The weeks after the battle brought no celebration—only silence.
The Veilborn had withdrawn into the misted east, their banners torn but their faith unbroken. The Cradle’s waters no longer shimred as before; they pulsed faintly, like a wound healing beneath fragile skin. And Serin Vale, the Hamr of Dawn, could feel the change deep in her bones.
Each night, when sleep ca, she heard the faint hum of the Dreamkeeper’s essence. Yet, it was weaker now—distant. The light that had once guided her people flickered with uncertainty. Kael’s voice, once warm and steady, was now a whisper in the storm.
One evening, while tending the forge, Serin saw it—an ember fall from the sky. It streaked across the horizon, burning blue, and struck deep within the forest beyond the Cradle. The air trembled. The villagers fled to her door.
“The sky bleeds again,” they cried. “Is it the Waking’s curse?”
Serin tightened her grip on her hamr. “No,” she said, though she wasn’t sure she believed it. “It’s a calling.”
She gathered a small group of scouts and ventured into the forest. The trees were twisted there, the air thick with mist. As they approached the crater, the ground rippled underfoot—alive. At the center of the impact lay a shard of light, cracked and pulsing, like the heart of a fallen star.
When Serin reached for it, the shard flared—and the world fell away.
She was standing in a hollow of silver mist, surrounded by echoes of a thousand faces—drears, lost and wandering. Their eyes were blank, their mouths moving in silent plea. Among them stood a tall, faceless figure cloaked in shadow.
“You’ve awakened too far,” it said, voice deep as thunder. “You disturb what still sleeps.”
Serin raised her hamr, defiant. “Who are you?”
“The Hollow,” it answered. “What remains when dreams die but do not fade.”
It stretched out its hand, and around Serin the echoes turned to ash. “The balance is broken. The Dreamkeeper’s essence weakens. Soon, the Hollow will feed on what’s left.”
Serin’s heart pounded. “Then I’ll nd it.”
“You cannot forge light from what’s already fallen,” the Hollow said. “But you can fall with it.”
The shard pulsed again, brighter now, drawing her toward it. She felt the weight of Kael’s fading light in her chest—the warmth of his final dawn. She realized then that the shard was part of him, a fragnt cast away when he beca one with the waking world.
She lifted the hamr high. “Then I will reforge what remains,” she said, voice steady. “I am the Hamr of Dawn. And dawn rises only through darkness.”
With a single strike, she shattered the shard.
The explosion of light and sound threw the forest into silence. When it cleared, the crater was empty—save for Serin’s hamr, glowing faintly where it had fallen.
Far away, the Cradle rippled once, as though exhaling. The dream had not died—it had moved.
Sowhere between sleep and waking, Kael stirred again.
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