The silence after a storm is never truly silent.
The air in the alley was thick with it. A low, throbbing pulse beneath the skin of the world, like the echo of a bell that had stopped ringing but refused to fade. The rain had ceased, but the scent of wet stone and old blood clung to the back of Eryk's throat, metallic and sour. His hands, still faintly shimmering with that unnatural dark, hung limp at his sides. The glow was fading now, retreating into his skin like a tide pulling back from shore, but the weight of it lingered.
And Sera stared.
Her knife was still out, but the blade had dipped, her grip slack. Her chest rose and fell in quick, shallow bursts, the only sign that she hadn't turned to stone. Her eyes was too hard and unafraid just moments ago, they were too wide. Not with fear, not exactly.
With recognition.
She knew what she had just seen.
And that was worse.
Eryk swallowed. His mouth was dry, his tongue heavy. "Sera—"
She took a step back.
A single step.
It wasn't much. But it was enough.
The distance between them yawned like a chasm.
Eryk's breath hitched. He wanted to explain. Wanted to say he hadn't meant to do it, hadn't even known he could. But the words withered before they left his lips. What good would they do? He had seen the way Dren crumpled. Seen the way his veins darkened, his magic—his very life—draining away like water through clenched fingers.
He had felt it.
The hunger.
The Grimoire against his chest that was warm and alive pulsed in time with his heartbeat.
And then, Eryk heard a whisper in the dark.
"More."
Sera's jaw tightened. She didn't sheathe her knife. "We need to move."
Her voice was flat and careful. Like she was speaking to a wounded animal that might lash out.
Eryk flinched.
But she was right.
The alley was too open. The bodies—Dren's limp form, the others Sera had cut down—were too visible. The Ashen District had no love for the dead, but it had even less for the things that left them in its streets. And if the Council's hounds were already sniffing at their heels…
Eryk nodded.
Sera turned without another word and led the way.
~○~
The Hollowed Hearth was no longer safe.
Narliya had known it the moment the first shouts had echoed through the district. By the time Eryk and Sera slipped back inside, the tavern was empty. Not a soul at the bar or a whisper in the shadows. Only Narliya remained, her back to them as she stuffed supplies into a worn leather satchel.
She didn't turn when the door creaked shut behind them.
"You're still alive," she said. "Good."
Sera exhaled through her nose. "Barely."
Narliya finally turned, her gaze flicking between them before landing on Eryk. Her eyes narrowed. "You used it."
Not a question.
Eryk's fingers twitched at his sides. He didn't answer her.
Narliya's mouth pressed into a thin line. She tossed the satchel to Sera. "Food. Coin. A map to the Warrens."
Sera caught it with one hand, her other still gripping her knife. "We're leaving the district?"
"You have to." Narliya's voice was grim. "They'll lock the gates soon. Burn the bridges. They won't risk you slipping out."
Eryk's stomach twisted. "They?"
Narliya gave him a look that was almost pitying.
"The Black Tongues. The Council's hounds. The ones who remember what the Null Grimoire does." She stepped closer, her voice dropping. "And now they know you have it."
The weight of those words settled over Eryk like a shroud.
He had thought the Academy's rejection was the end.
He was wrong.
This was.
Sera shifted, her boots scraping against the floor. "How long do we have?"
Narliya didn't hesitate. "Until sundown. Maybe less."
Eryk's pulse spiked. "That's not enough time—"
"It's all you have." Narliya cut him off, her voice was too sharp to hear. "Move fast. Stay off the main roads. And for the love of the old gods, don't use the Grimoire again."
Her gaze bore into him, unyielding.
Eryk wanted to argue. Wanted to say he hadn't meant to use it the first time. That it had been instinct, reflex, something deeper than thought. But the words died in his throat.
Because he had liked it.
The power.
The fullness.
The way the hollow inside him had stopped aching for the first time in his life.
Narliya saw it and her expression darkened.
Sera broke the silence. "So after picking up a stray, now I'm going to be a babysitter?"
Narliya held Sera's shoulder and shook it a little to startle him. "You don't want to burn the Ashen District alive, do you?"
Sera bit the bottom of her lips as he look at Eryk as if she was scared of what could happen to them outisde the Ashen District, knowing that Eryk will be hunted now. "We should go."
Eryk forced himself to nod.
Narliya didn't stop them as they turned toward the door. But as Eryk's hand touched the handle, her voice cut through the quiet one last time.
"Thorn."
Eryk paused for a second without looking back to her.
"Hunger is a beast," she said softly. "And it always wants more."
~○~
The Warrens were a myth.
At least, that's what Eryk had always been told. A sprawling labyrinth beneath the city, built by the first mages who had fled the Purges centuries ago. A place where the magicless could vanish. Where the Council's eyes couldn't reach.
Where hollow things like him could hide.
Assuming they could find it.
The map Narliya had given them was little more than a series of jagged lines and faded symbols, scrawled on a scrap of parchment so old it threatened to crumble at the edges. Sera held it between them as they moved through the district's back alleys, her brow furrowed in concentration.
"Left here," she muttered, turning down a narrow passage between two leaning buildings. The walls were so close Eryk's shoulders brushed against them on either side, the stone slick with damp.
The air grew heavier the deeper they went, thick with the scent of mildew and rotting wood. The sounds of the district faded behind them, replaced by the distant drip of water and the skittering of rats in the shadows.
Eryk's skin prickled.
The Grimoire hummed against his chest.
"Closer."
Sera stopped abruptly at a dead end. The wall in front of them was unremarkable—cracked stone, patches of moss, a rusted iron grate near the ground. But her eyes were fixed on a symbol carved into the corner, so faint Eryk hadn't noticed it at first.
A single rune.
Old. Faded.
But unmistakable.
Sera exhaled. "This is it."
Eryk frowned. "There's nothing here."
She didn't answer. Instead, she knelt, pressing her palm against the grate. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a groan of rusted metal, it swung inward, revealing a yawning darkness beneath.
A tunnel.
Eryk's stomach lurched.
Sera glanced up at him with her expression unreadable. "You first."
He wanted to refuse. Wanted to turn and run back to the light, back to the world where things made sense. But the distant echo of shouts—of bootsteps and barked orders—floated down the alley behind them.
"You wanna be dead, Stray Dog?" Sera asked.
The Black Tongues. They are close to where they were now.
Eryk swallowed.
Then, he stepped into the dark.
The tunnel was colder than he expected.
The air was stale, thick with the scent of earth and old iron. The walls pressed in on all sides, the ceiling so low Eryk had to hunch to keep from scraping his head. The only light came from a faint, flickering glow ahead—a lantern, maybe, or something else.
Sera dropped down behind him, pulling the grate shut with a quiet clang. The sound echoed, too loud in the confined space.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then Sera brushed past him, her shoulder bumping his as she took the lead. "Stay close."
Her voice was tight.
Eryk followed her.
The tunnel twisted and turned, branching off into smaller passages that vanished into blackness. Sera navigated them without hesitation, her steps were sure despite the dark. Eryk trailed behind, his fingers brushing the wall to steady himself. The stone was rough beneath his touch, uneven in places where roots or time had worn it down.
The Grimoire pulsed.
"Deeper."
Eryk gritted his teeth.
The further they went, the heavier the air became. Not just with damp, but with something else. The scent of burnt herbs. The tang of copper. The whisper of things long forgotten.
Magic.
But not like the Academy's. Not bright and sharp and proud.
This was something quieter.
Sera stopped so suddenly Eryk nearly collided with her.
"What—" he started.
She held up a hand, silencing him.
Ahead, the tunnel opened into a wider chamber. The light he'd seen earlier came from here. A single lantern hanging from a hook in the ceiling, casting long, wavering shadows across the walls.
And the walls…
Eryk's breath caught.
They were covered in markings.
Not runes. Not glyphs. But words. Scratched into the stone with knife or nail or something sharper. Names. Dates. Pleas.
"They took my son."
"The Council lies."
"The hollow will rise."
Sera exhaled slowly. "The Warrens."
Eryk stepped forward, his fingers hovering over the closest carving. The edges were rough beneath his touch, the letters uneven and desperate.
"Who wrote these?"
"People like you," a voice said.
Eryk spun to his surprise.
A figure stood in the shadows at the far end of the chamber—tall, gaunt, wrapped in a cloak that seemed to drink the light. His face was hidden beneath a deep hood, but his hands were visible, pale and scarred, fingers curled around a staff of gnarled wood.
Sera's knife was out in an instant.
The figure didn't move.
"You're late," he said.
Eryk's pulse pounded in his ears. "Who are you?"
The man tilted his head. "A guide."
Sera's grip on her knife tightened.
"We don't need one."
The man chuckled. It was a dry, rasping sound, like pages turning in a long-sealed book.
"Don't you?"
He stepped forward into the light.
And Eryk saw his eyes.
Hollow.
Just like his.
The man smiled. "Welcome home, Spellbreaker."
~○~
The chamber beyond was larger than Eryk expected.
A cavern, really, carved from the earth by hands or time or something else entirely. The ceiling arched high above, lost in shadow. The walls were lined with more markings, more names, and more pleas.
And the people…
Dozens of them. Maybe more. Clustered in small groups around flickering fires, their faces gaunt, their eyes sharp. They looked up as Eryk and Sera entered, their gazes lingering—not on Sera, not on the stranger leading them, but on Eryk.
On the Grimoire at his chest.
Whispers followed them as they moved deeper into the cavern.
"Is that—"
"The Null—"
"Spellbreaker."
Eryk's skin crawled.
The stranger led them to a fire at the center of the chamber. The flames burned low, their light tinged an unnatural blue. Around it sat three figures, their faces obscured by hoods and shadows.
The stranger stopped.
"Kneel," he said softly.
But Eryk didn't move.
Sera's fingers brushed his arm to warn him silently.
The figure at the center of the three lifted his head.
His face was lined with age, his beard streaked with gray. But his eyes...
They burned.
"Eryk Thorn," he said. His rlugh and worn voice was like gravel. "We've been waiting for you."
Eryk's throat tightened. "Who are you?"
The old man smiled but it didn't reach his eyes.
"The last Spellbreakers."
He reached into the folds of his robe and withdrew a knife.
Not steel.
Bone.
Eryk tensed to his stand as he saw the kmife made of bone.
The old man pressed the blade to his own palm, drawing a thin line of blood. It dripped into the fire, hissing as it struck the flames.
The blue light flared.
And the hunger in Eryk's chest answered.
The old man's smile widened.
"Let us show you," he said, "what it means to feast."
~○~
The mage didn't scream.
Not at first.
He was young—too young, his face unlined and his hands were smooth. A student, maybe. Or an apprentice. His robes were torn, his wrists bound with iron, and his mouth was gagged. But his eyes…
They were wide.
Terrified.
The old man stood over him, the bone knife was still in his hand. The others had formed a loose circle around them, their faces hidden but their presence pressing in like a physical weight.
Eryk stood among them, as Sera was at his side.
She hadn't spoken since they'd entered the chamber. She hadn't moved. And she hadn't breathed.
The leader turned to Eryk.
"Watch," he said.
Then he pressed the knife to the mage's chest.
The boy convulsed. His back arched, his bound hands clawing at the earth beneath him. A sound tore from his throat—muffled by the gag, but unmistakable.
Agony.
The leader whispered aword Eryk didn't recognize, something old and guttural—and the knife glowed.
The mage's veins darkened. His skin paled. His eyes—bright with fear just moments ago—dulled, like embers snuffed out by wind.
And then, it happened.
A shimmer in the air. A ripple, like heat off stone in summer. And something bright drew up from the mage's chest, twisting like smoke, coiling toward the knife.
Eryk's breath caught.
He knew what it was.
Magic.
The mage's core was being taken by it.
The leader's free hand shot out, gripping Eryk's wrist. Before he could pull away, the man pressed the knife into his palm, folding his fingers around the hilt.
The moment skin met bone, the world shifted around him.
The shimmering light of the mage's magic veered toward Eryk.
It struck his chest like a blade, sinking into the hollow place beneath his ribs.
And for the first time in his life, Eryk feasted.
The magic filled him, not like water poured into a cup, but like a river crashing into a canyon. It burned. It ached. It was too mucht and not enough all at once. His vision whited out. His knees buckled. A sound tore from his throat. Not with a scream, not with a gasp, but something primal.
The mage spasmed beneath him, his body jerking like a puppet with its strings cut. His magic poured into Eryk, siphoned away drop by drop.
And it was glorious.
For one blinding, breathless moment, Eryk was whole.
Then it was over.
The mage went limp.
The knife cooled in Eryk's grip.
The circle exhaled.
And Eryk remembered how to breathe.
He staggered back, his legs trembling, his chest heaving. The hollow inside him was full again, the ache dulled, and the silence gone.
But the cost was that the mage lay motionless, his chest still, his eyes open and unseeing.
Dead.
Empty.
Like Dren.
Like Mael.
Eryk's stomach twisted.
The leader took the knife from his hand with his grip so firm. "Now you understand."
Eryk shook his head. His voice, when it came, was raw.
"I didn't—I didn't want this."
The leader's smile was pitying. "It doesn't matter what you want, boy. The hunger chooses for you."
He turned to the others, raising the knife.
"The Spellbreaker has awakened."
A murmur rippled through the chamber.
Eryk looked at Sera.
Her face was pale. Her knife was still in her hand.
And her eyes, they were horrified.
The leader clapped a hand on Eryk's shoulder with his grip like an iron and steel.
"Welcome," he said, "to the feast."