They say Hollows are cursed because we forgot how to bow.
I say we were cursed the moment we lowered our heads.
The gods never came when we begged, so why should I kneel?
If salvation means crawling, I'll choose damnation standing.
It wasn't the first time I dreamed of falling.
But this one was different.
The air burned as if the sky itself were on fire, and I couldn't move—couldn't even scream. Golden threads unraveled from my hands, disappearing into the darkness below, pulling pieces of me along with them. I wanted to stop it, to hold onto something, anything, but my body wouldn't obey.
Ahead of me, a figure loomed. Its radiance burned, searing through the void, and I hated it—hated the way I couldn't look away. It shifted with every heartbeat: a king draped in light, a monster cloaked in shadows. Something about it felt wrong. Familiar.
Ash swallowed my feet, dragging me down, and whispers coiled around me like smoke—competing to be heard.
Hollows don't stand—gods don't kneel.
What makes you different?
The weight of the crown is heavier than it seems.
The figure stepped closer, dragging the golden threads behind it like chains. My breath hitched as its hands raised, revealing a crown of light. Its edges burned jagged, sharp enough to cut through anything. For a moment, the light hit its face just right, and I swore I saw my own reflection staring back.
"The light that guides can also blind," it said, the words cutting through the void like a knife. Its voice was low and sharp, not loud but impossibly certain. "Good and evil are born from the same spark—the pursuit of a dream."
The crown flared, and the heat pressed against my skin, burning away everything else. I stumbled, choking on the air, as the ash gave way beneath me.
"You will burn the stars to save the light."
And then I fell. Darkness swallowed me, the crown's light lingering in my vision long after everything else disappeared.
My eyes snapped open to the sound of drums.
The pounding was relentless, vibrating through the jagged rocks beneath me, rattling my ribs. It wasn't just noise—it was alive, a force that swallowed the mountain, the air, the sky. I pressed my hand to my forehead, tracing the faint ridge of the scar that cut across my brow, as if the act could anchor me to the present. The golden afterimages of the dream still flickered in my mind, bright and searing.
"Aya!" Cynane's voice cut through the wind like a blade. "Get up! You can't stop now—we're too close!"
I groaned, dragging myself upright. My arms ached from the climb, the chill biting at my fingers. Violet strands of hair clung to my face, and I pushed them back, my eyes narrowed as I blinked at the path ahead. The statue loomed above us, carved into the mountainside, its shadow swallowing the ledge where we perched.
"I wasn't sleeping," I muttered, brushing dirt from my hands. "Just thinking."
"Thinking with your eyes closed?" Kael's voice drifted up from below, dry and teasing. "You'd sleep through the end of the world."
I turned to glare at him, "You'd be the one to end it, just so you could have the last word."
Kael's smirk deepened as he hauled himself up beside me, his hand gripping the stone with an ease that belied the climb. "If you had the last word, nothing would survive the silence."
I rolled my eyes but felt the corners of my mouth twitch. "Good thing I'm never quiet, then."
"Unfortunately," Kael muttered, glancing back toward the path below. I didn't even have to look to know that smug expression was plastered on his face. He always found a way to make everything sound like a joke, even when it wasn't.
"Can you two not?" Cynane's voice arose behind us as she dragged herself up to the ledge. Her brace clinked softly with each step, dragging her leg like some heavy weight she refused to acknowledge. It wasn't graceful, but she never complained—not even when the wind nearly threw her off balance. She planted one hand firmly on the rock, steadying herself, but Kael still reached out like he always did.
"I've got it," Cynane snapped, swatting his hand away without even looking. Her braid swung over her shoulder as she straightened, brushing off the dust clinging to her sleeve. "We're almost there. If you're going to fight, at least wait until we're not hanging off the side of a mountain."
I bit back a grin and moved aside to let her pass. "We're not fighting," I said, shrugging like her interruption wasn't entirely warranted. "We're just... strategizing."
Kael raised his hands like he was surrendering. "Not fighting. Just figuring out who's more likely to get us killed."
"Sure," Cynane said, her voice softening, but the sarcasm still cut through. "But if one of you falls because you're too busy bickering, I'm not hauling you back up."
I caught Kael's eye as she limped past us. The corners of his mouth twitched, but he said nothing, letting her have the last word.
I let out a short laugh, glancing at Kael as he leaned against the rock. "If she tried, we'd all end up needing Abba to pull us back up," I said, my tone teasing but light.
Cynane shot me a sharp look, her braid swinging as she turned briefly. "You're impossible, Aya," she said, her voice edged with frustration but still carrying that warmth that made me grin.
"Just kidding, Nane," I replied, my voice softer now. I gestured for her to go ahead, letting her take the lead.
Kael chuckled, brushing dust off his palms. "Your dad could've carried us all up this mountain by now," he said, his voice steady but tinged with something heavier. He glanced at the faint firelight flickering below, shadows dancing across his face. "How long do you think until he gets word of our plan?"
The question hung in the air for a moment. I pressed a hand against the cold rock, steadying myself as I climbed. The idea of him finding out was less frightening than what came next. "He's not here," I said, the words clipped. "He's on the outskirts gathering herbs to treat the wounded from Cyris's last… gift." The bitterness in my tone came out sharper than I intended. "And by the time he gets back, we'll be done."
Cynane hesitated ahead of us, glancing back with a flicker of uncertainty. "He always finds out, though. And when he does—"
"Then he'll yell at me first." I cut her off with a wave of my hand, not wanting to hear it. "And somehow keep the Elders from tearing us apart. Like always."
Kael chuckled behind me, his voice low but warm. "He's the only reason they haven't thrown us to the wolves yet."
"If Abba's there…," I let out a short laugh, though it didn't quite reach my chest. "Even the wolves wouldn't dare. They've got more self-preservation than we do."
Kael laughed, but Cynane stayed quiet, her gaze already fixed on the distant glow of firelight below. The rhythmic pounding of drums felt even closer now, each vibration like a second heartbeat rattling in my chest. The sound clawed at my nerves, a reminder of what was waiting for us at the top.
I pulled my cloak tighter against the wind, glancing at my friends. Cynane's jaw was set, her small frame braced against the cold, while Kael adjusted the straps on his pack with that infuriatingly casual air he always carried. I couldn't tell if he was actually calm or just pretending.
Either way, it didn't matter. I was leading this. This was my idea, my risk, and I'd see it through. They were here because of me, because they believed in me—or maybe because they were just as restless as I was.
The air grew colder as we climbed, the jagged rocks biting into my palms with every pull. The drums from below pounded harder, like they were trying to shake the mountain apart. Each beat sent a vibration through my chest, matching the rhythm of my heart we were getting close.
The ceremony had started. And we were about to ruin it.
The air sharpened with every step, stinging my fingers to the bone and biting my cheeks. Each breath of the icy wind tasted like iron, the weight of the climb pressing my lungs. Below us, the drums pounded relentlessly, each beat vibrating through the rock underfoot, syncing with the tension that coiled tighter in my chest.
Kael reached the base of the statue first, his red hair catching the faint glow if the fires below. He hauled himself into the ledge, pausing for just a moment to glance back at us. His usual grin was gone, replaced by something harder more focused.
I didn't need to tell him what to do—he already knew. He reached into his pack, checking the supplies we'd prepared, his movements quick and practiced.
I pulled myself up after hum, muscles burning with every step. The climb had been grueling, but this? This was what we'd come here for. The statue loomed above us, its jagged crown outlined against the deep blue of the night sky. The firelight below danced across its stone surface, making it seem alive, it's shadow shifting like something watching us.
Cynane pulled herself up with a grunt. Her breathing was uneven, but she didn't even pause. Kael and I had offered to carry her supplies, but she still insisted on pulling her weight—literally and figuratively.
"You're slower than usual," Kael teased, leaning back against the ledge, his smirk firmly in place. "Need me to tie a rope to you next time?"
Cynane didn't even glance at him as she hauled herself over the edge. "I'd rather drag you behind me," she shot back, brushing the dust from her knees.
I didn't laugh. The tensions thrumming through me drowned out any humor. My fingers tightened around the rope as I secured the last knot, testing its hold on the statue's outstretched arm. "Keep your voices down," I said, my tone sharper than I intended. "We're close enough to the square now they'll hear us.
The square was full. The people moved in a frantic, desparate rhythm—arms raised, bodies swaying to the beat of the drums. The chanting rose and fell like waves, carried up by the wind and even from here, I could feel it.
The Zurahs led the ritual, their movements precise and solemn, as if each step carried the weight of generations. They were cloaked in dark ash from head to toe, the gritty black powder clinging to their skin like a second layer. Golden patterns traced intricate lines across their bodies, swirling over their arms and faces in shapes that seemed alive in the firelight. The designs symbolized the duality of our existence—the ash represented mortality, the burden of the Hollows' cursed state, while the gold threads were said to echo the divine spark was said to be stolen from us.
They're faces were hidden behind veils of soot and shadow, but their voices rose clear and unwavering, guiding the chants that echoed through the mountain. Zurahs were both revered and feared—keepers of the old ways, bound to the rituals that begged for salvation even as the gods stayed silent.
The elders sat above the square on a raised stone platform carved into the mountainside. From there, they could see everything—the fire, the Zurahs dancing in their ash-streaked gold, and the kneeling crowd murmuring their endless pleas. Their perch was both symbolic and literal, a reminder that they judged from above, distant from the rest of us, yet deciding everything for us.
Malrik stood at the center of their formation, unmistakable in his rigid posture. His robes were a deeper gray than the others', edged with gold patterns that caught the firelight and gave him an almost spectral glow. His face was harsh, carved with lines that told of a life lived under the weight of too many losses. His jaw, sharp and unyielding, was perpetually clenched as if even his words would betray weakness. The firelight caught the silver streaking his dark beard and the thin scar that cut across his left cheek, a reminder of the last time he'd faced real danger.
But he wasn't looking at the fire or the Zurahs. He wasn't focused on the ceremony or even the cries of the Hollow people below. His attention, as always, was elsewhere—on me, on Kael, on Cynane. He didn't know exactly where we were, but I could feel his gaze searching, sharp and unforgiving.
Malrik was devoted to the Hollows, I couldn't deny that. He carried the weight of our history on his back, determined to drag us toward something better—something safer. But he looked inward when he should've been looking outward. He'd rather chase rebellious kids through the shadows than direct his anger where it belonged: at the people who kept us crawling in the dirt.
Behind him, the other elders murmured in quiet conversation, their voices too low to carry over the wind. They sat in a semicircle around him, their faces as impassive as stone. Their robes, dyed deep gray and edged with gold, blended into the weathered rock of the dais. Unlike Malrik, they barely diverted their gaze from the fire or the ritual below, their focus fractured and distant.
Beneath their platform, the Hollow people formed a sea of bowed heads and trembling hands. They knelt in tight circles, their bodies pressed together for warmth against the biting wind. Some swayed with the rhythm of the drums, their voices hoarse from chanting. Others clutched at each other, their faces streaked with ash and tears. It wasn't just a ritual—it was mourning. They weren't only praying for salvation; they were pleading for the dead to forgive them for still breathing.
A sharp cry broke through the chants—a woman wailing a name. "Ena!" The sound pierced the air, sharp and raw, splitting the ritual like a blade.
Ena.
The name hit me like a blow, and for a moment, the jagged edge of the stone beneath my fingers felt distant, as if I'd lost my grip on the world itself. Ena's face rose unbidden in my mind—her smile, the warmth of her voice, the way her hands never stopped moving as she worked, mending clothes or weaving baskets that somehow always seemed brighter than the others.
She wasn't the only one Cyris had taken. Not this time, not ever. The last raid had burned through us like a sickness, leaving Ashora's alleys filled with bodies wrapped in coarse cloth, the air thick with the stench of death. Ena had been one of too many. How many more of us had to die before the gods opened their eyes?
My jaw clenched as I forced myself to keep climbing, the stone scraping against my fingers. I couldn't let myself look down. Not at the faces streaked with ash and grief. Not at the firelight catching on that woman's tears as she cried for Ena. If I looked, I'd falter, and I couldn't afford to falter now.
Ena had been the closest thing to light in this place. When I was little, she'd stitched up my tunic when I tore it, her hands steady as she said, "You'll outgrow this soon, Aya, but not before you find another rock to trip over." She'd given me scraps of her bread when I refused the gray paste we called porridge, and when the nights felt too heavy to bear, she'd tell me stories—not of gods or curses, but of laughter and sunlight, of a world that felt too far away to believe in.
And now she was gone. Just like the others. Just like everyone who dared to hope for more.
The Zurahs' chants carried on below, rising like smoke into the night, but I didn't hear the harmony anymore. I heard the cracks in it—the way the people faltered, their voices wavering under the weight of their grief. They clung to this ritual, to this begging and bowing, as if it could make up for the lives lost. But what good was tradition when it left us shattered? What good was obedience when it cost us everything?
My fingers curled tighter around the stone, the ache in my arms sharp and immediate. "How many more?" I whispered, the words swallowed by the wind. How many more names would we cry before we stopped? Before we stood?
Ena had deserved better. All of us did.
I climbed higher, my breath coming faster as the firelight below blurred into a mass of flickering shadows. I wasn't climbing for salvation or forgiveness. I was climbing for Ena, for every name cried out in the dark, for every face Cyris took while we knelt and begged for gods who never came.
The cries and chants blurred together, rising in a crescendo that cut through the night. But I didn't look down. Not at the Zurahs, not at the people. My grip on the stone tightened, my vision tunneling as I focused on the path ahead. If I stopped now, if I let myself falter, Ena's name—and all the others—would fade into the ash and wind.
And I couldn't let that happen.
Malrik didn't flinch at the cries. He didn't flinch at anything. To him, this was normal. Acceptable. Kneeling was in our blood, a habit carved into our bones from generations of waiting—waiting for salvation, for forgiveness, for gods who never came, for power that would never be returned. Malrik thought our survival depended on it, that every bowed head was a shield against extinction. I clenched my fists, nails biting into my palms, as the weight of his belief pressed against my chest.
But I couldn't see it that way. Not anymore. If the gods cared for us, they wouldn't leave us with empty hands and hollow hearts. They wouldn't watch as Cyris burned our homes, as they dragged our people away like cattle. This wasn't protection. This wasn't mercy. It was surrender disguised as faith.
My eyes flicked to the statue ahead, its jagged crown catching the firelight like it ruled the night itself. Mamba. That's what they called him—the god who'd turned his back on us centuries ago. The one the elders still begged for salvation, still offered our broken voices to, as if we hadn't already lost enough. The people called it faith. I called it delusion.
Whatever it took, I'd tear it down. I'd uncrown their god, leave the pieces for Malrik and the others to scrape from the ground, and remind the Hollow people what it meant to stand.
I gripped the rough stone, my fingers aching from the climb. The drums below thudded like a distant heartbeat, but here, at the base of the towering statue, everything felt quieter—muted, like the mountain itself held its breath.
Cynane and Kael stayed below, their forms blending into the jagged shadows of the cliffside. Kael adjusted the rope tied to the base of the statue's arm, his movements quick but purposeful. Cynane leaned against the rock, hunched as she worked to catch her breath. They didn't look up, but I could feel their focus. Their belief in me was a steady force, lifting me with every step as I climbed the stone giant.
The statue of Mamba loomed above, its cracked stone face half-lit by the firelight below. The jagged crown atop its head gleamed, catching the flickering flames like it was meant to be worshipped. The figure itself was imposing, carved with an unnatural symmetry that made it feel alive—its outstretched arms open, as if inviting us to kneel. Its surface was weathered, pitted by years of wind and ash storms, yet the expression carved into its face was eerily untouched.
Not benevolent. Not merciful.
It was empty.
The hollow eyes stared past me, unseeing, uncaring, and the sight of them sent a sharp pulse of anger through my chest. This was the face of our god? This was the being my people groveled before, offered prayers and blood to? This was what we had left after centuries of suffering—stone and silence.
I hauled myself up onto the ledge, the frigid air slicing against my cheeks. My cloak snagged on the edge of the statue's arm, and I tugged it free, my eyes fixed on the crown. It was massive up close, its jagged edges almost brutal in their design. The gold plating had dulled over the years, tarnished with streaks of blackened ash, but it still gleamed like it held some kind of power. The weight of it wasn't just physical—it was symbolic, a reminder of what they thought we owed.
For a moment, my hands hesitated on the rope.
Abba's voice echoed in my mind, not angry but tired, the way it always sounded when we argued. "Defiance lights the fire, but it's the ashes you have to live with."
He never told me to stop, not outright. He didn't try to crush the fire in my chest the way the elders did. But he didn't stoke it, either. To him, I was still just a child playing at rebellion, too stubborn to see the bigger picture. Maybe he was right.
But that didn't matter now. What mattered was that people were dead—children, parents, friends—because Cyris had decided our lives were worth less than their resources. Abba could stitch wounds and comfort the grieving, but even he couldn't bring back the lives they'd stolen. Kneeling hadn't saved us. It never would.
I glanced down at Kael and Cynane. Kael gave me a sharp nod, his expression steady, and Cynane's eyes flicked to mine, uncertain but resolute. They were here for me, for this. I had to see it through.
The air around me stilled, the sound of the drums fading into the background. My own heartbeat pounded in my ears, steady but deafening, as if the mountain itself had paused to watch. I reached for the crown, my fingers brushing the tarnished surface. It was cold, impossibly heavy even before I'd lifted it. My chest tightened, the weight of the moment pressing down as I gripped its edge.
This is it, I thought, swallowing against the dry air.
I turned my head slightly, catching Kael's gaze one last time. His voice was a low murmur, meant only for me. "Make it count."
The words hit harder than they should have, like an unspoken reminder that there was no turning back.
I dragged the crown, its jagged edges scraping against the stone as I shifted it to the ledge. My muscles burned from the effort, my breaths coming shallow and quick. For a moment, I let my gaze drift to the firelight below, to the faces turned upward in hope or desperation. My people. My family. Abba. I didn't want to think of what this would mean for him, how much harder I was making his fight.
But I couldn't stop now.
"MAMBA WON'T SAVE YOU!"
I yelled, the words ripping from my throat like a war cry. My voice echoed off the stone, carried down to the square below, and for the first time, the chants faltered. The Zurahs paused mid-step, their ash-covered forms turning as one toward the sound. The people looked up, faces pale with shock or fear, their voices dying on their tongues. Even the elders stirred, Malrik rising to his feet as his sharp gaze zeroed in on the statue.
I shoved the crown with all my strength, my muscles straining as it tipped over the edge. The jagged gold tumbled downward, catching the firelight as it fell, the sound of its impact shattering the silence. Sparks flew as it crashed into the platform below, scattering ash and embers in all directions.
For a moment, everything stood still. No chants, no drums, just the echo of the crown's fall reverberating through the square.
I didn't know it yet, but I'd just written the first line of my damnation.