Lucian stood at the edge of the ruined hall in Bastion Merinth, the Sancturm seal still smoldering at his feet. The memory of Lira's execution etched in every stone, every breath.
Behind him, the Hollowed prepared their silent exit, leaving no trace of their presence—only fear carved into marble and minds.
Lucian turned, the light of his blade fading as he sheathed it.
"This place remembers now," he said, voice low.
Tyen nodded. "And it won't forget."
---
They vanished into the mountains before the sun could fully rise.
As they returned through winding cliffside paths and hollow tunnels, a cold wind followed them—a wind that whispered of consequence.
Lucian felt it.
The Sancturm wouldn't ignore this assault. Not anymore.
They would retaliate.
And so would he.
---
Back in the Abyss, as the Hollowed rested, Lucian stood before the memory-loop circle.
He hesitated.
Then dropped Lira's pendant inside it.
He didn't need to see her.
Not tonight.
Instead, he stepped away and drew his sword.
"I need power," he murmured.
And power answered.
Time bent around him in small pulses—micro-loops in combat stances. He swung once—three reflections of the blade followed, delayed and then colliding in unified force.
Stone cracked.
Lucian smiled.
"Good."
---
A bell rang from the Hollowed Watch.
Tyen came running.
"Skyward glyph, incoming from the outer tunnels. Someone's coming through the Abyss gate."
Lucian's eyes narrowed. "Sancturm?"
"No," Tyen replied. "A traveler. Alone."
---
They waited at the lower gate as the figure approached—hooded, calm, footsteps echoing unnaturally.
Kaenra appeared beside Lucian. "Something's wrong."
Lucian stepped forward. "Stop."
The figure obeyed.
Then removed the hood.
It was a man—young, perhaps twenty, eyes soft with light but strangely hollow.
"My name is Callen," he said. "I came to meet the one they call the Ghost."
Lucian tilted his head. "You found him."
Callen's voice was steady. "I'm not your enemy."
"But you're not normal either," Kaenra whispered.
Callen nodded. "Because I was made."
Lucian's eyes narrowed. "By whom?"
Callen met his gaze.
"By the Sancturm."
---
Silence.
Then Lucian stepped forward slowly, fingers curled around the hilt of his blade.
Callen didn't flinch.
"I escaped," he continued. "I was bred as a countermeasure. Trained in mirror tactics. Fed your history. Told you would break the world."
Lucian's voice was iron. "They created a version of me?"
Callen shook his head. "No. They created a contrast. A symbol to oppose you if you ever rose again."
He paused.
"But I saw what they did to your people. I watched them erase truth. And I chose not to obey."
Lucian looked him up and down. "Then prove it."
---
He didn't say how.
But Callen knew.
In the combat ring two hours later, Callen stood across from Lucian. He held no blade—only a staff forged of crystalwood and old-world steel.
Lucian attacked first.
Time bends, shadow leaps.
But Callen moved with equal precision. Not faster—but predictively. He was trained on Lucian. Every twitch, every stance—he mirrored, countered, adapted.
For a full three minutes, neither landed a blow.
Then Lucian growled and released a wave of reverse-time, slipping into the past to strike from behind.
Callen had already ducked.
The staff hit Lucian's knee, knocking him to one leg.
---
The Hollowed gasped.
Lucian rose slowly. Breathing hard.
Then smiled.
"You were telling the truth."
Callen nodded. "I don't want to fight you. I want to help you destroy them."
Lucian stepped forward. "Then you're Hollow now. Not by exile—but by choice."
He turned to his squad.
"We're not seven anymore."
He looked back at Callen.
"We're eight."