What Was Buried Still Breathes

Morning came like a stranger.

The sky, now a deep violet, hung with low mist. Birds did not return. No deer wandered into the glen. Even the wind held its breath.

Evelyn sat beside Hazel, who hadn't spoken since the moment she took the King's heart.

Her eyes no longer glowed. Her skin bore deep scars that pulsed softly with golden light. Not healing—transforming. The names written on her arms were no longer just remnants. They were alive—each one humming with quiet power.

Silas stood a short distance away, watching the treeline. He hadn't said a word since the battle ended. The Beast in him was quiet, but not at peace. Something still stirred beneath his skin.

"It should be over," Evelyn finally said. "It feels over."

Hazel turned her head. "It's not."

Before Evelyn could ask what she meant, the ground trembled.

Not violently.

But rhythmically.

Boom.

Boom.

Boom.

The sound of something climbing.

Hazel's voice was hollow. "We buried a king. But we didn't bury what made him."

Silas moved instantly, shifting halfway into his monstrous form, claws bared. "What is it?"

Hazel slowly stood, her movements no longer human—smooth, eerie, guided by something ancient. "The Hollow doesn't end here. It wasn't just a curse. It was a containment. The King broke free—but so did others."

She walked toward the altar ruins, her bare feet leaving no prints in the ash.

"There's something beneath the roots," she murmured. "Something older than the King. It's been whispering to me ever since I touched his heart."

Evelyn paled. "You mean it's... alive?"

"No," Hazel whispered. "It's waking."

Suddenly, the forest shifted.

The trees all turned inward—bending, groaning—as if bowing to something deeper. From the altar, the stones began to bleed. Red moss crawled up the trunks. And then—

A voice rose.

Low. Feminine. Ageless.

"Who breaks the seal of the Hollow... shall answer to the Mother."

Hazel froze.

"That's not him," she breathed.

"No," Silas growled. "It's worse."

From the shadows beneath the altar, a hand emerged.

Not skeletal. Not monstrous.

Beautiful.

Pale as porcelain, with fingers tipped in blackened bark.

A second hand followed. Then a head. A face without eyes, only hollow sockets pouring silver tears.

And then she spoke again.

"You killed my child. Now I will take yours."

Hazel staggered back.

Silas pulled Evelyn behind him.

But it was already too late.

The Hollow had a new queen.

And she wanted war.