The wraiths rose from the earth like shadows given form, their flickering figures twisting in the air, half-real, half-ghostly. Their hollow eyes glowed with a sickly light, a ghastly pale green that seemed to drain all warmth from the world around them. They moved in unnatural, jerking motions, like broken marionettes. The faint hum of the Oath still pulsed in the air, but it was no longer a beacon of hope. Now it was a siren's call, drawing the dead closer.
Seris stepped back, her sword drawn, the cold steel gleaming in the dim light of the ruin. Beside her, Toren's form was a shadow of stillness, his eyes wide, scanning the forest's edge as though expecting more to emerge from the darkness.
"They're drawn to the obelisk," Seris said under her breath, her voice steady but sharp. "We can't let them get close."
Toren didn't respond. His hands twitched, fingers flexing as if ready to fight, but he held himself back. He had never been much for words, and right now, Seris was grateful for the silence. There was nothing to say that would change what was happening. They were here, in the heart of the Sylvan Ruins, and they were surrounded.
The wraiths circled them slowly, their forms fluctuating like flickers of a dying flame. One of them lunged, its jagged arms outstretched, its mouth open in a silent scream. Seris reacted instantly, her blade slicing through the air in a perfect arc, catching the creature's form with a sickening crack.
But it was not enough.
The wraith stumbled back, only to reassemble itself in the blink of an eye, its features returning as though nothing had happened. The Hollow had twisted them, made them into things that couldn't truly die.
"Damn it," Seris muttered under her breath, frustration flickering across her face. She had faced wraiths before, but never in such numbers, never with this much force behind them. "These aren't like the others..."
Toren's gaze was locked on the wraiths, his body rigid with tension. "We need to break the connection," he said. His voice was tight, strained, but his words were clear. "The obelisk. It's still feeding them."
Seris knew what he meant. The obelisk was a beacon for the Hollow, and the wraiths were its messengers. If they didn't act quickly, the entire forest would be crawling with these half-formed horrors, and their chances of reaching the Oath would be lost forever.
"We can't move it," she replied, her sword held ready, her eyes scanning for the next attack. "But we can break the ritual. We can stop this."
Toren's hand shot out to stop her as she made a move toward the obelisk. "Not like this." He stepped forward, his presence an almost oppressive force. "It's not just the wraiths. If you break the connection, you'll—"
"I'll die?" Seris finished the thought for him, her gaze hardening. "We don't have a choice. We're already dead if we don't."
Toren hesitated, his hand still hovering in front of her. But after a moment, he dropped it to his side, a defeated sigh escaping him. His words were laced with something darker, something Seris had heard before but couldn't quite place.
"You think you're the only one who knows that? You think I don't see the path we're on? We're already lost. You can feel it. This... thing inside us. The Hollow's grip." His words were clipped, raw. He wasn't talking about the wraiths anymore. "We're just walking deeper into it."
Seris didn't respond, but the words struck her harder than she let on. Toren was right. There was something wrong inside of her—something the Hollow had touched long before they entered the Sylvan Ruins. It gnawed at her mind, tugging at the edges of her thoughts, like a memory half-remembered. She couldn't shake it. Couldn't ignore it.
But there was still a chance. The Oath—the broken fragments of it that had somehow survived all this time—might hold the answer. The last sliver of hope.
With a grunt of frustration, Seris lunged at the nearest wraith. Her blade met the air with a sharp whistle, and the creature's flickering form was slashed in two. But just as it had before, the wraith reformed, its hollow body stitching itself back together in a grotesque imitation of life.
"Get back!" she shouted at Toren, her eyes flashing with urgency.
The wraiths were closing in, their numbers growing. But the obelisk pulsed brighter now, as if sensing the rising conflict. It was unstable, unstable in a way that Seris couldn't explain. She could feel it in the way the air around them crackled, in the strange force building beneath her feet.
"Help me!" she snapped at Toren. "I can't hold them off forever."
Toren stood frozen for a moment, his face torn between the growing dread and the immediate need. Then, as though shaken from some inner trance, he moved. He reached down to his waist, drawing a jagged, ancient dagger—the same one he always carried—and threw himself into the fray with an unspoken determination. His movements were precise, calculating, and his attacks didn't just aim to kill; they aimed to sever, to break whatever bond the wraiths had with the obelisk.
Seris fought with a fury of her own, cutting down wraith after wraith, but each time she struck, the same agonizing process happened: they reformed, rebuilt, like the hollow shells of things that had once been alive. They weren't like anything she had faced before. These weren't just spirits—they were twisted, malformed remnants, puppets of the Hollow.
"Can you feel it?" Toren's voice was tight as he fought beside her, his dagger flashing in the dark. "This place... it's warping us. The Oath is calling, but we're not the only ones it wants."
Seris's breath came in shallow gasps as she parried another blow from a wraith's jagged arm. Her pulse pounded in her ears, and she fought through the growing dizziness. Toren was right. The more they fought, the more the Hollow's influence seemed to seep into them. It wasn't just in the air—it was in their bodies, their minds.
"We have to break the connection!" Seris shouted again, her grip tightening on her blade.
But before she could make a move, the ground beneath their feet trembled violently. The obelisk flared with a blinding light, and the wraiths froze in mid-motion. Their hollow eyes seemed to look at her, piercing through the dimness of the forest, and for a fleeting moment, Seris felt an overwhelming presence behind them.
The Hollow had arrived.
The wraiths that had once been mere echoes of the forest's past seemed to solidify, coalescing into something more powerful—an embodiment of the very force they had come to stop. It towered over them now, its dark silhouette growing larger as it stepped forward from the shadows. A deep voice reverberated from the creature, though its form was not fully material.
"Foolish mortals," the Hollow whispered, its voice a haunting melody of sorrow and rage. "Do you not see? It is too late for you."
Seris felt the weight of its words press down on her like an unbearable burden, the power of the Hollow seeking to crush her resolve. But deep within her, the last embers of her will flared, stubborn and defiant.
She was not going to lose.
Not now. Not when she was so close.
"Stay with me, Toren," Seris muttered under her breath, the words more of a prayer than a command.
Toren, his face ashen and filled with fury, nodded once. "I'm not going anywhere."
And as the Hollow's figure loomed closer, Seris stepped forward, her sword gleaming with the last vestiges of light, ready to face whatever came next.