The Hollow Ones
The stone beneath Cuco's boots still thrummed with old magic—a rhythm as deep as a heartbeat. The seal held—for now—but the mark on his hand, once brilliant, had faded to a tired flicker. Whatever vision had claimed him had stolen more than his strength.
He looked up, voice rough as wind over broken glass.
"What if I choose wrong?"
Nox's expression sharpened, her eyes narrowing like storm clouds thickening before a break.
"There's no undoing the path, Cuco. Light or Shadow—once chosen, it brands you. Forever."
Tariq stepped forward, solemn. He raised his hand, revealing his own mark—dim, like an echo of power long gone.
"We've all touched it. But you? You're the Key. Your choice tilts the scale—for all of us."
Cuco stepped back, heart pounding in his chest like a warning drum.
"I never asked to be the Key."
The girl in the grey hoodie spoke without lifting her gaze. Her voice barely rose above a whisper.
"No one ever does. But if you run… they'll find you. And they won't wait."
The silence that followed cracked—sharp and sudden—as if the world itself had split down the middle.
The chamber trembled.
From the far wall came a slow, unbearable sound.
Stone shearing against stone.
A claw dragged across the bones of the earth.
Then: mist.
Thick. Black. Breathing.
It oozed through the fractures like rot through old wood.
The candles sputtered. Shadows writhed.
And from the cracks, something stepped forward.
It wore the shape of a person.
But it wasn't.
Its eyes didn't blink.
Its skin was too smooth.
Its smile too perfect—and far too empty.
When it spoke, it wasn't with one voice—but dozens. Whispered. Layered. Wrong.
"Key…" it crooned.
"You burn so sweetly. Let us wear your fire. Let us in."
Nox stepped forward, her presence alone like a wall of flame.
"This ground is sealed. You have no claim here."
The Hollow One tilted its head—almost childlike. Almost amused.
"For now. But the seal cracks. The wall between dream and waking thins. Soon… even light will bleed."
Tariq grabbed Cuco's shoulder, urgent.
"They don't need to kill you. Just break you. Bend you—enough to open the door from the inside."
The others crept forward from the mist.
One crawled low, spidery and silent.
Another dragged limbs too long to be human.
A third stank of burning leaves and forgotten death.
The mark on Cuco's hand flared—hot, relentless.
Not pain. Not exactly.
A pull. A rhythm. Something ancient stirring beneath his skin.
And then he understood.
These weren't just monsters.
They were echoes—twisted fragments of forgotten dreams.
Lost things reshaped into nightmares.
He stepped forward.
"I need to fight."
"You're not ready," Nox warned, tight and low.
"I wasn't ready yesterday," Cuco replied, lifting his hand.
"But they came anyway."
The mark surged.
Light blazed through the chamber.
The Hollow Ones shrieked, reeling backward.
One disintegrated in the flare, its scream like glass turned to dust.
But the first—the perfect one—just smiled.
"You shine bright now, little Key," it whispered.
"But the brighter the flame… the darker the shadow. We will wait. We always do."
Then it vanished—like mist fleeing sunrise.
Silence returned, heavy and hollow.
Cuco dropped to his knees.
The mark's glow faded, but something inside him had changed.
He wasn't just the boy haunted by dreams anymore.
He was the spark.
And the storm was coming.