Across from him, Maris leaned slightly forward, her palm glowing softly. The sigil pulsed in tune with some current, leading her gaze, her fate toward a stretch of land marked only by faded ruins and jagged ink.
Straight toward the southern wilds. Toward The Hollows.
Alarik repeated the riddle given to Maris like a prayer or a curse.
“Look where the rivers run dry and the sky forgets its name…”
“That region has no standing settlements,” Serenya said from her place near the open window, arms crossed over her midnight-blue leathers. “Just broken riverbeds, dried husks of forests, and stories about ghosts and divine ash.”
Zairon frowned, stepping forward. “The Hollows were once a temple site, was it not?”
“Before the gods turned on us,” Alarik murmured. “Before their blood spilled there.”
Maris looked up. “I saw a vision when my magic surged. A tree, growing inside a temple’s bones. White branches, roots carved into stone. I think it’s real.”
“I think with the visions, it confirms enough for us to risk the journey,” Alarik said. “We leave at dawn.”
They all agreed it would be the best course and preparations snapped into motion like a blade drawn in silence.
-Maris-
As the sun rose in slanted beams Maris packed and made her way to the seaward docks of Nerium. With Serenya at her side the two found the ship waiting. It was larger than any vessel she had seen before in the port of Eryndor. The large hull was sleek and blackened silver, its sails were rolled tight and ink-stamped with the sigil of Calanthe, a Basilisk. A vessel of lore and legacy, named the Argo after the mythos of another age. It had carried warriors to the edge of the world once, Serenya explained on their trek through the winding stone streets to the port.
Now, it would do so again.
As Maris and Serenya stepped toward the prow, her gaze caught on Alarik — already standing watch, his hair swaying in the breeze, and a flicker of flame burning in his eye as he looked her way. Behind him, a small but formidable crew readied supplies and weapons.
A battalion of the guard accompanying them, an extra protection for Maris, Alarik had explained.
Two of his most trusted warriors approached with cloaked heads bowed before her as she and Serenya made it to Alarik's side.
Vaelith, a dusk-born nightbound with skin of warm honey and eyes sharp as a blade's edge glimmered opal-white. Her bloodline — tied to storm prophecy and air-sight. She’d once single handedly collapsed a rebel stronghold with one whispered spell, Serenya hinted.
Kastor, broader than most doors, bronze-skinned with seared tattoos across his chest — his magic tethered to earth and iron. Alarik said he could summon living stones fromsea cliffs and crush a man with a flick of his wrist, making him ideal for what they may encounter once at the Hollows.
They both now knelt before their king.
Alarik’s voice was cold steel. “Were you both briefed this morning?”
Vaelith nodded, lips barely moving. “Of course sire, Lord Zarion detailed the crown possible location and the dangers of The Hollows.”
Kastor lifted his gaze. “We know that if it exists, it will not be given freely.”
Alarik nodded in agreement.
Maris, watched on taking in their admiration and a willingness to serve him. They along with the guard — didn’t follow his command from a place of fear, but one of respect. A sentiment she was beginning to share.
Zairon met them at the edge of the landing. “I’ll hold the line while you’re gone. Remember our window.”
Alarik clasped his friend’s forearm. “No recklessness. If Kael strikes sooner, send word by crow immediately. But if he sends emissaries…”
“I’ll stall them.”
Alarik gave a rare smile. “You were always the diplomat.”
Zairon scowled. “I’m getting to old to be anything else.”
He turned to Maris then, his tone gentler. “Don’t trust everything the land shows you. Even magic lies.”
