Reverie At River Hollow Novels & Stories

she said, pushing fallen leaves and dead grass out of the way so she could more clearly see what they were working with. “Are you insulting my girlish figure?” She laughed, but she didn’t bother to come up with a response. Taking a step forward, Ru peered through the hole. Looking down, she realized where they were. “It’s the ravine,” she said quietly. “The passage comes out where I fought Nat.” “Really?” Ivy asked, stepping up next to Ru, clearly wanting a look. Ru stepped aside. “Oh, yeah. But we’re at the other end, where you blasted him. See! The trees hang down over the sides of the hollow right there, making a little crawl space.”

But the habit of caring about him hadn’t faded yet. “Almost there,” Fen said. “You keep saying that.” “I keep meaning it.” Then the trees opened up, and I stopped. The Hollow wasn’t what I expected. I’d pictured something gloomy, like the rest of the Growth, full of rot, murk, and things with strange eyes. But this was different. The trees here were old, older than anything I’d seen, with trunks as wide as houses and roots rising from the ground in arches tall enough to walk under. In the center was a pool, still and black, perfectly round, as if someone had pressed a coin into the earth. The air shivered with a faint hum, so low I felt it more than heard it, vibrating somewhere in my bones.

On the cliffs, dawn began to break. And in the harbor below, the people of Black Hollow would wake to calm waters— Never knowing how close the dark had come. But deep beneath the lighthouse, in the chamber of spirals and stone— Mara felt the ocean watching her back. Chapter 5: The Second Pulse Dawn painted the sea gold. From the harbor, Black Hollow looked peaceful—fishing boats rocking gently, gulls wheeling overhead, sunlight catching on windows still wet from the storm. The lighthouse beam still burned.

Its light dimmed not into shadow, but into absence. No rot. No illness. Just silence. A local speaker named Venn called it “a closing eye.” Ari read the report two days later. Thalen merely whispered, “It’s happening.” And the Hollow remained quiet. Not in warning. But as if it were listening for permission. The next sign came three valleys west of the First Root a narrow ravine lined with mirror bark trees. There, etched into the face of a cliff, was a sequence of gestures rendered in mineral-stone:

Morning in the Hollow Refuge was gray and slow. Mists clung to the roofs like ghosts reluctant to leave, and the light that filtered through was soft, almost unreal. The Aurel Shard at the heart of the village pulsed faintly beneath its cracked shell, quiet for now — like a beast finally fed.

Choosing her would’ve been suicide. So why did I keep seeing her in my dreams, blood streaked across her face, a ghost of fire burning in her eyes? Why did it feel like I had made the greatest mistake of my life? Liesendra by my side sat by the fire, humming a song I didn't recognize. Her fingers danced lazily over a worn page of an old tome—one of the many ancient relics her father smuggled into Winter Hollow. The red crystal pendant around her throat pulsed softly like a heartbeat.

I sat in the Hollow’s mist, the branches above me twisted like ribs, the ground beneath me alive with roots that twitched in their sleep. The Hollow was awake. And it was waiting for me to decide whether to fall… or rise. When dawn broke pale and cold, I rose like something ancient. My breath fogged silver. The birds did not sing. Even the wind forgot how to move. I walked until the trees thinned and the mist revealed a grove burned black to the roots. Bones ringed the space in perfect circles—a massacre memorialised in silence. Whispers slid across the air. “Araya…” “Ash-blood…”

“Fine, let’s drink… that’s right! I can still drink. I can still… drink, hahahahaha...” His laughter echoed through the inn but eventually faded into silence. Meanwhile, outside Crimson Hollow. A quiet stream flowed slowly past the city’s outskirts. Under the shroud of night, the little river seemed even more tranquil—almost chilling, eerily silent. A person crouched at the riverbank, staring blankly—whether at the water or something else, it was hard to say. There were no streetlights outside Crimson Hollow, so once night fell, this area turned exceptionally dark and foreboding.

Elder Max wrote to me on a stolen line last week, as if he got to choose. “Both,” I whisper to the river. “Always both.” The current answers, sly as a fox. Far upbend, a bell rings where no bell should be, and in the sycamores above the amphitheater a single leaf turns wrong to watch the water. “Come on, hollowborn,” I murmur, tying the last knot tight. “Let’s see what you owe, and what you’ll pay, and what you refuse to give at any price.” I throw the bead string and smile when the river takes it.