Chapter 8 ECHOES IN THE HALLOW

The runes didn't stop glowing.

Rowan stared at the bone dagger, her breath catching as if the blade might suddenly speak. The red glow pulsed in a steady rhythm, like a second heartbeat throbbing in the shadows of the room. Behind her, the fire in the hearth crackled and hissed, casting flickering shapes across the wooden walls of the lodge, but the warmth it once offered felt like a distant memory now.

Silas took a cautious step back from the dagger, flexing his fingers as if trying to shake off the sting. A red mark already bloomed across his palm where the hilt had scorched him.

"Who would've taken something from your mother's grave?" he asked, his voice edged with both confusion and rising concern.

Rowan knelt beside the dagger, her eyes never leaving the runes. "Someone with a purpose," she murmured, her tone low and thoughtful.

She didn't reach for the weapon. Not yet. Her magic stirred just beneath her skin, restless and alert, as if it too remembered the dagger-its weight, its history, the rituals her mother performed with it. The blood sacrifices. The whispered incantations passed down through generations.

"She carved those runes herself," Rowan said softly, her fingers hovering just above the weapon. "They weren't made to send messages. They were meant to seal something. To hold something back."

Silas's gaze sharpened. "Then someone's trying to unseal it."

A sudden gust of wind slammed the lodge door shut behind them with a loud bang. Rowan flinched, heart racing, her entire body snapping to attention. Instinct screamed that something wasn't right. Not just the magic-this was something older, deeper. The kind of memory that lingered in places long after the living had left, waiting for the right moment to awaken.

Silas met her gaze, understanding flashing between them. "We need answers."

Rowan gave a tense nod. "And I know where to start."

-

The Hollow had always been a place of silence and stories.

Located just beyond Ashbourne's northern border, it was a forgotten clearing where the trees bent unnaturally, tangled together like gnarled hands reaching out of the earth. Mist settled there year-round, thick and unyielding, and the air hung heavy with old power. Rowan hadn't stepped foot there since she was thirteen, and even now, her boots hesitated at the edge of the fog.

"This place..." Silas muttered beside her. "It's wrong."

"No," Rowan said, stepping forward. "It's old. There's a difference."

They moved carefully, the fallen leaves beneath them muffled by the mist. Every sound felt absorbed, swallowed whole by the dense fog. Rowan's heart pounded as they approached a crumbling stone archway that marked the center of the Hollow. It stood barely upright, worn by wind and time.

A chill crawled over Rowan's skin.

It was colder here-unnaturally so. Magic clung to the clearing like frost, bitter and unmoving.

At the very center of the space lay what remained of the sacred altar. Once a place of worship and power, it was now cracked and blackened, swallowed in moss and decay. Rowan moved toward it slowly, brushing away the damp greenery to reveal faint carvings beneath. Binding runes. Witchcraft so ancient it predated the established laws of the coven.

Silas circled the clearing with sharp eyes, scanning every dark corner. "You sure this is safe?"

Rowan placed a steadying hand on the altar. "No. But none of this is."

As soon as her skin touched the stone, her magic surged like a struck chord. The dagger in her satchel vibrated, humming with urgent energy.

Then, the world twisted.

The trees blurred. The mist thickened. And the Hollow dissolved into something else entirely.

Suddenly, Rowan was no longer standing in the present.

She had stepped into a memory.

The same clearing unfolded before her-but as it once was. The altar was whole, glowing faintly beneath the moonlight, and a tall figure in a crimson cloak stood before it. Rowan's breath hitched.

Elandra.

Her mother's voice drifted on the wind, chanting in a language long forgotten. Her tone was sharp, powerful, laced with strain. Blood dripped from a cut on her hand, sizzling as it hit the altar's surface.

Then came the howl.

A low, mournful cry echoed from the trees, and from the shadows, a silver wolf emerged. It moved slowly, cautiously, its fur gleaming in the moonlight.

Rowan tensed, expecting an attack. But her mother didn't lift her hands to cast. She didn't flee. She opened her arms.

The wolf leapt-and Elandra caught him.

Magic burst in a blinding wave of light and shadow. Energy crackled and warped the very air, and for a moment, everything hung still.

Then Elandra turned, her eyes locking onto Rowan's.

"You shouldn't be here," she said, her voice both firm and heartbreakingly gentle.

Rowan stumbled back. "What-how are you-?"

"This isn't your path yet," Elandra said. "But it will be. Very soon."

The memory shattered.

Rowan collapsed to her knees in the Hollow, gasping for breath. Her chest heaved as reality returned. Silas was already beside her, one hand steady on her back.

"Rowan. Talk to me. What happened?"

"I saw her," she whispered, her voice shaking. "My mother. She was here. She... she wasn't fighting the wolf. She was protecting him."

Silas's brow furrowed, his voice low. "That's not what the stories say."

"No," Rowan said, slowly rising. "It isn't."

She stood, unsteady but buzzing with understanding. "This curse-it wasn't cast as punishment. It was meant as protection. A binding gone wrong. A desperate attempt to keep something hidden."

"Something forbidden," Silas said, watching her closely. "Like love."

Before she could respond, a low growl echoed through the trees.

It wasn't distant.

Silas stepped in front of her without hesitation, his eyes glowing faintly with Alpha instinct. "We're not alone."

From the fog, pairs of glowing red eyes emerged. One. Two. Then four. Six. More. The Hollow was no longer empty.

Rowan reached deep into herself, pulling at her magic. It rushed forward like fire in her veins, ready.

"We need to run," Silas said, tension radiating from him. "Now."

But it was already too late.

A massive black-furred wolf stepped forward from the mist, battle-scarred and towering. Rowan recognized him immediately. From the visions. From the echoes of the curse. He was the one who survived. The one who thrived on what had broken others.

With a sickening fluidity, the wolf shifted into a man. His face was lean, angular, and cruelly handsome. A jagged grin split his features.

"Well," he said, his voice smooth and mocking. "The prodigal witch returns. And she's brought the Alpha. How sweet."

Rowan's eyes narrowed. "Who are you?"

The man tilted his head slightly, as if amused by her question. "Name's Kellen," he replied. "And I'm here to finish what your mother failed to end."

He raised one hand.

The altar behind them exploded in fire.