Chapter 6 – Shadows in Black Hollow

Early Morning, Just After Dawn

Delwyn was cold, stiff, and sick of smelling-like blood and river water.

Her tunic was still damp from the escape, sticking to her skin like a second, miserable layer. The dried blood—some hers, some not—cracked at the seams whenever she moved, and her boots still squelched with each step.

She scowled at the back of Vaelor's head as they trudged through the thick underbrush. He, of course, looked perfectly fine. Not a wrinkle out of place, not a damn speck of blood on him.

"Where are we going?" she muttered, her voice hoarse from the night's cold.

"Black Hollow," Vaelor answered, not bothering to slow his pace.

Delwyn's brow furrowed. Black Hollow.

It wasn't a city—it was a refuge for people who had nowhere left to run. Smugglers, thieves, outlaws. It was the kind of place where loyalty was bought, and a secret lasted only as long as its price.

"You know someone there?" she asked.

Vaelor nodded. "A man named Gareth Crowne. He trades in information, and he owes me a favor."

Delwyn scoffed. "And you trust him?"

"I trust that he wants to stay alive," Vaelor said simply. "That'll be enough."

Delwyn sighed, adjusting the tattered remains of her cloak. She couldn't exactly blend in looking like a half-drowned corpse.

"I need new clothes," she said, wringing water from her sleeve. "Unless you want me drawing every pair of eyes in Black Hollow."

Vaelor glanced over his shoulder, scanning her dishevelled state.

Then, to her surprise, he nodded. "We'll find something before we meet Gareth."

She blinked. "Huh. That was easy."

He smirked. "I was going to suggest it myself, but I figured I'd let you complain first."

She rolled her eyes but said nothing.

****

The Road to Black Hollow

They walked for hours, the forest thinning into jagged rock formations and sloping hills. Twice, they had to duck into the brush to avoid passing Black Hounds patrols, their search spreading farther from the city.

By midmorning, the scent of smoke and damp stone filled the air.

Black Hollow came into view.

The city looked more like a wound than a settlement—carved into the valley cliffs, with wooden bridges stretched over the narrow streets. Torches burned even in daylight, their flickering light casting deep shadows over buildings that leaned against each other for support.

The roads were alive with movement.

Merchants peddled stolen wares, gamblers hovered over dice, cloaked figures whispered in the corners of alleys. Fights broke out as quickly as they were snuffed, and every glance held the weight of measuring threats and opportunity.

Delwyn took it all in, her hand twitching toward her sword.

"Friendly place," she muttered.

Vaelor smirked. "You'll fit right in."

She shot him a glare. "Get me some damn clothes first."

****

A Proper Outfit for a Fugitive

Vaelor led her down a side alley to a small market tucked between two crumbling buildings.

A woman with scarred hands and sharp eyes eyed them from behind a wooden stall, her table stacked with leather armour, cloaks, and travel-worn tunics.

Vaelor tossed a few coins onto the table. "Something that fits her."

The woman scoffed. "Something clean will cost extra."

Vaelor flicked another coin onto the pile.

Delwyn arched a brow. "You must really want me to stop complaining."

"You say that like it'll happen."

The woman snatched the coins of the bench. Delwyn grinned as she grabbed a dark linen tunic, pulling it over her head. The leather jerkin that followed fit snugly, the straps adjustable and worn from use.

She rolled her shoulders. Much better.

A pair of fitted trousers and weathered boots followed, the leather already broken in. She adjusted the fit, tucking the edges in properly.

The final piece was a black cloak, fastening at her collarbone.

Delwyn turned back to Vaelor, raising a brow. "How do I look?"

He gave her a quick once-over, then nodded. "Like someone who won't die in the next fight."

"High praise from you."

"Don't let it go to your head."

She adjusted the cloak, smirking. "Alright. Let's go find your rat."

****

The Hollowed Stag

Black Hollow had no true heart, but if it did, it was the Hollowed Stag.

The tavern sat at the base of the cliff, its wooden sign barely hanging on by a rusted chain. The inside smelled of damp wood, ale, and quiet danger.

Most of the patrons didn't bother looking up as they entered. The kind of place where minding your own business kept you breathing.

Except for one man.

He lounged at the back table, boots propped on the edge, rolling a coin between his fingers. His coat was fine, but worn, his boots scuffed but expensive. A man who had once known wealth and now survived by knowing the right things about the wrong people.

His sharp eyes flicked to Vaelor first. Then, to Delwyn.

A slow smirk spread across his lips.