The midday sun bore down on Vigdis as she trudged along the cracked remnants of a highway, her boots kicking up pale dust with each step. A faint wind swept across the wasteland, carrying with it the distant creak of metal from some unseen ruin. She adjusted the strap of her quiver, the weight of the fresh bolts a reminder of her recent bartering misstep. Thirty shards for twenty bolts. Still burns, she thought with a wry snort.
But there was no time to dwell on that. She had a bigger problem: the Danger Zone.
The silhouettes of crumbling buildings loomed on the horizon, jagged teeth against the sky. From this distance, the skeletal remains of the city seemed still, lifeless, but Vigdis knew better. It was anything but. To pass through that place was to gamble with forces that made raiders and scavengers seem quaint. And yet, her path led directly there. Time it wrong, she thought, and I’ll be trapped in there after dark.
----------------------------------------
The wasteland offered nothing but the sound of her boots crunching against the asphalt and the soft rustle of her cloak. Her mind churned over the past few days as she pressed forward, trying to make sense of it all.
The Magician’s words came back to her: If they survived, bury them. His request, vague but laced with foreboding, still didn’t sit right. She hadn’t agreed, not really. It was easier to push the moral dilemma aside, to leave it for when—or if—she reached Bunker 4.
And then there was the Hollow King.
She tightened her grip on the axe strapped across her back, her jaw clenching at the thought of the skeletal monstrosity that seemed bent on her destruction. Twice now, it had come for her, its reach extending through roots and shadows alike. But why? Was she an unfinished meal? A defiant mark? Or was it something else entirely?
Her thoughts flicked back to the first time she encountered it. That had been a job—simple on the surface. Some village had hired her to investigate disappearances. She’d gone expecting bandits or maybe some half-mad scavenger. Instead, she’d found raiders, and at the center of their camp, a living tree pulsing with fungal growths and darkness. The Hollow King. She hadn’t expected to survive that fight. She’d barely walked away then, and now it seemed intent on finishing what it started.
Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.
And then there was the voice. That steady, commanding voice, sharp against the chaos of battle. It wasn’t hers, and it definitely wasn’t the Hollow King’s. The Magician? A reasonable guess, given his knack for showing up where he wasn’t expected. But no, it wasn’t him. The Magician’s tone carried a slyness, a smug humor. The voice that had spoken to her was calm, deliberate, male... and utterly unfamiliar.
Her hand brushed against the handle of her axe as she walked, her thoughts churning. Not the Magician. Not the Hollow King. So, who? Her father’s spirit? No. She dismissed the thought almost immediately. There was nothing paternal about the voice. It wasn’t warm or comforting, but it wasn’t cruel either. It had felt... ancient. Almost detached. Like it was watching her from somewhere beyond, nudging her when it deemed it necessary.
The thought made her uneasy. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard it—she was sure of that now. Moments of crisis, of near-death, when the odds stacked too high against her, the voice had been there. She hadn’t realized it then, too caught up in survival, but now it was undeniable. Someone—or something—was watching her. Guiding her.
And that was almost as unsettling as the Hollow King itself.
The memory brought her to a halt at a literal crossroads—a fractured intersection where the highway split into two paths. One led toward the city, its broken spires and fractured overpasses a promise of danger. The other veered eastward, toward the village she’d saved all those weeks ago.
Vigdis stood there, her hands resting on her hips, the breeze tugging at her hair. She had no deadline, no one to report to. The Bunker wasn’t going anywhere, and the Magician’s request felt more like a test than a mission. The village, though—she’d never collected her bounty from them. And if the bolts she’d just overpaid for were any indication, she could use the shards.
Her lips twitched into a faint smirk as she turned eastward, leaving the looming shadow of the Danger Zone behind. “Might as well,” she muttered. “A few extra shards never hurt anyone.”