Part 3: "The Brand: Hollow"
*Cael is relocated to the barracks for unbonded initiates—barebones, neglected, barely supervised. There, he's confronted by another Hollow who's broken beyond repair. At night, Cael experiences his first true "awakening"—a fevered, half-conscious episode where the thing inside him begins to surface through dreams and instinct.*
---
Behind him, the arachnid beast chittered softly.
And far above, in the Vault wall, something answered.
---
The corridors they walked through weren't made for ceremony. Cael's boots echoed against steel flooring patched with old plating, much of it rusting or loose underfoot. Overhead, the lights buzzed, flickered, then died entirely for three long seconds before surging back to life.
His escort said nothing.
The Warden was an older man, his armor a dull grey that hadn't seen polish in years. His face, visible through a half-open visor, was pocked and cragged like the surface of Ashgrave's outskirts—a face made for orders, not for words. They passed no other bonded. No teams. Just piping, walls too close together, the occasional sparking junction box dangling loose like a broken limb.
This wasn't the route to a proper dormitory. It felt more like a drainage tunnel.
Finally, the Warden stopped before a dented bulkhead with a red print-scanner mounted crooked to the side.
He didn't meet Cael's eyes.
"This is where the others go," he said. "You'll find a cot. Try not to fight anyone."
He tapped the scanner, then turned and walked away, boots already fading into the electric hum of the pipes.
The door shuddered open.
A blast of stale air hit Cael's face. Rot. Mold. Cleaning chemicals that failed to mask either.
The Hollow Wing.
He stepped inside.
---
The barracks were cramped and sunless. No windows. No monitors. Just five cots lined against the far wall, each in varying states of collapse. The overhead lighting was dim, pulsing. A single, rusted fan ticked overhead in slow, uneven circles.
Cael caught movement.
Three boys were already inside. One sat cross-legged on a mattress, twitching occasionally. Another lay curled in a tight ball beneath a ragged blanket, muttering quietly to himself. The third leaned against the wall near a broken pipe, carving something into his wrist with a sharpened scrap of tin.
None of them looked up when Cael entered.
He shut the door behind him. It didn't lock.
The only empty cot was near the corner—far from the dim lamp, near a wall smeared with old fingerprints and drawings etched with dirty fingers or maybe blood.
Cael dropped his issued pack, sat down, and waited.
Minutes passed. Then the muttering one spoke.
"You one of us now?"
The voice was dry. Shaky. But not unfriendly.
Cael glanced at him. "You talk like we're a club."
The boy chuckled. A wheezing sound, half-choked.
"Oh, we are. Just not the kind you live through."
He sat up slowly, revealing a long scar that crossed from his chin to his left eye. Not recent. Not clean. A Warden whip, maybe.
"I'm Ryle," he said. "You get branded today?"
Cael nodded.
Ryle nodded back. "Hollow?"
Cael didn't answer. He didn't need to.
"Guess that makes four," Ryle said. "They used to send five at a time. Now it's just whoever fails hard enough to embarrass someone."
Cael leaned back. "You ever go into a Vault?"
Ryle's face twisted. "Once. Came out. Lost my beast in the first hour. Never bonded right, they said. Didn't matter after that."
"They let you out?"
"They pulled me out," he said. "On a bet."
Cael didn't ask for details.
The other two were watching now. Not closely. Just... aware. Like wolves watching another animal enter the den. No challenge. No welcome.
Just more meat.
---
That night, sleep didn't come.
Cael lay with the blanket pulled to his chin, staring at the ceiling fan's slow, irregular arc. The sound of breathing filled the room. Ryle snored quietly. One of the others whimpered occasionally. Pipes groaned.
And then, slowly, a heat began to rise in Cael's spine.
Not fever.
Something worse.
It started like a low hum beneath his ribs, pulsing gently, rhythmically. Then it spread. A tingling, then itching, then fire. It climbed up his back, across his chest, into his skull.
He gritted his teeth. His fingers twitched. His thoughts became slow, muddled.
Then the dreams began.
He stood in a room with no walls.
No light.
Only sensation. The weight of air too thick to breathe. The ground was soft, but not earth. It pulsed beneath him like skin.
He turned.
A mirror stood before him.
But his reflection was wrong.
Taller. Skin too pale. Eyes black and ringed with red. His mouth opened, and instead of breath, a sound poured out—a shriek not made for ears. A frequency of hunger. Of need.
The ground cracked. Tendrils burst upward. A voice—massive, deep, layered—spoke through the fractures.
**Open. Open. Open.**
Cael dropped to his knees, clutching his ears.
The voice continued.
**You are not hollow. You are not theirs.**
He screamed.
---
He woke with blood in his mouth.
His blanket was soaked in sweat. His heart pounded against his ribs like it was trying to escape. His arms were trembling.
He sat up.
The room was still.
The others still slept.
He looked down at his hands. They were clenched tight, nails cutting into flesh. He relaxed his grip.
Then saw the wall.
Beside his bed, something had been scratched deep into the concrete—a circle, jagged-edged, lined with marks he didn't recognize. Fresh. Still flaking.
He touched it.
It was real.
He hadn't drawn it.
But it had come from him.