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Hurt flares hot in my chest. Doesn’t he trust my account? Does he think I missed important events or remembered things wrong?

Veradin then proceeds to ask very pointed questions about Agnar’s sword, how the strike felt, and even requests to see the weapon. Through his interrogation, he’s attempting to determine whether a non-Warden noticed anything different than I did.

Different angles offer different perspectives. This is how investigations work, how scholars build complete pictures from incomplete intel.

The hurt recedes. I’m being foolish and oversensitive, reading an insult where none was intended.

In his responses, Agnar says nothing about how the dead earth felt or how I made things worse. He also leaves out how he had to deconstruct the cottage he created to give us room to flee. I realize I didn’t mention the cottage either. Not on purpose, but because it didn’t seem relevant.

Plus I didn’t want to admit Agnar has such strong magic when I have none.

Shoving the jealousy aside, I focus on the real question.

Why doesn’t Agnar speak of my screwup? Come to think of it, he worded everything to paint me in a neutral light in each confrontation. He didn’t mention how I passed out when he treated my wound, how I failed to defend myself, or how he forced me to strip. He also neglects to share the way I threw myself at him that night.

My cheeks flush, and my chest feels tight and hot. I don’t understand this man, who seems to oscillate between threatening me and steadying me for no discernable reason.

I stay silent, letting the moment pass as Agnar finishes relaying his story.

Veradin has gone very still. “This is…not good.” He crosses over to a shelf I’ve never been allowed near.

The shelf holds a dozen volumes, each one the kind that students don’t touch until they’ve proven themselves worthy of the responsibility.

Veradin pulls down a cracked leather tome the color of old blood. Because the binding is so worn, I can’t read the title embossed on the spine. He carries it back to the worktable with the reverence usually reserved for holy relics. For us, this may as well be one.

I move to stand beside him without being asked.

The pages crackle like dead leaves as he flips through them. His finger underlines columns of text… Voloxian, Old Meridian, and something else that might be proto-Kamorian. “Here.” He stops on an illustration.

Through the use of wavering, blurred lines and shaded edges, the artist chose an abstract rather than realistic approach. Beside the image, dense text fills every available margin in multiple languages.

Agnar peers over my shoulder, his breath fanning my ear and heat radiating off his big body.

It’s extremely distracting.

“The ancient texts call them the Hollow Ones.” Veradin traces the illustration with one finger, careful not to damage the page. “They were supposed to be myth. Or extinct. Or both.”

Agnar grunts. “Or none of the above.”

“Phoenixes were also a myth. Or extinct.” Veradin doesn’t even glance up from his study. “Until half the world started singing their song, in harmony, at the same moment, and they appeared in swarms.”

Agnar clamps his lips shut.

As I stifle a giggle, I can’t help but picture my teacher as part of a giant choir in the southern plains. Then I force myself to focus on the text instead of the man behind me. Reading aloud, I translate as best I can. “The Hollow Ones emerge when…something…when the…” The words blur, and meaning slides away like water through my fingers. I blink repeatedly to bring the text back into focus. “When the veil between…”

“Esme?”

The voice echoes in my head as sharp, sudden pressure builds behind my eyes. As my vision doubles, the page goes fuzzy and the room tilts sideways.

Once Veradin closes the book, the pressure vanishes.

The dizziness recedes as I slowly inhale. A firm hand on my back calms me.

Veradin’s voice comes from several feet away. “The Withering affects the land, but Hollow Ones cause something the text calls the Hushing Sickness, or just the Hush, consuming the memories of the people they feed upon. They’re escaped souls devoid of anything that once made them human, and they’re starving because of it, constantly trying to fill the void inside them with humanity stolen from the living. Some sources say when desperate, they’ll even feed on animals. The old texts describe them as more vaporlike than corporeal, but they can still cause grave harm with their touch.”

I take a few more deep breaths as I listen to my mentor, shaking off the bout of dizziness and confusion.

He continues, “It starts with lethargy and listlessness, and the more they feed on a person, the more their victim begins to disappear, mind and soul. But feeding doesn’t nourish the Hollow Ones. They only get hungrier, angrier, and more desperate. No one knows exactly what they look like or where they come from, but historical sources agree that their presence leaves behind only the impression of something monstrous.”