; other than that, nothing. I find myself looking at him intensely, studying him—his eyes, his lips, the permanent creases in his brow. How did he know those things about the Night boat and the tenari…. and why didn’t he want to tell us?
A small orange light becomes evident in the direction Ryder points, a marmalade hue that stands out amidst the monotonous shades of green. I rub my eyes for the second time. It’s still there, shining like a beacon.
The closer we get, the brighter it becomes, and a cobblestone path feeds through the woodland. A strange sense of calm washes over me, as if a faint lullaby hums in the air.
“It’s a cottage?” Nala breathes, her feet just on the precipice of the cobblestones, and I rub my eyes again, expecting it to be just a mirage.
“Surely no one lives in here…” River shifts on his feet, clearly itching to move on. I can’t imagine anyone choosing this place—a lifetime of damp, darkness, and creatures that tear you apart without warning. And yet the cottage stands. Quiet. Intact. A place that shouldn’t exist, and yet somehow does.
“Ithasto be a trap,” I say, my stomach knotting at the thought. The last time something looked so out of place was at the start of the first trial—and we barely survived that.
“Let’s keep moving,” Ryder says, already angling away from the cottage. None of us argue; we fall in behind him gladly, eager to leave the impossible little house behind.
The forest swallows us again. Each step sinks into thick mud, our footprints filling with murky water. My boots rub raw against my ankles, every stride a reminder of how long we’ve been walking. When we reach a narrow stream, River drops to his knees and scoops water into his mouth, gulping it down like he’s been wandering a desert instead of a swamp.
“I’m not sure you should be doing that,” Ryder warns.
“Oh, right—now you magically know something about this water, too?” River says, rolling his eyes and drinking again.
“No,” Ryder snaps, shooting him a glare. “I just don’t trustanythingin this Hollow.”
“It looks clear enough,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. My throat feels like sandpaper, and honestly, at this point, I’d drink from a puddle. Nala kneels beside me, and the two of us drink cautiously. After a long moment of watching us, Ryder finally gives in and cups water into his own hands.
Time passes differently in the Hollow; ten minutes can sometimes pass in what feels like ten seconds, and at others it feels like ten years. This was one of those moments when time seemed to pass more slowly—slipping past what looked like the same trees and shrubbery—a monotonous journey where nothing unusual or different seemed to pop up. The same weeds, rows of the same trees, the same small streams, the same suffocating mud. I hadn’t heard a word out of anyone, though we were quiet; no doubt the thoughts in each of our minds were running loud, silently stewing, an anticipation of dread for what we had left behind and what’s to come.
Ryder stops abruptly.
“No—this can’t be right.”
Suddenly, as if the water never touched my tongue, my mouth dries again—parched, cracking. And ahead of us, bleeding through the trees like a wound, the orange glow of the cottage returns. Exactly where it shouldn’t be.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” River mutters. “We’ve been going in a fucking circle.”
The air shifts—heavy, suffocating. Exhaustion drags at my limbs and frustration prickles beneath my skin. We’d walked at least twenty minutes through mud thick enough to swallow our footprints… yet it’s as if we never moved at all.
Still, none of us wants to go near that cottage. Whatever waits inside feelswrong—less like a beacon and more like an open mouth, calling, demanding. The light no longer hums like a lullaby; itshouts, a desperate plea for us to enter. Which only makes it more terrifying.
We push on, faster this time, mud sucking at our boots, branches whipping at our arms. But soon the familiar stream slithers into view. The same trees. The same rust-coloured stones. And then—there it is again. Thesamecottage, sitting primly in the Hollow as if mocking us.
We try again. Left at the stream instead of right. Then straight. Then a wide arc through denser trees. But no matter where we turn—left, right, or dead ahead—we’re dragged back to the cottage like the world is looping around it. A recurring nightmare we can’t wake from.
“It’s messing with us,” I whisper, blinking at the too-pleasant bricks, the chimney smoke curling lazily upward, unfazed by our panic.
Ryder exhales, long and grim. His shoulders tense as if bracing for impact. “I think this is another trial,” he says. “I think… we have to go inside.”
With each quiet footstep along the cobblestones, my heart stops. I thought that we would have more time to prepare for the next trial. The wind picks up, and it’s as if I can hear the Hollow laughing at us.
The force hits me before I even realise I’ve stepped too close. One moment, the cottage is only a strangely warm glow ahead of us, and the next it feels as though the air itself has claws. A violent suction seizes my ribs, folding me inward and dragging me across the threshold. I don’t even get enough breath to scream—there’s only the dizzy, stomach-turning sensation of being swallowed by something that isn’t supposed to be alive.
The door slams shut behind me with a crack like a bone, the sound echoing unnaturally long, as if the house is delighted to seal me in.
I spin and slam both palms against the wood, searching for even a sliver of give.
“Ryder! River! Nala—I’m here!”
I shout, my throat aching with the words.
“Asha!”
