“These sentient savages look down on us not because of our marks, but because they fear us. Because they know if we work together, we have the power to supplant them entirely. And that is exactly what I intend to do.”

—Savon, Emperor of the now defunct Marked Empire, in an address to his court

Zaina gritted her teeth and put her hands up. “That’s not true—you’re lying! That isn’t me!”

“You’re running out of time to do this painlessly. Cease this foolishness, Zaina. Aren’t you tired of running away?”

“This isn’t my real family,” Zaina said, stepping backward. “This isn’t my real home!”

“None of this is real? Is that so? Then how can we”—the reflection surged forward—“touch you?”

Unable to speak—feeling her racing heartbeat and the cold of its breath, Zaina watched in horror as her finger shot forward and touched the mark. Pain surged through her body, as if every blood cell had turned into knives, ripping her apart from the inside.

The chorus broke out again. “Stay here, Zaina. You’ll never have to worry about anything. No more struggling—no more wondering where you fit in. No more pain. Everyone here will accept you exactly as you are—perfect in every way. You can finally rest easy. Finally stop running. Don’t you want to stay forever?”

As much as Zaina hated to admit it, the thought was tempting. The shadowy cloak rose and enveloped her. The anti-Zaina raised one of the black swords.

“Take it and claim your true power—your destiny.”

A gluttonous, bottomless wrath formed in the pit of Zaina’s stomach, and for a second, she wanted to reach out. Within this blade was the power to break entire worlds. To manifest any possibility—domain over existence itself. All she had to do was take it—

Zaina glanced at the dreamlike memory of her family. With a vigorous shake of her head, she slapped the anti-Zaina’s hand away and said, “No! My real family is out there, and I’m going to make it to them!”

The anti-Zaina dissipated, turning into shadow and seeping into the ethereal cloak. It tightened its grip to block everything else out, and the dark, scratching whispers returned. Refusing to give up, Zaina struggled against the darkness. At the heart of the shadow was a light—she reached out for it, somehow knowing it was her only hope of salvation—her fingertip grazed against something solid, grasping at a spark amid the darkness, and her palm wrapped around a bright flash...

Her eyes opened with a gasp, chest heaving with deep breaths. A relieved sigh brushed over her lips—she was back in the descent pod with Gir. She checked her hand—nothing.

His head was tilted, an eyebrow lifted in curiosity. “Did something happen?”

“I saw it,” Zaina said. “I saw the Eldritch.”

Concern came over his face. “What do you mean?”

Trembling, she said in a low voice, “I mean it was there, and I saw it. I—I think it wanted to keep me there, in my mind. It—it looked like me, it talked to me…”

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Gir frowned. “It’s trying to interfere. I—I think that’s enough for now. It’s probably still looking for a chance to take control.”

Trying to calm her nerves as tremors of panic worked up and down her arms and legs, Zaina shook her head. “I—I’m sorry, Gir. I don’t—I’m sorry.”

“Hey,” he replied, eyes glimmering with sorrow, “listen to me—the Eldritch is responsible, not you. You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I know, I know, but I—I’m scared. Scared that it’s going to—that I’m going to—”

Gir reached over and gently touched her shoulder. “I know.”

She sniffed as her gaze fell to the floor. What does that monster want with me, anyway?

The question weighed on her mind as they ventured further into Demelia’s bowels, its depths falling past at a rapid, steady pace. Countless disembodied voices took bites out of her focus.

Zaina’s free hand fell to her father’s scrapshot and detached the rangefinder. After affixing it to her mask, she glanced upward—not a shred of light. She closed her eyes and hoped they made it in time.

But even if we do—what can I do? I can’t even summon a cipher.

A dim throbbing in her head worsened as their descent continued. Zaina jammed her eyes shut and rubbed her pulsing temples, curling her knees up to her chest; the voices were vicious, clawing at her brain from within. The chasm’s heat was awful—sweat streamed down her face. How much time passed in this state, Zaina didn’t know.

Finally, Gir’s voice pierced the chorus of voices, shattering their hold for a moment. “We’re at the threshold.”

Her eyes opened; the outside wasn’t moving. She leaned forward to peer out the floor window, and a wall of pure shadow waited below. Bone-like spikes jutted from the walls like twisted antlers; there was a red glow about them, and veins of spiraling crimson streaks weaved across their surface. Wafts of black vapor rose from the edges of the shadowy platform, barely holding a brightly burning flame in check.

“What is that?” she asked, staring in awe.

“That,” he said, “is the boundary between our reality and that of the Eldritch’s creation. The Hollow lies through the barrier. Things might get weird beyond this point.”

A shudder slowly crawled up Zaina’s spine as she stared at the wall of endless darkness. It was captivating in a way she didn’t like. The voices, though quiet, still called to her, beckoning her.

“Okay.” Gir turned to Zaina and said, “We have to go through now.”

“Wait, what do you—ah!”

The floor fell out—there was another brief sensation of weightlessness, and then intense cold as the pod plunged into shadow. Darkness seeped through the walls as they passed through. The moment it engulfed her head, the voices intensified. She curled up, closed her eyes, and covered her ears to wait out the cold—it wasn’t going away. The icy sensation emanated from within.

A dark, raspy voice pierced her mind. “You’re finally home, Zaina.”

“Hey,” Gir’s voice called out as the pod jolted before coming to a stop. She opened her eyes—he was right next to her, staring with concern. “We’re through now.”

Gir twisted a lever on the pod’s roof. The door hissed and swung open. Zaina hopped out first, keeping her scrapshot in front of her. She tried to act normal—as if an ancient monster wasn’t in her head.

The Hollow was a small, flat clearing with four pillars. The ground and walls, made of ancient-looking stone, were cracked and broken; jet-black, horned saplings sprouted from the gashes. Torches lit with cold, dancing flames lined the blackened walls. Twisted, jagged stones with tree-like branches, shifting and swaying, protruded from the wall, pointing inward. Smoke and steam rose from the cracks in the floor, where that same sickly red glow shone through the haze suffusing the room. They were alone.

On the far wall was a massive tunnel with crude stone steps, leading to a raised platform. Flame-bearing statues hovered atop the stairway’s landing, directly in front of a sealed iron door in the darkened hallows. Zaina shivered, rubbing her arms—somehow, all the way down here, a cold wind stirred.

Dark whispers streamed from behind the metal door. Zaina turned to Gir and whispered, “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?” he replied.

After shaking her head, Zaina gulped. The hairs on her arm stood on end.

What the hell is this place?

A familiar voice filled the air, sending icy chills through her blood. “You’ve finally arrived, Zaina.”

Zaina turned and aimed her scrapshot at Beni Gardol, who stood atop the stairwell. One of his eyes was sideways, and above it was a bony, ridge-like growth protruding along his head. His black sword was drawn, eyes bloodshot and lost in malice. Gray scales covered his skin—patches were peeling off, revealing black sinew and muscle beneath. He spread his arms and said, “Now we can finally begin.”