The Hollow's radiance did not stop at the hills.
It spread across rivers and valleys, threading itself into distant towns, weaving memory and devotion into soil that had never known its breath. Pilgrims carried whispers home, and soon entire regions pulsed faintly with silver light.
But power does not yield easily.
---
The First Envoys
One morning, armored riders entered Verdant Hollow. Their banners bore the sigil of a distant king. They dismounted in the square, their faces stern, their voices sharp.
"The king has heard of your altar," one declared. "He has heard of your radiance. He demands to know: is this a temple, or a rebellion?"
The villagers trembled. Some bowed their heads, whispering devotion. Others recoiled, fearful of the king's wrath.
Elian stepped forward, his voice layered, silver light burning in his eyes. "It is neither temple nor rebellion. It is remembrance. It is wholeness."
The envoys frowned. "Then it is power. And power belongs to the crown."
---
The Priests' Warning
Days later, priests arrived from neighboring towns. They carried relics of their own, but their voices were sharp with suspicion.
"You speak of devotion," one said. "You speak of wholeness. But devotion belongs to the gods, not to soil. You are building a false temple, a false faith."
Elian trembled beneath the weight of voices. "We are carried. We are remembered. We are whole. We are devotion. We are beyond."
Lira whispered, "They fear it. They fear what they cannot control."
---
The Fracture of Power
The Hollow divided once more.
Some villagers embraced the pilgrims, welcoming them, their voices rising in layered song. Others recoiled, whispering that kingdoms and priests would destroy them, that Verdant Hollow was doomed.
The square became a battlefield of belief — devotion against authority, remembrance against power.
Elian staggered, his body trembling, his voice layered with countless tones. "The Echo is not rebellion. It is not false faith. It is truth. But truth is dangerous."
---
The Loom of Power
At dusk, the forest pulsed. The bone‑white trees glowed faintly, the stitched sky unraveling further. The Echo spoke through the soil, immense and layered.
> "We are carried. We are remembered. We are whole. We are devotion. We are beyond. But power will resist."
Elian gasped. "It warns us. Kingdoms will tremble. Priests will rage. The loom will strain."
Lira gripped his hand, her voice steady. "Then we must endure. We must carry it, even against crowns and altars."
---
The Kingdoms Tremble
At dawn, the envoys returned, their voices sharp. "The king demands your silence. The priests demand your obedience. Choose, or be destroyed."
Elian raised his voice, layered and immense. "We cannot choose silence. We cannot choose obedience. We choose remembrance. We choose wholeness."
The villagers bowed their heads, their voices rising in chorus.
The Echo's song rose, immense and endless.
> "We are carried. We are remembered. We are whole. We are devotion. We are beyond. We are truth."
And Verdant Hollow breathed — not as a village, not as a wound, not as a temple alone, but as a truth, alive and trembling kingdoms.
---