Page 36

THIRTY-SIX

CASSIAN

C assian had lost track of how long he’d been inside the Hollow.

Time didn’t work here—not the way it should. It folded in on itself, slipping sideways and unraveling like frayed thread. Shadows pulsed with a heartbeat that wasn’t his. Sometimes, they whispered in his voice.

Other times… they screamed.

The stone beneath his boots was slick with memory, not water. He didn’t sleep. It didn’t come in a place like this. The sky, if there ever had been one, was gone. Only darkness remained. A breathing, pulsing kind of dark. One that knew his name.

He walked in circles, or maybe straight lines. Couldn’t tell anymore.

All he knew was her name. And that it kept him sane.

Seraphine.

Her laugh echoed sometimes. Soft. Then sharp. Sometimes it was her voice telling him to run. Sometimes—worse—it was the sound of her dying.

Over. And over.

He pressed a hand to his chest, right over the spot where her blood had once sparked the fire back to life inside him. It was colder now. Like the Hollow was siphoning off his warmth bit by bit. Like it wanted him to forget.

But he wouldn’t.

He refused.

“Still fighting?” a voice cooed.

He turned, every muscle tensed. Flame licked at his fingertips but didn’t ignite. Not fully.

Mirael stepped from the shadows like she’d been watching him for hours. Maybe she had. Her form flickered, like the Hollow couldn’t quite hold her in one shape. Her dress whispered against the stone, trailing mist and shadows.

“You’re predictable, you know,” she said, tilting her head. “All storm and no direction.”

“Bite me.”

She smiled. “How poetic.”

Cassian rolled his shoulders, stance widening. He didn’t draw his sword—yet. But it was close. Always close now.

“What do you want?”

Mirael’s smile widened. “To talk.”

“You don’t ‘talk.’ You monologue.”

She laughed—genuinely amused. Which somehow made it worse. “You’re not wrong. But you’ll want to hear this.”

“I doubt that.”

She circled him, the way a vulture might circle something already dying. Her fingers trailed along a stone pillar, shadows blooming in her wake.

“You feel it, don’t you?” she asked. “The truth under your skin. The Hollow in your blood. It’s been calling you for years, Cassian. Whispers in dreams. A pull toward the dark places.”

“Bullshit.”

“No. Destiny.”

He turned to face her fully. “You think I’m just going to sit here and swallow that crap?”

“I think you already have,” she said simply. “Why else would you come here? Why else would the Hollow let you live?”

“It didn’t. I died, remember?”

“And yet, here you are.” She stepped closer. “Alive. Changed. Not just fire now. Shadow, too. The Hollow made space in you. Because it knew.”

“Knew what?”

Mirael’s smile turned cruel. “That you are the door.”

“What the hell does that mean?” he growled.

She gestured to the stone around them, to the endless dark.

“This place was sealed by blood. By sacrifice. The Hollow isn’t a place, Cassian—it’s a wound.

A breach between what was and what should never be.

Your blood—forgotten and cursed. It was part of what sealed it.

But your flame… your flame is the key to unsealing it again. ”

He staggered back, bile rising.

“You’re lying.”

“Am I?” Her voice lowered, lips near his ear. “You’ve felt it. The pull. The rage. The hunger. It’s not just power. It’s alignment. You are meant to open it.”

“No,” he rasped. “No, I’m not?—”

“Why do you think the blade chose you?” she whispered. “Why did you survive when no one else should have? Why do you see more? Feel more?”

He turned away, hands shaking.

“And her?” Mirael pressed. “You think the prophecy means she’ll stop you? That her love will save you?”

Cassian clenched his jaw.

“You’ve seen it, haven’t you?” Mirael said, soft and sharp. “The future where she dies. The way your fire turns to rot. You can’t stop it. Because this is what you were made for.”

“I’d rather die,” he snapped.

“Again?” Mirael purred. “How many times do you think you can cheat it?”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The memory of Seraphine’s face—bloody, pale, still—ripped through him like lightning.

Mirael’s voice softened. “You were born from betrayal, Cassian. Cast aside by a House that feared what you were. You think you’re the weapon of their salvation, but you’re not. You’re the punishment.”

He closed his eyes. “No.”

“You were never meant to save the world,” she said, stepping in front of him. “You were meant to burn it clean.”

“I won’t do it.”

“You will,” she said, smiling sadly. “Because the longer you fight it… the more she’ll suffer.”

He lunged.

His blade lit with stormfire, crackling and wild, but it stopped inches from her chest. Mirael didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

“You can’t kill a whisper,” she said gently. Then the shadows surged.

They wrapped around him, pulling him down, and the last thing he saw was her face again—not Mirael’s.

Seraphine’s.

Dead.

Still whispering his name.