The party had trudged onward for nearly two days, their path winding along the train lines through the fog-choked remnants of Maidstone and Sevenoaks. The Hollow Knight, despite her evident distrust from all but Warren, had been reluctantly included in their quest. As a result, Warren and the enigmatic figure often ranged ahead, her ghostly silhouette remaining visible through the mist. Her presence in the rear was considered too unsettling, even if it meant she maintained a wary watch over the group's advance. Sid had mentioned that Brixton Underground Station had once been a refuge for two Magus who had recently retreated south to Bromley, which loomed ahead. Warren had hoped to probe Sid’s curious choice of spellcasting in English rather than Latin, but with Cypher the Rune Lord commanding the rearguard, finding an opportunity to speak with Sid was challenging. Most of Warren’s time was consumed by vigilant silence or pondering how best to broach the subject with the Hollow Knight.
Warren finally broke the silence, his voice a low murmur meant to keep their conversation private. “How did you know we were at Ashford International train station?” he inquired. “You might have figured out Cypher’s plans through the leylines or some other means, but that doesn’t explain how you pinpointed us at Ashford.”
The Hollow Knight’s voice was as cold and dispassionate as ever. “I sensed your direction shift southeast rather than continuing northeast towards Rochester. Once I had identified Cypher’s presence through the leylines, it was logical to infer your destination.”
Warren’s skepticism was palpable. “That’s a convenient explanation, but it doesn’t hold up. Cypher and his men embed complex runes into their gear to obscure their presence from the aether, nearly as effectively as you do. I highly doubt Cypher would have left the bulk of his guard back at Canterbury unless he was absolutely certain of their concealment.”
The Hollow Knight’s gaze remained fixed forward, her expression unreadable beneath the shadow of her helm. “Perhaps,” she replied coolly. “Or perhaps your assumptions are clouded by an overestimation of Cypher’s defenses. Some things are easier to perceive than you might imagine. I feel that you misunderstand me, Warlock,” the Hollow Knight’s voice was a chilling whisper through the mist. “I sensed you—your essence. There is a dark ember within your soul that burns brightly in the aether. You are known to us, the Abyssal clan.”
Warren’s breath caught in his throat, a sudden constriction that stifled a cough. “Nyxathalaya,” he murmured, the name slipping out before he could stop it.
The Hollow Knight inclined her head in acknowledgment. “Indeed. You were marked by her long ago, chosen to bear her true name. She saw potential in you that even I struggle to fathom, and so you were visited by a herald.”
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Warren shook his head, incredulous. “I defeated a low-level Reaver a decade ago, and many more since. That one was nothing extraordinary to mark me as an apostle of a dark deity.”
The Hollow Knight’s expression softened, almost pitying. “Why would it be? A herald is merely a Sprite, selected to manifest the will of the Dread Queen in this world. They alone have the power to give substance to those ancient names. Names are powerful; they shape and reshape reality. Should you call upon the Dread Queen, her power will flow through you.”
A surge of anger pierced through Warren’s shock, clearing the fog from his mind. “I am not someone else’s pawn,” he retorted sharply. “You speak of empowerment, but there’s always a price. Whether you’re oblivious to it or deliberately withholding it, I won’t risk my soul to your kind, who are known for their hunger for human spirits.”
“You assume—”
“Be silent,” Warren cut her off. “My mission is to restore hope, to reclaim what we’ve lost and rise from the ashes of this broken world. If all you’re going to do is make me question myself, then keep your counsel to yourself.”
They continued in silence, the mist thickening around them. Questions churned in Warren’s mind like a stormy sea, and though he tried to suppress them, one relentless thought persisted: Was he still truly human, or had the abyssal darkness of despair tainted him beyond redemption?
The acrid scent of burning wood pulled Warren from his thoughts, a harsh reminder of the reality around him. He signaled the Hollow Knight to halt, and together they waited for the rest of the party to catch up. The dilapidated silhouette of South Bromley station loomed through the mist, its crumbling walls barely visible against the dim, flickering light of fire. It was a haunting reminder of humanity’s tenuous grasp on survival, a crumbling bastion clinging to existence by sheer willpower.
Cypher and Captain Marshall forged ahead, their mission clear: to broker introductions and inform the residents of South Bromley about the presence of the Hollow Knight. There was no point in trying to mask her presence; any operational MetaTEC within a few miles would reveal her immediately. Captain Marshall’s return was marked by a terse report: the compound’s inhabitants were deeply wary of having a Sprite in their midst. Yet, Cypher’s renowned charm had managed to sway the skeptical residents, granting the party passage through the compound.
As Warren and his group traversed the station, the scene before him was as bleak as he had anticipated. The South Bromley compound, a dismal refuge for roughly sixty souls, bore the unmistakable marks of hardship. The residents, gaunt and hollow-eyed, wore tattered garments into which hastily embroidered runes had been stitched. It was evident that Cypher’s rune patterns, shared through the MetaTEC’s global chat years prior, were their primary means of protection against the relentless threats outside. These symbols were the only barrier between them and the encroaching darkness.
On the platform, the residents watched with a mix of wary curiosity and open hostility. Their gazes were fixed on the Hollow Knight with clear disdain, fingers brushing the hilts of rune-etched weapons that seemed more for reassurance than for actual defense. The unspoken tension in the air was palpable, and Warren doubted they would be welcome to spend the night within such precarious walls.