Beneath the Burdenline
The Hollow March Begins
It started w—
...no.
That's not how it started.
Nahr thought he was standing still.
He wasn't.
Gravity was back, yeah. He knew that part. Boots pressed. Shoulders ached. Galieya felt like it'd been dipped in old regret and hardened overnight. But time was... off.
It had to've been five minutes since the trench let them back in. Or maybe twenty seconds. He wasn't sure. Hero wasn't helping. The other Core walked ahead, one pace too fast like he was afraid of being with someone.
Which, maybe, he was.
The Hollow March. That's what the prompt said. Except—no march was happening. No formation. No rhythm. Just a road that slouched beneath their feet and didn't seem interested in being followed.
Nahr watched the walls.
Watched the ground.
Watched his own shadow.
Something about it was too… sharp. Not elongated, not bent like trench light usually made it. Just correct. Like it'd been drawn there on purpose.
He hated it.
"Hero," he said. Or thought he said,. His voice caught halfway through his jaw. Didn't echo.
Hero didn't turn. Just slowed slightly. His Galieya scraped against the edge of his thigh.
There was no conversation left. Not really.
They'd traded too much in the weightless layer. Memory wasn't gone-gone, just frayed. Like a book he'd lent someone who read the ending too loud and gave it back whispering.
At the first split, the trench didn't ask. It just veered left. Hard. Like an elbow to the ribs. Nahr followed. He didn't check to see if Hero did. He just trusted that rhythm again—the one that meant I'm still here, even if nothing else is.
The march didn't feel hollow yet.
Not until the voice came.
It wasn't system tone. It wasn't mimic screech.
It was laughter.
Soft.
Wrong.
But not unfamiliar.
And he knew the name before he remembered the face.
"Maldrin," Nahr whispered, mostly because saying nothing felt worse.
But no one answered.
They kept walking. Three? Four junctions? He lost count when the slope started curving up. Not sharply. Just enough to piss off his balance. You don't go up in trench descent. Everyone knows that. Except here.
Here didn't care about rules.
Here was rules.
At the seventh corner—if that's what it was—Nahr stopped.
There was something on the floor.
Burned into it.
He knelt.
Just four letters.
KURE
The rest had been melted. Not scraped. Melted. Like someone with memory still hot in their chest tried to write too fast and left their handprint behind.
Nahr didn't touch it.
Hero was still behind him.
No.
Wait.
Ahead?
He turned. There was no one.
But he felt Hero. That presence again. Not in the trench. In his shoulder. That nerve-point above the strap clamp. Where shared formation pressure registers.
"You're close," he muttered.
The trench didn't respond.
Instead, something else flickered.
His HUD.
A symbol this time.
Not a glyph.
Just:
[>]
One arrow. Pointing up.
He looked.
There wasn't a ceiling anymore. Or maybe it had just un-decided to exist.
Above him: a ladder. Except it wasn't connected. Just... floating.
Like the idea of a ladder had shown up and no one told it to leave.
His Galieya buzzed.
Weight signature nearby.
He looked down again.
The KURE was gone.
Replaced by:
WHO DID YOU LEAVE FIRST?
He stepped back.
That answer?
He didn't have it.
Or worse—
He did.
And didn't want to say the name.
Not even to himself.
The trench road ended.
But the March began.
Nahr looked down—no stones. Just dust and footprints. His and Hero's? Maybe others. Maybe not.
He stepped forward.
Hero did, too, silent like he'd always been. But something was missing—an echo in the gait. Not a malfunction. Just… changed.
Nahr tightened the grip on his Galieya. No light now. The corridor
was dark, but not empty. The walls seemed to watch. Faint grains slid down in places, like moments falling.
A whisper hit him. No words. Felt like regret.
"...too late." He thought he heard it. Could be nothing.
They walked.
Something crooked in the path—he reached for it instinctively. No weight there. The trench withheld—something was unsaid.
Another footprint. Deep. Too deep. Like someone half carrying something heavy. Or carrying someone.
Nahr followed it left.
Hero paused—looked forward, then back. Nod. He followed.
They reached a broken pillar of memory—cracked plating, spiral veins gone cold. Dust glazed over it. Bone-white.
Nahr hesitated.
Hero didn't.
He crouched. Ran a finger across the arc.
It cut his glove. Not deep. But enough.
A drop of oil slipped.
He tasted it, once, in his mind—raw metal and salt.
He withdrew his hand.
Hero didn't touch it .
They moved on.
The corridor spiraled. Not smooth. Jammed. Like inside a scratched bone.
Nahr skipped a step. Gravity miscalculated.
Again, he rebalanced. But the space corrected him. Not violently. Just...
"Not yours," he muttered. Was he saying that to Hero? The trench? Himself?
Hero stopped.
He gazed upward.
There was no ceiling—only a mirage of stone up there. But weight pressed. Shadows moved, though no light cast them.
Hero lifted his hand, palm open.
Nahr followed suit.
Nothing happened.
Then, lines etched into the wall—old glyphs, depth too shallow. Spoke of names erased.
Hero frowned. He unlocked a whisper of voice.
"Names don't grant permission here."
He said it. Or it echoed from the wall. Hard to tell.
Nahr sawllowed.
They reached a slab-blocked passage—plate fused to floor, like a mouth sealed shut.
They both touched it.
The slab heated under fingers—gentle burn.
The trench willed them, again.
Nahr pressed harder. Stone gave. Not broke. Just—
Moved aside.
A crawl-space revealed.
Hero dropped in. Then Nahr.
Hands and knees—they smelled burning dust.
The crawl-space turned upward. Narrow until Nahr slid through on his back.
He broke out of ceiling-smooth trench into a square room.
Still no light.
Hero was waiting.
Hands dangling.
Head tilted.
He looked… human, for a second.
Nahr whispered.
"I don't know who came back with us."
Hero didn't answer.
He tilted his head again.
He stepped toward Nahr.
But didn't reach out.
Instead, they both backed up.
The room sealed behind them.
No hiss. No glow.
Just a slide of pressure.
Then a plate dropped in front—like a judge's bar.
Nahr sighed.
Hero didn't sigh.
Energy hummed along walls.
Soft pulse.
A glyph flickered on floor:
[BALANCE REQUIRED]
Nahr raised his Galieya.
Hero matched him.
Pointed at Nahr's.
Then his own.
Two weapons locked muzzle to muzzle.
He didn't speak. But he moved first.
Nahr followed.
They mirrored—same offset step, same tap of boot.
Then Hero moved outside the block-line.
Nahr stepped back.
The slab glowed.
Dust fell.
Then it retracted—door opening.
Hero exhaled.
Nahr wanted to ask what happened.
Nothing formed.
The corridor ahead was empty.
They walked in single file again.
Hero went first.
Nahr followed.
No words, but shared steps—slow, deliberate.
Dust settled.
They passed a fissure , stone too deep to peer in.
But pattern in it—like veins. No glow. Just form.
Nahr stopped.
Hero didn't.
He tugged Nahr forward.
Nahr shook his head, but followed.
No signal. No sound.
Only the rhythm of absence.
They reached a chamber.
Center: two Galieyas embedded in pedestal.
These weren't theirs.
Unknown pattern.
One cold-blue. One bone-white.
Nahr swallowed.
Hero gestured—they each take one.
Nahr hesitated. The trench paused with him.
Finally, he took the blue one.
Hero took the white.
Galieyas glowed softly.
Wall slid open.
They stepped through.
They were back on the March road.
End of corridor.
No slope.
No platform.
Just dust.
They stood side by side.
Hero folded the white blade.
Nahr strapped on the blue.
Neither spoke.
But breath... finally returned.
They walked on.
Weight returned slowly—gravity first, then memory.
The trench allowed it.
But only just.
The Hollow March waited—but now they had something new: uncertainty.
And that was enough.
He didn't know when Hero stopped walking.
Maybe he never started again. Maybe Nahr'd gone ahead without noticing.
Or maybe Hero was ahead, and this version beside him was just... residue. A kind of trench delay.
The Hollow March wasn't marching anymore. It drifted.
Like memory on a corrupted slate. The kind you rub too hard trying to forget and end up etching in deeper.
Nahr touched his chest—not to check damage, just... because.
Nothing hummed. The Galieya was cold. That was new. Or not. It'd been cold before, hadn't it? After the exchange. After he gave up... something.
What had he given up?
He looked down.
No blade.
Wait—yes, there. Still sheathed, still his. Just felt wrong. Or maybe he felt wrong to it now. They weren't bonded anymore, not the way they were when the fight was clean and the trench was cruel in the honest way.
Now it was whispering.
Soft. At the edges.
Almost gentle.
We remember what you forget. We keep what you drop.
"Shut up," he muttered. Not to Hero. Not even out loud. Just... out.
No response.
Hero walked beside him again. Or rejoined. Or had never left. Nahr didn't ask.
The corridor bent, but didn't turn. A slant without choice.
They followed.
--
New chamber.
Wide. Bare. Clean in the way corpses get before they rot.
One pedestal.
Two objects.
Neither made sense.
The first was a shell. A hand. No Core shape. Organic. Fingers curled into almost a fist.
The second: a voice.
Not a recording. Not audio. A voice, just sitting there, humming at the air. Circular. It wobbled when he got near, like sound was trying to hide in shape.
Hero tilted his head toward the shell.
Nahr tilted toward the voice.
They split.
Moved opposite.
He touched the voice.
It didn't speak.
It showed.
Flashes.
A hallway like this one.
But brighter. Or maybe just before dark.
And someone.
Maldrin?
No.
Too small.
Not armored.
Just... alive.
A child.
Standing at the edge of a trench that hadn't opened yet.
Looking down.
Then a hand on his shoulder.
Core hand.
You can still turn around.
Then black.
The flash ended.
Nahr stepped back. Hands shaking.
Hero had the shell in his palm.
His HUD flickered.
[OBJECT NOT RECOGNIZED]
[WEIGHT: EMOTIONAL/UNKNOWN]
He dropped it.
It didn't fall.
It floated.
Then broke.
Not with sound. Just... undone.
Like something unspoken collapsed under the strain of being real too long.
They didn't talk about it.
They moved on.
--
The trench narrowed again. Not physically.
Just spiritually. Like guilt makes space thinner.
They ducked.
Not for height.
But becuse something told them this part was sacred.
Or cursed.
Or both.
—
The next platform was half-formed.
Cracked across its belly. Memory leaked from it.
Sloshed out like forgotten names.
In the center: a seat.
Vault-like.
Not for sitting. For showing.
Hero approached first.
Then stopped.
Nahr moved beside.
Text buzzed.
[ONE SEAT • ONE MEMORY]
[CHOOSE WHO REMEMBERS • CHOOSE WHO FIGHTS]
They looked at each other.
Neither moved.
So the trench chose.
Hero vanished.
Nahr sat.
—
The seat clamped.
No pain.
Just compression.
Like gravity on truth.
A wall in front of him brightened.
Showed him hisself again.
Not the mimic.
Not the old him.
A version.
The version that hadn't entered the trench.
Who stayed behind.
Who was whole.
Smiling.
He looked... happy?
Nahr hated him instantly.
The screen cracked.
And the trench said—
[FIGHT WHAT YOU SAVED]
And the screen peeled forward.
And stepped out.
And smiled again.
Nahr's blade lit without being drawn.
His body moved before thought caught up.
His old self—too fast.
Too hopeful.
The strike came.
Nahr dodged.
Then didn't.
Then—
—
Impact.
Shoulder.
Cut.
But his.
He'd cut himself.
No—the version of himself.
The real one staggered.
The echo didn't flinch.
It just laughed.
"You don't remember how light you were."
Then swung again.
This time Nahr blocked it with the flat of his mind.
Or blade.
Hard to tell.
He screamed. Not from pain.
From the pressure.
Hero's voice cut in. Not nearby. Not present.
But remembered.
"Let it hit. Let it break. Then pick up what survives."
Nahr stepped in.
Took the swing full force.
Didn't fall.
Didn't shatter.
He just... outlasted it.
The echo folded inward.
Not defeated.
Just done.
Like a nightmare realizing it wasn't wanted anymore.
He stood in the wreckage of memory.
Breathing hard.
The clamps released.
Hero stood across the platform again.
Silent.
Still.
Holding Nahr's Galieya.
Offered it back.
Nahr took it.
The weight felt... right again.
Not light.
Not unbearable.
Just his.
They turned.
The trench opened the next slope.
And down they went.
Together.
Together.
Almost empty.
But not yet.