The Hollowwood was behind them now, but its presence lingered like a shadow stitched to their heels. Aeren and Nyra had crossed the Ashreach River by dawn, a silver thread cutting through the emerald wilds, and entered the lower slopes of the Whisperroot Hills—a land no less strange, though quieter in its menace.
"Keep to the stones," Nyra warned, pointing to slabs of white rock spaced like stepping stones along the path. "The earth listens here. And it remembers."
Aeren obeyed, though every step made his legs ache and his thoughts heavier. The events of the Sealed Circle still pulsed in his bones. He'd awoken something—something vast, ancient, and watching. The shard embedded in his palm now glowed faintly even when he slept.
As they climbed, a mist thickened around them. Trees with bark like twisted rope loomed out of the fog, their branches clawing at the sky. Then the whispers began.
At first, Aeren thought it was wind. But the sound didn't move—it hovered. A dozen soft voices murmuring his name, speaking fragments of thoughts he hadn't told anyone.
Nyra gritted her teeth. "They want to confuse you. Do not answer."
"Answer what?" Aeren asked, but even as he spoke, a voice echoed back in his mind—not Nyra's, not his own:
> "Why did you survive when they did not?"
His breath caught. He saw his father again, swinging the iron poker, his mother's hand reaching for his. Then flame. Then ash.
He shook his head. "No. That's not real."
Nyra grabbed his arm. "Don't let them in. The Whisperroot drinks regret. It will drown you in your own sorrow."
They pressed on.
By noon, the mist cleared to reveal an ancient shrine built into the hillside. Aeren stopped. Carvings covered every stone—symbols he couldn't read, faces long worn by rain, and five tall statues seated in a circle.
He recognized one—the warrior with the winged helm. He had seen him in the vision at the Sealed Circle.
Nyra knelt before the central statue. "This is the Hill of Witnesses. Each Shardbearer must pass here."
"For what?" Aeren asked.
"To be judged."
As she spoke, the ground trembled. The shard in Aeren's palm flared white, and the statues opened their eyes—pale fires in ancient stone.
A voice, deep as the roots of the world, filled the air:
> "Bearer of the Veilshard. You awaken a broken oath. You stir old wars. Do you understand the weight you carry?"
Aeren fell to one knee, chest tight. "No. But I want to."
The fire in the statues flared. One of them spoke:
> "Will you give your life if it means sealing the Hollow forever?"
He hesitated. Nyra looked at him, not urging—just waiting.
Aeren stood. "Yes. If I must."
The fires dimmed. The ground steadied.
> "Then go to the Moonwell. There, the truth will be shown."
The statues closed their eyes. Silence returned.
Nyra helped him to his feet. "You spoke well. Many have failed that test."
"It didn't feel like a test," he said.
"It never does."
As they made camp that night under the shelter of a moss-covered ridge, Aeren stared into the fire, listening to the silence of the Whisperroot. He wasn't sure what awaited at the Moonwell—but he no longer doubted his path.
Above, the stars shimmered. One pulsed—bright, violet, and cold.
Far away, in the Hollow, something turned its gaze toward him.
And it remembered his name.