CODEX OF THE HOLLOW FLAME

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The wind followed them out of the vault like a whisper from the dead.

It clung to their cloaks, slipped beneath their armor, and moaned through the broken boughs of frost-laced trees as if mourning something forgotten. Above, the sky was the color of old bone, bruised with blue veins of cloud. Snow had fallen here recently—not the fresh kind, but the sort that had lingered too long, crusting the earth in icy silence.

They found the village nestled in a shallow hollow, hunched beneath a forest of lifeless pine. The houses were wooden, small, with thatched roofs bowed under weight of time and frost. Smoke rose in lazy tendrils from a few chimneys, but there was no laughter. No voices. No sound of trade or work or even breath. Only the creak of a weather-warped sign swinging in the wind—Brethel's Hollow, etched in flaking red.

Vaelric paused at the edge of the village. The Codex throbbed softly at his side, as if reacting to something in the air.

"This place is wrong," he murmured, narrowing his eyes at the shuttered windows and still figures peering out from behind cracked curtains.

The villagers stood like statues. Pale. Sunken-eyed. Their skin had the hue of parchment soaked in ashwater. They didn't speak. Didn't nod. Only stared.

"I don't like this," Draum said, lowering his hood. "Their faces… like dough that forgot how to rise. Hollow. Half-cooked."

Nyshara said nothing, trailing behind, one hand idly tapping the pommel of her sword. She wore the same calm as always—icy, distant, unreadable—but there was a slight furrow in her brow.

"Let's find shelter," Vaelric said. "We'll rest. Ask questions tomorrow."

They secured a cramped room in a crooked inn that smelled faintly of mildew and boiled root vegetables. The innkeeper was an old man with cataract-clouded eyes and lips that trembled when he spoke. He never asked their names, only pointed them to a room and vanished without another word.

Later that night, they gathered around the small fireplace, its flames thin and tired. Shadows stretched like spindly fingers across the walls.

"I swear the air here's colder than the vaults," Draum muttered, pulling his cloak tighter. "And I don't just mean the weather."

He leaned back, gaze fixed on the fire. "You ever get the feeling you walked into a story halfway through? Like there's something happening beneath the surface and nobody's saying a word?"

"Every day since I found the Codex," Vaelric replied, voice low.

Nyshara sat by the window, whetstone in hand, dragging it in slow arcs along her blade. Shhhhink. Shhhhink. Her eyes remained on the village outside, watching the way the wind failed to move the villagers—how they just… stood there.

"We'll ask the elder tomorrow," Vaelric said. "Get answers."

"At least we're not being hunted," Draum sighed, throwing a glance at Vaelric. "No more bait duty, eh?"

But there was no laughter. Not tonight.

Vaelric couldn't sleep. The Codex pulsed beneath his cloak like a second heartbeat. It whispered—not in words, but in feelings: wrongness, hunger, danger. In his dreams, he saw the village from above—each pale villager a pinprick in a web of darkness. He saw antlers. Blood in the snow. Teeth.

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The Next Morning

The sound of hooves shattered the stillness.

Knights.

Dozens of them, clad in iron and frost-forged mail, marched in a tight formation through the main road of the village. Banners flapped—red and gold, emblazoned with the imperial sun pierced by a silver spear. Their breath fogged the air, but their faces remained unreadable. Hard. Trained.

Villagers fled indoors. Doors slammed. Curtains dropped. Even the innkeeper vanished into the cellar.

Vaelric stepped outside just as Nyshara joined him, her hand resting lightly on her blade's hilt.

"They ride like they already know what they're looking for," she said.

The lead knight—a grizzled man with a war-scarred jaw and a black sash across his chest—dismounted near the village center, where the chief, a frail old man with a sunken neck, waited with a stooped bow.

"We come by order of the Emperor," the captain barked. "There have been murders. Slaughtered villages. Northern outposts torn apart by teeth and claw. We hunt Wendigos."

The chief looked as though his legs might give out. "M-my Lord… we've seen no such beasts…"

"Then you won't mind if we search."

The knight's cold eyes swept the village. "Any strangers pass through your borders recently?"

The chief hesitated—just a blink too long.

"Aye," he croaked. "Three. Not of our kind. Arrived last night. Said they sought warmth and shelter…"

The captain turned to his second.

"Bring them."

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Vaelric barely had time to draw breath before the door exploded inward.

Iron boots stomped into the inn. Swords drawn. Shields raised. Shouts. Draum raised his fists, only to be struck hard across the jaw with the butt of a spear.

"Hands where I can see them!" barked one knight.

"Stop!" Vaelric shouted, raising his hands. "We're not your monsters—"

A gauntleted fist silenced him. His arms were yanked behind his back, and cold chains—etched in runes—bit into his wrists with an unnatural sting. He gasped as they sapped strength from his limbs.

Nyshara didn't resist. She merely stared at the captain, gaze calm but razor-edged.

"Tell your Emperor he'll regret this," she said softly.

They were dragged from the village in silence.

---

The Capital

Gray skies loomed over the capital like a curse carved into the heavens.

Massive gates yawned open as the procession passed beneath imperial banners. The streets were lined with citizens craning to see the accused. Whispers followed them like flies:

Wendigos. Shapeshifters. Killers of the North.

Children were pulled from the streets. Women crossed their chests in warding gestures.

They were paraded through cold stone corridors into the throne hall—an immense chamber flanked by obsidian pillars and braziers that burned with green flame. The Emperor sat atop a dais carved from dragonbone, flanked by hooded priests and crimson-armored guards.

He was a man of middle years, with a beard braided in rings of firegold. His eyes, though, were ancient. Hungry. Tired. The kind of eyes that had seen too many betrayals and too few truths.

He didn't speak at first. Only watched them as if appraising beasts at a slave market.

"These are the ones?" he said at last.

The knight captain stepped forward. "Yes, Your Radiance. Found in Brethel's Hollow. No one knows them. The village elder claims they arrived just before our sweep. No signs of the Wendigo beasts found elsewhere. But… it is possible they hide beneath false skins."

The Emperor tilted his head, then rose slowly from his throne.

He descended a single step. Then another. His boots echoed like hammer strikes.

Vaelric raised his chin, though blood still dried along his jaw.

"We are not Wendigos," he said. "We are travelers. Vault-born. Flame-bound."

The Emperor studied him for a long, hard moment. His gaze lingered at Vaelric's side—where the Codex sat beneath his cloak.

Then he turned to the guards.

"Put them in the bars. Let the gods decide what they are at trial."

The chains tightened. The guards pulled them away.

---

The Dungeon

The cell was dark and cold, the kind of cold that seeped into the marrow.

The chains remained—still etched in rune, still burning. Draum slumped against the wall, jaw bruised.

"Well," he said, voice slurred, "I've had worse hospitality."

Nyshara sat across from him, silent.

Vaelric did not move. He stared through the bars into the shadows beyond.

The Codex throbbed beneath his skin. It hadn't stopped. Not since the moment they entered the village.

And now it felt stronger—almost alive.

Not warning him.

No.

Calling.

Something else was coming. Something that wore a face.

And it would find them before the trial..

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