Slow Hollows Novels & Stories

The sun seemed to retreat behind a cloud that appeared out of nowhere and shrouded the deck in shadow, sapping the warmth from those below. Audible only to him, Lloyd heard the sweet voice of the 'youthful' spirit, singing gaily. 'Sing holly, go whistle, sing ivy! Such a grand day for searching the graves, not a blind bit of difference between noble and slave! Still they linger, still they wait, hoping for the day their sin will abate! The eye of the bird is their only friend, chirping and gossiping until the bitter end. Sing holly, go whistle, sing ivy!'

The exhaustion from my emotions dragged me away into the darkness easily. I closed my heavy eyes as my subconscious took over. The dark abyss appeared around me. Pure darkness with no escape. I wasn't falling, instead standing on the water but never being wet. I heard the ticking of the clock. Tick, tick, tick. Panic was rising. I had no idea what the ticking was or where it was coming from, but something deep inside me knew it was not good. I felt like it signaled the end. But the end of what was unclear.

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.

The words hit like sunlight piercing endless winter. The Hollow convulsed. Its massive black eye fractured visibly. Cracks spread through the darkness itself. The creator whispered in realization: “It cannot survive where grief and love coexist.” Because the Hollow only understood two states. Attachment. Or emptiness. It could not understand carrying pain while still choosing connection. The alternate Silas took one slow step toward the sky. Not angry. Not hateful. Just honest. “I’ll miss her forever.” The Hollow recoiled. The city lights brightened again.

Today's research had been beyond draining, adding to the fact that Maura is extremely bubbly, she basically wore me out with her endless talk. The hallway was quiet, save for the distant murmur of voices. My footsteps were soft, padded against the wooden floor. The last thing I wanted was to run into anyone and exchange unnecessary pleasantries. Then the air changed. A sharp scent—metallic, primal, feral—hit my nose, and my feet slowed. Just ahead, the door to the courtyard was cracked open. Every part of my being screamed to turn back, but for some reason, I felt a strong pull. I inched forward, drawn by something I couldn’t name, and peeked through the gap.

“The thread is gone, Elara. We’re drifting. We’re falling into the dark.” ​“I’ve got you, Sasha,” I thought, my mind screaming with a desperation I couldn't voice. “Just hold on. Don't go into the sleep. Please, don't leave me alone in here.” ​We reached the Hollow. ​It was a dip in the geography of the Outskirts, a damp, shadowed ravine where the runoff from the Alpha’s mountain estate collected after a storm. The air here smelled of mildew, wet stone, and the sour tang of old despair. It was the place where the pack kept its "failures"—the elderly who could no longer shift, the injured who couldn't hunt, and the Omegas who had outlived their usefulness.

As if the ground beneath my horse’s hooves whispered ancient lullabies only I could hear. By midday, we reached the edge of the Hollow. It wasn’t a place on maps. No one came here unless they had a death wish. Or a destiny. Dead trees bent toward us, clawing at the sky. The air thickened with whispers and shadows. And yet, I felt peace. It was as though I had returned to a place I’d never been but always known. Thane dismounted first. “I don’t like this.” “I do,” I whispered.

It was nearly dawn when they reached the Hollow. It wasn’t a place on any map. It was a feeling—a pressure in the bones, a silence too deep to be natural. The trees here formed a perfect circle around a small sunken grove, where a single willow tree stood, bent low over a dark pool that never reflected the sky. And beneath that willow, in the shadow of its twisted limbs, stood the witch’s hut. Diva felt her skin prickle. “It doesn’t look lived in.” “That’s the trick,” Derek murmured. “It’s always watching.”

he said, his voice low. “Then it’s time someone did,” Lyra murmured, eyes fixed ahead. “The Hollowed Ones left blood in their wake. I’m going to follow it.” They had been tracking them for days. From the ruins of the third Gate to the Crescent Fang borders, through the scorched ridge and now toward the ancient woods the packs once sealed off—the Hollow Hollow, named not just for its appearance but for the magic buried beneath its roots. It was a place even the bravest of wolves avoided. Where the veil between spirit and flesh thinned. Where banished power whispered back into the world.

Sylvara stands at the center, her jade-green skin shimmering as she tends to a sapling that seems to grow under her touch, its leaves unfurling like tiny hands reaching for the sun. “You’re late,” she says without looking up, her voice blending with the rustle of leaves. I glance at the sky, barely brightened past dawn. “By, what, five minutes?” “Time moves differently here,” she replies, finally meeting my eyes. “The Hollow exists in a fold of the Veil, where moments can stretch or slip away. Precision matters when you’re learning to wield lunar power.”