Hollows Series Novels & Stories

“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.

At the altar sat a sealed obsidian vessel, faintly glowing red—the Blood of the Ashen Saint. As Bain and Seraphina approached, the ground trembled. With a sudden crack, humanoid figures burst from beneath the floorboards. Twisted, eyeless, and stitched together from fragments of failed Hollow experiments — failed children, abandoned vessels. “They’re Hollow Shells!” Elias shouted. Sokolov drew his twin blades while Vulture blasted one straight through the chest, sending it skidding across the stone. “They’re trying to stall us!” Seraphina cried. “They know we’re close!”

“Then we make this moment matter.” In the distance, the Harbinger reassembled. Its form, once pristine and emotionless, now trembled with barely contained fury. The mirror-like surface of its face had cracked beyond recognition, revealing swirling black beneath—a void that devoured light. “You think you’ve won?” it snarled. “You’ve severed one thread. The tapestry remains. The Hollow is the tapestry.” Kaela narrowed her eyes. “Then we burn it all.” The relic blade pulsed in agreement, resonating with Kaela’s rage and Ethan’s resolve. Together, they stepped toward the collapsing core—the heart of the Hollow’s influence. A place born from silence, shaped by sorrow, and fed through generations

Then I was gone. By the time the council convened again, the tension in the city had thickened. Rumors of wolves in the east, of rogue magic flaring at the borders, of a bloodline pact broken — or worse, forged in secret. I didn’t attend. I stood at the threshold of the ruins once more, where stone met sky, waiting for the next move. He wasn’t afraid of the hunt. He was born for it.

The old lighthouse had been dark for years. Perched on the jagged edge of Widow’s Point, the Black Hollow Lighthouse had been abandoned since the night Keeper Alden Rowe vanished without a trace. No one had taken the position after that. Some said he’d fallen. Others whispered the sea had claimed him for a debt long unpaid. Mara didn’t believe in sea-debts. But she knew what she saw. Three flashes. Evenly spaced. Deliberate. The pattern repeated. Her little brother, Toby, burst into her room. “Did you see it?”

"They’re using the deep-sea pressure to amplify the sound. It’s a sonic bomb, Leo. If that rig fires, it’ll shatter the neural stability of every shifter in the hemisphere." ​As they approached The Obsidian Bore, the rig emerged from the mist like a mechanical monster. It was a tower of rusted iron and glowing violet lights, sitting in the middle of a swirling vortex of seaweed and debris. ​"No guards on the perimeter," Silas noted, checking her thermal scope. "But the internal heat signatures are... strange. They aren't wolves, and they aren't human." ​"They're 'Hollows,'" Leo said, his arm beginning to vibrate with a warning signal. "The Iron Trust’s final experiment. Bodies without minds,

“No.” The earth split open. A deafening crack tore through the clearing as dark energy erupted from the fractured ground, from within the fissure, hands emerged. Pale. Clawed. Dozens of them. Then bodies followed, tall figures cloaked in bone-white armor. Their eyes glowing crimson. The temperature dropped instantly. Every wolf present froze. Cassian’s voice was barely above a whisper. “The Hollow Court.”

POV: Dual, Khyle and Gunner The first period had been a war of attrition and everyone knew it. From the moment the puck dropped, the Hollows had been operating under a mandate that had nothing to do with hockey in the traditional sense. Their new coach Aiden Cross had built something specific in that locker room over the past few months, a team that didn't just want to win but wanted to dismantle. They hit late. They hit dirty. They ran players into corners on plays that had ended two seconds before and smiled at the refs when the whistle blew. They were testing every boundary the officials were willing to enforce and cheerfully crossing the ones that weren't.