Chapter 9 Shelter in the Hollow
Serafina
“I—I’m Dust,” I stammered, climbing down from the carriage. “They’re taking me to Aetheria. To an Imperial Mage—”
He shook his head, a flicker of sorrow passing over his features, but his gaze never wavered. “No,” he said quietly, but with steel beneath the words. “Go back. Whatever they've promised you there—it’s a lie. The Imperials will experiment on you, enslave you, or worse. And the Embers… they are no kinder. They’ll do the same. Trust me.”
My chest tightened. “But my brother—”
He cut me off with a single, piercing glance. Blue eyes locked on mine, cold and unyielding. “What does your brother have to do with any of this?” His head tilted slightly, as if reading my secrets from my posture. Disgust curled his lips. “He sold you, didn’t he?”
“No... No, it’s not like that,” I stammered, panic tightening my chest. “He’s sick… back in the Dust District. They might hurt him if I don't—”
“Don’t think about him,” he snapped, voice sharp, impatient. “Think about yourself. Survival comes first. Nothing else matters. If the roles were reversed, he’d do the same.”
“You don’t understand. They will kill him—”
“I guarantee the Imperial Mage will kill you the moment you cross the Imperial gates,” he cut in. “Or torture you until you beg for death.”
He drew a long breath, dragging a hand down his face. “Look. You can join us, if you want. We’ll give you shelter while you decide—”
“Thank you,” I said quietly, “but I need to go home. To my brother. Before the Warden throws him into the Dusty Hills.”
He nodded once, then pressed something into my hands—a crude, frayed map. The parchment scraped against my fingers, rough and brittle, the ink twisting across it as if alive, jagged and urgent.
“Follow this,” he said, pointing at the map. “Through Ashwood Forest. Avoid the roads. Avoid the eyes that watch from above. Move in shadows. Stay unseen. And whatever you do… do not stray toward the Ember-Spark boundary. Spark Prefect Arclight is cruel. After he's had his way with you, he will keep you chained upright, against the wall, without food or water, until you beg for release.”
“How am I supposed to survive then?” I whispered, the question trembling free.
He let out a bitter laugh. “You won’t, if you take the easy paths.” His finger tapped the map. “Only those who dare the hidden ways make it out alive.” He pointed to a single mark stained red. “You see this?” His voice hardened. “A forbidden shrine. The Veiled Sanctum. Do not go near it. People who enter never return. The lucky ones come back broken. The rest go mad.”
My brow furrowed as I stared at the crimson blot bleeding into the parchment. “Okay,” I breathed. “How long will it take to get back?”
“Eight days on foot, at least.” His finger slid across a string of blue dots. “These are forest shelters. They’ll keep you alive. Make camp at one every night. Avoid the towns. And whatever you do…” His gaze pinned me. “Trust no one.”
Before I could even ask for food or water, he turned and vanished into the trees—Jarek, the carriage, and his entire posse gone in a heartbeat.
The forest closed around me, dense and damp, the cool air pressing against my skin.
I was alone.
My stomach twisted. Part of me ached to chase them, to surrender to his invitation, but the thought of my brother held me fast. Fear, sharper than desire, anchored me in place.
I traced the map with shaking fingers. Every mark felt deliberate. Every path, a lifeline. I had direction now—something solid to hold onto.
I scurried off of the main road and followed the route etched into the parchment. My legs burned. My arms ached from bracing myself during the attack. But the thought of Lio, kept my feet moving. I needed to get back as quickly as I could and warn the Mistress about the rogue mages’ attack. If I didn’t, she might think I’d double-crossed her and send me to the Warden as punishment.
By dusk, I stumbled upon the first shelter: a dilapidated shed, its wood gray and warped, surrounded by gnarled pear trees. I plucked a few low-hanging fruits, their skin mottled but sweet, and found a thin stream of water trickling nearby. After my modest meal, I returned to the shed and built a small fire, its glow licking the rough interior. A patch of thick grass became my bed. Tonight, at least, I would sleep beyond the reach of the Collectors.
Sleep came only in fragments. The unfamiliar smells, the creaking wood, and the echo of the forest kept me half-awake.
At dawn, I plucked a few more pears, eating one and tucking the rest into my pockets for the day’s journey. I followed the map again, stepping lightly over roots and stones, until dusk pulled me to the next shelter.
This one was different. A small wooden hut, tucked into a hollow, nearly swallowed by vines and moss. Relief surged through me. Finally, a place that felt like a home—enough to let my body rest.
I approached cautiously, hand hovering over the latch—and froze.
A shadow shifted inside.
Instead of forcing the door open, I knocked. It creaked wide to reveal the old woman from the Dust District, the one who gave fortunes for food. Silver hair framed her face, catching the last light of evening like a halo.
“You,” I whispered, fear and recognition tightening my chest.
Her eyes gleamed, sharp and knowing. “I wondered if you would survive this far,” she said softly, leaning on her staff. “You are desperate indeed.”
“I need shelter,” I said quickly. “Just for tonight. I’m going back to Dust. Please.”
She studied me in silence, gaze piercing, weighing every truth I hadn’t spoken. Finally, she nodded.
“You may rest, Dust‑girl,” she said. “But tomorrow, the forest will demand more of you than I can shield.”
Inside, the hut was sparse but warm—a small hearth glowing faintly, a scarred table, a few chairs, two narrow beds layered with clean straw and thin blankets. The air smelled of herbs and smoke, familiar and steadying.
I sank into a chair, muscles aching. My feet throbbed. My heart still raced from days of fear that refused to loosen its grip.
The old woman lifted a kettle from the fire, stirring with slow purpose, then poured thick porridge into a bowl and set it before me with bread.
“Eat,” she said. “You’ll need strength.”
I nodded, grateful beyond words, and ate slowly. Each swallow eased something tight inside my chest, a small comfort against the relentless weight of survival.
After a long while, she spoke again, voice gentle but probing.
“Tell me, Dust‑girl. What drives you? To leave your home. To walk into a world eager to crush you.”
The words caught in my throat. Lio’s fevered face rose in my mind, the terror of losing him pressing hard against my ribs.
If I spoke it aloud—truly spoke it—it might become real.
At last, I whispered, “I need to save my brother. He’s all I have left.”