The world was made of ash and fire.
Evelyn stood barefoot in a memory that was not hers, though it wore her skin. Fields of scorched grain stretched beneath a bruised sky. The wind carried no scent, only dry heat and the faint sound of a woman's voice—singing.
The song curved through the air like a river too old to remember its path.
"Light from hollow, flame from stone…
Ash to flesh, and blood to bone…"
Evelyn turned.
The farmhouse was familiar. Red shutters. Iron hinges. A hanging charm of coreglass crystals that tinkled even when there was no wind. And inside, seated by the hearth, her mother.
Not as Evelyn remembered her.
Younger. Her long, black braid untouched by gray, eyes fierce and luminous in a way Evelyn had never seen. She was bent over parchment and bone slivers, sketching glyphs that shimmered between languages—half-science, half-song.
"You're dreaming again, little fire," her mother said, without looking up.
Evelyn moved toward her.
"I'm… this isn't real."
Her mother smiled faintly. "Of course it isn't. But neither is what waits in the waking world."
Glyphs floated above the parchment now—stars in a night with no sky. They pulsed with rhythm, as if humming back at the woman drawing them. At the edge of the hearth sat a small box bound in silver threads. Evelyn reached for it.
"Don't."
The voice cracked like frost over warm stone.
Her mother's expression darkened, as if the air had soured.
"That journal was never meant for you."
"But it was for me," Evelyn whispered, remembering the warning, the years of avoidance, the forbidden journal hidden beneath her mother's bed. The same glyphs she now traced in the firelight. "You were studying the Cores."
Her mother did not answer at first. Then—
"Not just studying. Weaving."
Evelyn blinked. "What does that mean?"
Her mother rose. She walked to the window, where no sun shone.
"Do you know why the Hollow sings your name, child?"
"No…"
"Because you were born under a dying star. Because I bound something into you long before your first breath. Something I stole from the dark."
The song began again—not from her mother's lips, but from the air itself.
"One heart burning, two eyes blind,
The fire knows what gods won't find…"
Evelyn clutched her chest. Her real body, wherever it lay, burned. The fever returned. But it was not pain. It was clarity. Her skin split in places of light, and she saw echoes inside herself—memories not her own. A man with silver eyes screaming into the void. A woman clutching a newborn wrapped in symbols. A creature with no name devouring the sky.
She staggered.
Her mother caught her—not quite real, not quite dream. Just present.
"There will be three trials," she whispered. "You've passed the first. Do not fail the second."
"What are they?"
"Ash. Blood. And hollow."
The world tilted.
Her mother began to fade.
"And Evelyn…"
"Yes?"
"If you ever hear me sing again—run."
The house dissolved into fire.
And Evelyn woke, gasping, heart hammering.
Above her, stars pulsed through gaps in the leaves, too sharp, too distant. Beside her, Torren sat half-asleep, blade resting across his knees.
He stirred at her gasp.
"You're back," he murmured.
Evelyn nodded, tears drying on her face. "Not really."
She looked toward the horizon.
Somewhere out there was the second trial.
And somewhere closer—a journal wrapped in silver thread waited to be opened.