The sun rose soft and amber over Black Hollow, casting golden light through the thinning trees. The storm had passed. Birds chirped. Mist curled low over the ground like spilled silver. For the first time in weeks, Elena could breathe.
She sat beside Dorian on the steps of the old chapel ruins, sipping tea brewed from herbs he'd gathered by hand. A small fire crackled in front of them, and for a moment, they looked like ordinary people—not fated lovers bound by blood and darkness.
Elena nudged his shoulder gently. "You made this tea with actual human effort. I'm impressed."
He gave her a faint smirk. "Even immortal guardians have soft skills."
She laughed, and for a moment, the world felt normal.
But the moment didn't last.
A low, unfamiliar hum buzzed in her chest. Not painful—but persistent. Like the vibration of something waking far away. She looked up at Dorian, but he was already on alert, his gaze turned toward the southern woods.
"You feel that too?" she asked, setting her cup down.
He stood, slowly. "Yes. But it's not one of mine. This is... different."
From the woods came the sound of hooves—not horses, but something heavier, sharper. Branches snapped. The air shifted.
Within seconds, three figures emerged from the trees—tall, armored in cracked bronze and silver, their faces hidden behind smooth, mask-like helms. No eyes. No mouths. Just silence and menace.
Dorian stepped in front of Elena instantly, his voice cold but calm. "Wardens of the Fracture."
Elena frowned. "Who?"
"The Hollow's ancient enforcers. Before I was sealed, they answered to no one but the original Seers. They were banished when the bloodline fell silent. I didn't think any survived."
The lead Warden raised a hand, not threatening, but commanding.
It spoke in a deep, resonant voice that vibrated in Elena's bones: "The blood of the Hollow has risen. The seal is fractured. We come for the Vessel."
Elena stepped forward despite Dorian's arm in front of her. "You're talking about me?"
"You carry the Key," the Warden replied. "And the last breath of the Seer's fire. You belong to the Order."
Dorian's voice darkened. "She belongs to no one."
"She was born to awaken the Gate," the Warden said, "and if she refuses, the Hollow will consume everything in its path."
Elena's voice was steady, but curious. "What gate?"
"The Gate of Thirteen. The prison beneath the Hollow, where the others sleep."
Dorian's eyes narrowed. "They can't be released. Not again."
"They stir," the Warden said. "Because of her. Because of you."
Elena looked between them, her mind racing. "What do they want from me?"
"To awaken," said the Warden. "To reclaim what was taken."
Dorian raised a hand, his shadow curling around his fingertips. "You will not touch her."
But the Warden did not move closer. Instead, it placed something small and glowing in the grass—a sigil etched into silver stone.
"A warning," it said. "They will come. And not all will ask."
Then, like smoke drawn into wind, the Wardens stepped back into the forest, vanishing without a sound.
Silence settled again—but this time, it felt different.
Elena bent to pick up the sigil. It pulsed with soft heat in her hand. As she held it, she saw a flicker—twelve figures in slumber, chained in a void of stone and fire. A thirteenth gate beginning to crack.
She gasped and nearly dropped it.
Dorian caught her.
"I'm okay," she whispered. "But we're not alone anymore, are we?"
He held her close, his voice quiet. "We never were. But now... they know you're awake."
Elena tucked the sigil into her coat. "Let them come."