The Hollow Ones
The stone beneath Cuco's boots still thrummed with the old magic, a rhythm deep as a heartbeat. The seal held—for now—but the mark on his hand, once brilliant, had dimmed to a tired flicker. Whatever vision had claimed him had also stolen his strength.
He raised his gaze, voice rough as wind over broken glass.
"What if I choose wrong?"
Nox's expression sharpened, eyes narrowing like a night sky thickening before a storm.
"There's no undoing the path, Cuco. Light or Shadow. Once chosen, it brands you. Forever."
Tariq stepped forward, solemn, hand lifted to reveal his own mark—a dull echo of power long quieted.
"We've all touched it. But you? You're the Key. Your choice tilts the scale for everyone."
Cuco stepped back, his heartbeat echoing in his ears.
"I never asked to be the Key."
A girl in a grey hoodie—her voice barely more than breath—spoke without meeting his eyes.
"No one ever does. But if you run… they will find you. And they won't wait."
The silence that followed cracked—sharply, violently—as if the world itself were breaking in two.
The chamber trembled beneath their feet. From the far wall came a slow, unbearable sound. Stone shearing against stone. A claw dragged across the bones of the world.
Then: mist.
Thick. Black. Living.
It oozed through the fractures like rot through old wood. 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, too empty.
When it spoke, it wasn't with one voice—but dozens. All layered. Whispered. Nightmarish.
"Key…" it crooned. "You burn so sweetly. Let us wear your fire. Let us in."
Nox moved fast, a shield of presence alone.
"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. Just bend you enough to open the door from inside."
Cuco's breath caught as the others crept through.
One crawled low like a spider.
Another dragged limbs too long for any human frame.
A third smelled like burning leaves and old death.
The mark on Cuco's hand burned again—harder, deeper. Not pain. Not quite. A pull. A rhythm. Something old stirring beneath his skin.
And then he understood. These weren't just creatures.
They were echoes. Lost dreams twisted into nightmares.
Fragments of what was forgotten.
He stepped forward.
"I need to fight."
"You're not ready," Nox said, voice tight.
"I wasn't ready yesterday," Cuco replied, lifting his hand. "But they came anyway."
The light surged.
The Hollow Ones shrieked, hissing and pulling back. One disintegrated under the flare, its scream like glass being ground into dust. But the first—the perfect one—merely 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 chased by sunrise.
Silence fell, sudden and hollow.
Cuco dropped to his knees. The mark's light flickered low, 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.