The Hollow is not silent tonight.
I know it before I even reach the wall. The roots hum too fast, like a heart in fever. The glow along the stone breathes quick and shallow, as though the Watch itself struggles to keep hold of its strength.
The Arch Sentinel's words weigh on me still. Do not answer it. Do not believe its words. I cling to the memory like a shield.
And yet—when I take my post, the darkness already feels closer.
It begins almost immediately.
A click. Then another.
Not far. Not imagined.
I draw my sword before I know I've moved. The weight steadies me, its broad hilt cold in my palms.
The sound grows, a staccato rhythm of many legs moving across stone. Then silence.
A shape stirs between the roots.
For a heartbeat I think it's only a shadow stretching strange across the Hollow—until it detaches itself and climbs.
The creature moves without sound except for the scrape of claw on bark. It clings to the roots as though it were born of them, its form half-seen: too many limbs, a body that shifts with each flicker of the wall's glow. Eyes—no, not eyes, but points of wet light—catch mine.
I cannot look away.
My chest seizes, breath locked inside. The whisper returns, but now it has weight, a voice pressed into my skull like a nail:
Tokarn. Tokarn. We are waiting.
My knees weaken.
I almost speak. Almost answer.
But prayer stumbles to my lips, broken and clumsy.
"To stand on the walls… to guard the seed…"
The creature shudders as though struck. Its limbs flex outward, claws scraping sparks from the roots. Then—it lunges.
The impact drives me to the stone. My sword catches the first strike, the metal ringing with the force of many limbs. Its body is heavier than I imagined, slick and cold. Chitin grinds against my armor, searching for seams.
I scream and push, but it moves like flowing shadow, spilling around the blade. Its head—or what I think is its head—snaps forward. A sharp pain tears into my arm, deep as fire.
The bite.
I feel it instantly, venom flooding my blood. My hand spasms, sword trembling in my grip. My vision blurs.
Still, I drive the blade upward. Steel cuts into the creature's shell, a shriek like splintered wood erupting from its body. It recoils, claws raking the stone, and vanishes into the roots as suddenly as it came.
I collapse against the wall, clutching my arm. The wound burns as though the Hollow itself had been poured into me. Black veins already creep from the bite, pulsing faintly with the same light that leaks from the walls.
The whisper is inside me now. Not from the Hollow. From my blood.
Tokarn. Tokarn. You are ours.
I stagger to my feet, sword dragging against stone. My vision spins, shadows twitching at the edge of sight. My breath comes ragged, wet.
I know what this means.
I have heard what happens to those marked in the Hollow.
Still—I cannot bring myself to call for help.
Because part of me, a part already not my own, does not want to be saved.
I return to the beneath. I try as best I can to hide the black veins that creep on my skin, but I think a few saw.