Shield of Thorns a Tale of Honor and Shadow Book Five, page 14
From the darkness emerged a figure cloaked in crimson and ash, his face hidden by a mask carved to resemble a serpent’s maw. He spoke not in words but in pulses of magic, his thoughts crashing into theirs like tides upon the shore. He claimed to be the Last Fang, the vessel of the beasts’ will, chosen to bring them to the surface once more. The shard at Wyn’s neck screamed in her mind, reacting violently to the entity’s presence. Mira conjured wards in desperation, while Aric stepped in front of Wyn with his blade raised. Eldrin began to chant, a holy verse that cracked the air like a whip. But the Last Fang only laughed—a sound that rang out like the breaking of bones.
The crypt trembled as cracks formed in the stone beneath their feet, the spiral of wax beginning to melt and spread with unnatural heat. Caldus threw a vial of sealing powder into the pattern, disrupting its flow and triggering a flash of blue flame. The entity recoiled, its form wavering as if struggling to hold shape. Wyn held the shard forward, calling to the light that still lingered in the deepest places of the world. A beam erupted from her palm, striking the Last Fang in the chest and sending him hurtling into the altar with a scream. Eldrin completed his chant, and the relic on his chest flared with divine energy, sealing the fissures beneath their feet. In an instant, the darkness howled—and then fell silent.
The crypt was still again, though the air remained thick with tension, as if the stone itself remembered what had just occurred. Mira collapsed against the wall, sweat beading on her brow despite the cold. Caldus offered her water as Aric inspected the shattered altar, ensuring nothing of the entity remained. Wyn felt the shard cool in her palm, its work unfinished, but for now, momentarily appeased. “This isn’t over,” she murmured, and the others nodded grimly. Above them, dawn broke once more, painting the ruined chapel in pale gold and fire. And beneath the flagstones, the fangs of Ravencroft lay dormant—but not defeated.
They left the chapel in silence, the villagers watching from behind shuttered doors as the party returned, weary and marked by shadow. No cheers greeted them, no gratitude offered—only fearful eyes and whispers that slithered through alleys like rats in retreat. Aric spat on the ground, disgusted by the cowardice that festered in Ravencroft's heart. "They let the rot grow because it was easier than fighting it," he muttered, and Wyn couldn't disagree. Yet in their fear was truth—the cult had been among them for years, feeding off silence, breeding in the cracks of a broken memory. Mira suggested burning the chapel to the ground, but Eldrin hesitated, reminding them that purging evil did not always require flame. Instead, they erected holy wards, symbols etched in stone and prayer, binding the crypt until stronger magic could be brought.
That night, as the group camped just beyond the village walls, the fire crackled with restless heat. Caldus sharpened his blades without speaking, while Mira stared into the flames, eyes glassy with thoughts she didn’t dare speak aloud. Wyn cleaned the shard with a damp cloth, her movements slow, reverent, as if touching a relic of war rather than a tool of prophecy. She could still feel the Last Fang’s presence lingering in her bones, a psychic bruise that no healing could soothe. Aric broke the silence with a question that had hovered unspoken since the chapel: “If there’s a Last Fang... was there a first?” Mira looked up sharply, and even Eldrin paused. The implication darkened the fire’s glow.
Mira retrieved an old scroll from her satchel, one she hadn’t dared open until now. It spoke of the Fangborne—those chosen by the beast-blood beneath the earth to become its voice, claws, and vengeance. According to legend, they were not mere cultists but avatars shaped by ancient will, bound to the world’s primal hunger. There had been five in the old days, one for each major rift where the veil thinned. Wyn’s stomach turned as Mira pointed to an inked map with locations eerily familiar to their journey: Thornwell Hold, the Ironwood Basin, the Mourning Steppes. “We’ve already crossed three,” Mira whispered, the realization dawning cold. “They’re not random... they’re coordinated.”
Wyn took the map and traced the next location—Stonewake Hollow, a place spoken of only in forgotten songs and the mutterings of drunken elders. Aric frowned. “That’s deeper in the hills. No roads. Just legend and bones.” Caldus, always one to break tension with fact, said flatly, “If we wait, they’ll finish the summoning. If we move, we might catch them mid-ritual.” The party exchanged glances, the unspoken decision solidifying between them. They had been drawn together by fate, but it was the darkness that now shaped their path. And each encounter left them more marked than the last—more bonded to the war they could no longer refuse.
As dawn crept over the hills, Wyn stood alone at the edge of camp, the wind lifting her hair like strands of smoke. She stared toward the east where Stonewake lay, veiled in fog and folklore. The shard pulsed at her chest, its light no longer warm, but sharp—urgent. She closed her eyes and listened, not for words, but for memory: the voice of her mother warning her of what lay beneath, the dreams of teeth and endless hunger. She knew now that this was more than prophecy; it was blood calling to blood. Her role was no longer to witness the war, but to shape it. And with the rising sun at her back, she whispered to the wind, “Let the next fang fall.”
When the group broke camp, the village of Ravencroft remained still behind them, the only sound the soft groan of timber as the wind pressed against shuttered windows. Mira left behind a binding rune at the chapel’s gate—a last ward to slow what might crawl forth should their work fail. Eldrin murmured a prayer under his breath, the language old, his voice weary but steady. Aric remained silent, eyes scanning the treeline, as if expecting the shadows to reach out and finish what the Last Fang began. Caldus, practical as ever, checked their packs and provisions, though even he moved with unusual restraint. The road ahead was uncertain, yes—but the road behind now felt haunted. No victory had been claimed, only a reprieve. And reprieves, in Wyn’s experience, never lasted.
By midmorning, the path toward Stonewake Hollow turned jagged and steep, twisting through thickets that clawed like hands and stone ridges that jutted like broken teeth. They traveled single file, the horses left behind, their hooves unsuited for the treacherous terrain. Wyn led, the shard at her chest faintly glowing as if recognizing the nearness of something buried. “The deeper we go,” Mira muttered behind her, “the more it feels like the earth is listening.” Aric grunted agreement, but kept his blade loose in its sheath, eyes narrowed. Eldrin’s staff shimmered occasionally, reacting to magical undercurrents too subtle to name. Caldus marked their trail with charcoal glyphs, ensuring a path back—if such a thing would even be possible. None of them voiced what they feared most: that the Hollow might not let them leave.
That night, their camp was quieter than usual, the fire pit small and carefully shielded from the open sky. Above them, no stars shone, only a heavy quilt of clouds that pressed low and unmoving. Mira sketched warding symbols into the earth, her hands trembling slightly from exertion or unease. Eldrin tended to Wyn’s boots, worn nearly through from the ascent, while Caldus sharpened his throwing knives with slow, deliberate strokes. “It’s too quiet,” Aric said softly, not looking up. “Even the animals are gone.” Wyn nodded, feeling it too—the absence of life, of song, of presence. It wasn’t natural silence. It was silence held in fear.
In her dreams, Wyn saw the Hollow—not as a place, but a wound in the world, yawning and slick with memory. A staircase of bone spiraled downward into a cavern lined with jagged stone, and at its heart pulsed something alive, vast, and ancient. The shard pulled her forward, step by step, until her feet bled and her voice cracked from screaming. When she awoke, her breath came in sharp bursts, sweat soaking her tunic despite the cold. The others stirred at her cry, weapons half-drawn, but she waved them off. “It’s coming,” she said hoarsely, her eyes wide with a knowing none could deny. And though no beast had breached their camp, they all felt it too—echoes in the soil, beneath the flagstone and root.
Morning broke not with light, but with mist, thick and bitter with the smell of copper. The way forward narrowed, the path flanked now by stones etched with forgotten runes, their meanings lost even to Eldrin. Mira paused beside one, her hand brushing it reverently. “These aren’t warnings,” she said. “They’re prayers. For mercy.” Aric checked the path ahead, his jaw tight. “Then they knew what they’d awakened.” The group pressed on, the air heavier with each step. Beneath them, unseen and waiting, something ancient listened. And with each heartbeat, they came closer to waking it.
The terrain shifted as they crested a barren ridge, revealing the first glimpse of Stonewake Hollow—a sunken vale choked in swirling mist and framed by skeletal trees that bore no leaves. A chill moved through the group, not from the wind but from the place itself, as if the very land exhaled despair. Eldrin held up his hand, halting the group, and muttered a protective charm that fizzled at the edge of the cliff. “The veil’s thinnest here,” he murmured, voice hollow. “This place drinks magic.” Mira stepped forward, her eyes narrowed. “It also drinks blood,” she added grimly. Below, faint lights flickered like will-o’-the-wisps—too precise, too rhythmic to be natural. Something was waiting.
They descended slowly, cautious of loose shale and the way the ground seemed to shift beneath their boots. Wyn kept her fingers near the shard, its glow now dim but persistent, like a heartbeat buried in stone. Caldus pointed to a broken column jutting from the fog, covered in symbols that pulsed faintly as they neared. “This was a temple once,” he said. “Or something like one.” Eldrin confirmed it with a grim nod, reciting fragments from ancient lore: the Hollow had once been a sanctuary for the earthbound gods before their worship curdled into madness. What remained was neither sacred nor sane. Every step downward felt like a descent into a forgotten prayer no longer meant to be answered.
As they reached the base of the Hollow, the mist thickened, curling around their legs like tendrils seeking warmth. The silence was complete here—no birdcall, no insect buzz, just the muffled sound of their breathing and the crunch of gravel beneath. Mira lit a small orb of flame to cut through the fog, but even fire seemed reluctant in this place. They followed a trail of stone pavers leading to an open archway, half-buried and scrawled with glyphs that shimmered with sickly green light. “Something passed through recently,” Aric said, kneeling beside deep claw marks in the moss-covered stones. “Large. Fast. Not alone.” They drew their weapons as one. The Hollow had begun to stir.
Inside the archway, they found a long corridor descending into the earth, the walls covered in murals that shifted when viewed from the corner of the eye. Scenes of worship twisted into sacrifice, of unity fractured by fang and flame. Wyn paused before one image—an enormous beast coiled beneath a tree of iron, its eyes alight with cruel intellect. “The Fangborne weren’t just servants,” she whispered. “They were parts of it—extensions.” Eldrin nodded solemnly. “Fragments of the god below, broken and worn like masks.” A low hum echoed from the depths, not sound, but something that touched the marrow of their bones. They pressed on, the corridor swallowing them like a throat lined in stone.
WITH EACH STEP FORWARD, the shard throbbed harder, answering some silent summons in the dark. The air grew warmer, heavy with decay and old incense, as if rituals long extinguished still smoldered in memory. Mira touched the wall, drawing back a trembling hand. “It’s alive,” she said, and none argued. Ahead, the corridor widened into a chamber veiled in shadow, the floor slick with moisture and something darker. Statues loomed at the edges, their faces worn smooth by time or worship, each holding a fang-shaped blade pointed downward. “Welcome to the altar,” Caldus said softly. And as they stepped forward, something beyond the edge of the dark breathed—and waited.
They fanned out cautiously, the chamber vast and domed, its ceiling lost in the gloom overhead. The statues formed a perfect ring, and within it, etched into the floor, lay a sigil of teeth—a massive fangwheel carved from obsidian, its grooves filled with dried blood. Eldrin knelt to study it, tracing the lines with reverent fingers, then recoiling. “This is no ordinary altar. It’s a conduit. Whatever they summoned here, it didn’t just pass through—it fed.” Mira’s eyes scanned the dark corners. “And it left something behind.” The chamber wasn’t just a place of worship—it was a womb, waiting for rebirth.
A sudden hiss echoed from above, followed by a faint scuttling that made their skin crawl. Wyn looked up in time to see something—many-limbed, bone-white—skitter across the ceiling and vanish into the dark. Aric cursed, blade drawn, while Caldus raised his crossbow and turned in a slow circle. “We’re not alone,” he growled, eyes sharp. Eldrin stood quickly and tightened his grip on his staff. “That was a Watcher. They observe the Hollow’s guests... and summon what’s next.” The firelight danced wildly now, throwing shadows that didn’t match the angles of their bodies. Something ancient stirred behind those shadows, closer than breath.
The shard pulsed with fevered intensity, and Wyn gritted her teeth, the burn against her chest forcing her to a knee. Visions flashed through her mind—fangs breaking stone, blood soaked into roots, a voice whispering her name in a tongue older than language. Mira helped her up, but the contact triggered something in them both. Their eyes met, wide with shared terror, and in that moment, they both understood: the Hollow had marked Wyn. Not as prey, but as a key. Whatever had slept here, whatever had bled beneath Ravencroft, wanted her to open the next gate. “It’s choosing her,” Mira breathed. And no one dared argue.
Eldrin raised his staff and struck the center of the fangwheel with its crystal tip. A low moan echoed through the chamber, like a sigh from beneath the world, and the obsidian cracked. The lines filled with new light—red, alive—and the stone altar began to shift. Aric stepped in front of Wyn instinctively, while Caldus loaded another bolt, aiming at the shadows. “We leave now,” Eldrin barked, but the chamber was already closing around them, the entrance sealing with a groan of stone. Behind the altar, a staircase spiraled down into darkness, pulsing with the same bloodlight as the shard. “No,” Wyn said, her voice distant, resolute. “We go deeper.” And with the Hollow’s breath heavy in their lungs, they descended into the dark.
Chapter 9: Stonewake Hollow
The staircase curved like a spine, steep and narrow, carved into the living stone and slick with condensation. Wyn led the descent, her hand on the wall for balance, the shard pulsing with steady heat against her chest. Each step echoed far longer than it should have, as if the stone below absorbed the sound and whispered it deeper. Behind her, Mira held a faint flame in her palm, casting just enough light to reveal the age-worn carvings along the wall—images of beasts bowing before a hooded figure whose face had been scratched away. The air grew colder the farther they went, though the shard burned hotter, its glow now constant. Aric followed silently, his sword unsheathed and ready, boots crunching grit that hadn’t been disturbed in centuries. Eldrin muttered incantations under his breath, spells of memory and protection, while Caldus paused every ten steps to notch chalk marks for a path back. But all of them suspected there would be no return by the same road. The Hollow had a way of deciding such things for you.
The stairs ended in a vaulted antechamber, its ceiling supported by pillars carved like twisted trees, their branches clawing toward a central dome overhead. A soft breeze moved through the space, though no opening was visible, and the air smelled faintly of crushed herbs and wet stone. At the center stood a pedestal of black marble, cracked in half, with blood dried into its fracture like sap from a wounded tree. Mira stepped forward cautiously, eyes scanning the runes etched into the floor around it. “A binding circle,” she said. “Old. But broken from within.” Eldrin examined the cracks and nodded. “Something was kept here once. Something it couldn’t hold.” Aric moved around the perimeter, blade raised, while Wyn’s gaze drifted upward toward the dome. Faint red veins pulsed in the stone, like capillaries in flesh.
A low groan reverberated from the walls as if the Hollow were exhaling in welcome. The pulse from the shard synced with it, faster now, insistent. “It’s pulling me,” Wyn admitted, placing her hand on the pedestal. The moment she touched it, visions assaulted her—of shadowed corridors, altars choked in ash, and a voice like thunder whispered beneath stone. Mira pulled her back sharply, breaking the trance. “Don’t let it root in you,” she hissed. “That’s how it finds a vessel.” Wyn blinked hard, shaking off the lingering fog. But the shard still burned, and now it pulsed not just with power—but hunger.
They moved through an archway into a long corridor that sloped downward again, this one lined with statues. Each figure bore different faces but shared the same feature—a set of fangs carved into their open mouths, glinting with something metallic. “These weren’t gods,” Caldus muttered. “They were priests.” Mira nodded grimly. “Or sacrifices made to look like priests. Either way, this place worshipped fear.” Aric’s knuckles whitened on his blade as he passed one of the figures. Its eyes seemed to follow him, pupils hollow but accusing. Behind them, a soft scraping sound echoed, but when they turned, the corridor was empty.
THE CORRIDOR ENDED in another chamber, this one circular, the floor a mosaic of broken bones set into stone. At the far end stood a gate—not a door, but a shimmering veil of silver light threaded through with crimson veins. Eldrin approached it slowly, hand raised. “It’s not an illusion. It’s a threshold.” Mira reached for Wyn’s arm and said softly, “Only you can pass through it.” The shard in Wyn’s chest flared, its light casting her shadow across the chamber in jagged, unnatural angles. She stepped forward without hesitation, the veil parting like smoke around her. And just like that, she was gone.
The rest of the party waited breathlessly, watching the veil shimmer but not dissipate. “Can we follow?” Aric asked, but Eldrin shook his head. “Not without her. It chose her path.” Caldus crouched, inspecting the bone mosaic. “These aren’t human. Some of these... are dragonkin.” Mira turned toward him sharply. “That shouldn’t be possible. None have been seen in over a hundred years.” “And yet,” Caldus said, holding up a shattered jawbone with scorched edges. “Here it is.” The Hollow, it seemed, kept secrets even time dared not claim.
