The storm broke just before midnight.
Thunder rolled low across the forest, shaking the windows of the cottage. Alex stood by the hearth, a candle burning low beside a half-open book The Litanies of the Deep Wood, the only volume he had never dared to finish. Its last pages were stitched shut with black thread.
On the cot, the silver-eyed woman slept fitfully. The veins beneath her skin had spread further up her throat, pulsing in rhythm with the storm. Her breath came in shallow, uneven waves.
He had tried everything else: herbs, sigils, prayers to gods who no longer listened. All useless. Whatever lived inside her was beyond mortal craft.
He looked toward the forest through the window. The trees swayed in unnatural synchrony, bending as though something immense passed beneath their roots. The mist pulsed faintly, alive.
He knew what it wanted.
He knew who waited in the dark.
Alex drew a slow breath and began unpicking the black thread sealing the book's last page. The ink beneath gleamed like oil even in the dim light. The summoning rite was simple in words and ruinous in consequence: Offer memory for voice. Offer blood for sight. Speak the name, and be seen.
He sliced his palm open with a small knife. Blood welled, dark and bright.
When it touched the page, the ink began to writhe.
"I call the Hollow King," he said softly.
"I call the one who waits beneath the roots. The watcher of lost souls. The keeper of the forgotten."
The air thickened, heavy as water. The candle's flame turned blue, then black.
Behind him, the woman stirred, murmuring in her sleep. "Don't… don't let him in…"
But it was too late.
The shadows in the corners of the room lengthened, pulling themselves into shape tall, human only in outline, crowned with antlers of bone. The air smelled of winter and graves.
When the figure spoke, the sound came from everywhere at once the crackle of the hearth, the rain outside, the beat of Alex's own heart.
"It has been a long time, little Thorne."
Alex froze. The voice was deep, smooth, and familiar.
"I didn't call you before," he said, forcing his tone steady.
"No," the Hollow King murmured, stepping into the candlelight. "But your blood did."
The figure's face was half-hidden by a mask of bark and ash. Yet behind the mask, Alex could see eyes grey and cold as stone. Eyes he almost remembered.
"What are you?"
"What you begged for, once. What your brother became."
The words struck like a blade. Alex's stomach turned. "That's not possible."
"Everything you forget becomes mine," the King whispered. "You left me to rot beneath the trees, and now you return asking favors. Tell me, what will you pay this time?"
Alex's hands trembled. "There's a woman. She's dying. The forest's killing her."
The Hollow King's head tilted slightly. "Ah. The river's child. She carries my mark well."
"You did this to her?"
"She chose to belong to the Ashwood. As you once did."
"I didn't choose this!"
"Didn't you? You sought power. You opened the door. You lit the fire."
The words echoed through the cottage like thunder. The candle guttered out; the world dimmed to silver and black.
Alex swallowed hard. "If I make a deal if I give you something will you save her?"
The Hollow King stepped closer. The floor creaked beneath his weight, though his feet never touched it. "A deal."
He reached out a hand long, skeletal fingers bound in dark roots. "You will not like the price."
Alex didn't look away. "Name it."
The King's hand brushed the air near Alex's face. For an instant, memory flared his brother's laughter, a fire in the clearing, the smell of pine. Then it was gone.
"A single memory," the Hollow King said. "One you hold close. In exchange, she will live for now."
Alex hesitated. "Which memory?"
"I will take what I wish. Consent is the only coin."
He looked toward the cot. The woman's breathing was shallow; the black veins crawled dangerously close to her heart.
He nodded once. "Take it."
The Hollow King's grin widened beneath the mask. "Good."
He pressed his hand against Alex's chest. Cold rushed through him deeper than pain, deeper than thought. He felt something uncoil inside, a thread snapping loose. Images flickered: laughter by a river, a boy's voice calling his name, a promise made beneath the stars. Then nothing.
The King stepped back. "Done."
Alex gasped, staggering. "What… did you take?"
"Only what you could not bear to keep," the Hollow King said. "And in return, the girl will wake."
As he spoke, the silver-eyed woman drew a sharp breath. The blackness beneath her skin receded, retreating like tidewater. She opened her eyes clear, bright, alive.
Alex turned to her, relief breaking through the cold in his chest. "You're—"
"Alive," she whispered, though her voice trembled. Her gaze flicked past him to the shadow in the corner. "You shouldn't have done that."
He looked back, but the Hollow King was gone. Only the scent of rain and ash remained.
A faint whisper echoed in the dark:
You owe me, little Thorne. And I always collect.