Hollow Earth Chronicles Novels & Stories

“I have to find Elaria’s relics her memories. The key to undoing Asharoth’s curse lies in what she left behind.” Lucian frowned. “It’s sacred ground. Forbidden. No one’s walked that path in a thousand years.” “Then it’s time someone did.” With Lucian, Kieran, Reeve, Saria, and Morwen by her side, Elizabeth set out for the Hollow a hidden valley lost between realms, shielded by magic and myth. They traveled through the Vale of Whispers, a haunted forest where trees murmured old names, and shadows watched. Naya had remained behind her visions, overwhelmingly. “Your path will bleed gold and shadow,” she’d said. “But the light beneath the Hollow remembers you.”

POV: Rhea Mooncrest "Zane! Move your legs or the roots will swallow you whole! This isn't the Wastes anymore!" Rhea’s voice echoed through a cavernous, fungal twilight that smelled of damp earth and ancient, rotting cedar. She scrambled across a massive, pulsating vein of wood that was easily the size of a city street. This was the Under-Whisper—the subterranean circulatory system of the world itself. Above them, the sky and the snow were gone, replaced by an infinite canopy of glowing, bioluminescent roots that dangled like the nerves of a giant.

Then— She dChapter 21 — The Awakening Below The crack in the earth did not stop growing. It tore wider with a sound that didn’t belong to this world, something deeper than stone breaking, something that echoed like a scream dragged through time itself. The hollow trembled violently, pillars shaking as glowing symbols flickered in and out like they were fighting to stay alive. Arden couldn’t breathe properly. Not because of fear. Because something was pulling at her. From the inside. From the mark.

His work has also appeared in several short story anthologies and online literary magazines. Phil Hore Phil likes to point out he was one of the last children born before man walked on the moon. He’s worked at Australia’s National Dinosaur Museum, the Australian War Memorial, National Film and Sound Archives, the Australian National Botanic Gardens, London’s Natural History Museum, the Field Museum in Chicago and The Smithsonian’s National Museum of Natural History. Published in newspapers and magazines across the globe, Phil is the paleo-author for the world’s longest running dinosaur magazine, The Prehistoric Times. He’s also been a comic shop manager, a cinema projectionist, a theatre tec

She was taken to a great chamber lit by ghost-flame, where the Council sat. Twelve thrones. Twelve shadows. Some bore faces — others did not. One wore a crown of thorns that bled. Another was draped entirely in veils, and spoke in riddles to no one. These were the elders of the Hollow — bound by ancient oaths to balance life, death, and the power in between. A woman stepped forward from the council dais. Tall, eyes like obsidian stars. “She is untested,” the woman said. “But the blood sings. We can all feel it.”

“It’s singing.” “No,” Serena whispered, voice thick. “They are.” Elias stepped beside her, face tilted to the sky. “The ashes?” Serena nodded, watching the embers drifting on the breeze like petals. “They remember us. And now they’re answering.” The Hollow Transforms Where once the Hollow had been a dead wound in the world—quiet, forgotten, scorched—it now pulsed with life. Vines curled across stone, shimmering like veins of gold. Petals unfurled from branches thought long dead. The blackened earth healed beneath their feet, glowing faintly like an ember-stained tapestry.

Darian’s POV The throne felt colder tonight. Darian Rhadamanthys Draven sat upon the black stone carved from obsidian, older than empires, colder than death. The flames in the great hall of the Obsidian Moon Pack danced across the polished marble floor, reflecting the deep red of his eyes. But they offered no warmth, no comfort. Power had long since dulled into routine. Fear was commonplace. And loneliness... loneliness had rooted itself in the marrow of his bones like a second skin.

“I know.” And the truth lands hard and cold in my chest: Choice is no longer the only variable. LYRA The Hollow is quieter now. Not gone. Settled. I feel it the way one feels gravity—constant, unquestionable. The Forgotten Kin watch me with something like grim respect. Not awe. Understanding. “This wasn’t supposed to happen yet,” I whisper. The woman of the Kin meets my gaze. “The Hollow doesn’t follow timelines.” Cain’s breath is steady behind me—controlled, furious, afraid in ways he won’t name.

And before anyone could move, the shadows rippled — taking form, twisting upward into a faint, humanoid outline with eyes that burned a deep, sickly green. The Order’s warriors stumbled back. Marek raised his sword. “Eloria—what the hell is that?” Eloria’s lips parted slightly, her pulse steady but her voice a whisper: “Not what… who.” The wind howled, and the shadow’s voice slithered through the clearing. “The Hollow never dies… it just waits for the next breath.” The ground split open beneath their feet. A scream tore through the forest — and the light from Eloria’s staff burst outward in a violent flash of violet flame.

she asked eventually. "Differently," Lucien said from ahead. She waited for more. More did not come. Cassian pulled his horse alongside hers. "What he means," Cassian said, lowering his voice to a murmur that probably carried to Lucien anyway, "is that the Hollow Lands exist in a slightly displaced version of the natural world. Time moves here. Seasons move here. Just not in lockstep with the rest of it." "So it could be summer back in the mortal lands right now?"