The Hollow stirred like a heart waking from slumber.
Lanterns lined the pathways, their soft flames flickering blue instead of gold—a color that hadn't graced the village since before the Shrouding. Wind-chimes carved from old memory-glass whispered stories with every gust, and villagers moved in silence, reverence thick in the air.
Chizzy stood in the center of the elder's circle, sleeves rolled to her elbows, hair braided with silver threads. Before her, the sigils of the ancient keepers had been carved into the earth. Lines of crushed flower petals and ash traced the symbols with vibrant detail—violet for grief, white for truth, and red for courage.
The Ritual of Remembrance had not been performed in over a century.
And no one alive had ever dared lead it.
Except her.
Elder Vanya approached, robes heavy with time and tradition. "You know what this risks, child. Calling back the truth might undo more than the veil—it may break minds unready to remember."
Chizzy looked up, eyes firm. "Then we hold each other through the breaking."
The old woman's expression cracked, a flicker of sorrow dancing through her ancient gaze. She placed a weathered hand on Chizzy's shoulder. "Then may the Keepers guide your flame."
She stepped back.
One by one, the villagers arrived with offerings—a book of lullabies, a broken pendant, a lock of hair wrapped in linen, a carved toy boat. Memory objects. Each one encoded with feelings, names, forgotten ties.
Chizzy knelt before the ritual basin, which had been carved from the heartwood of a tree that once grew in Liera's sanctuary. The basin was empty, but the memory shard pulsed within her satchel.
She pulled it out.
It glowed gently in her palm, still warm from the Weeping Marsh.
With trembling fingers, she placed the shard into the basin's heart.
A low hum began, rising from the earth itself.
The villagers gasped as the ground beneath the circle shimmered with silver veins, weaving outward like roots. The petals lifted into the air, spinning above Chizzy in slow, reverent orbit.
Then came the voice—not Chizzy's.
Liera's.
Soft. Steady.
"Memory is not weight, but tether. Through pain, we are not bound to sorrow—but to each other."
The air thickened. Some wept. Others clasped hands. Chizzy could feel the emotion crackling like lightning through the ground.
She raised her voice to meet it.
"Let that which was stolen be returned," she declared. "Let the forgotten come forth. Let remembrance undo the veil."
One by one, she touched the offerings, whispering the names written within the petals. With each name, the basin brightened.
"Eolan, the Weaver's son."
"Mira of the Stoneborn."
"Serin and Aldra—lovers lost to silence."
Each name lit another flame in the villagers' eyes. Some began to whisper their own memories aloud—snippets of stories long buried.
Children clung to mothers who suddenly recalled lullabies.
Old men stood straighter, as if old wounds had lifted.
And through it all, Chizzy wept—not out of sadness, but release.
The shard pulsed brighter now, and she saw it—a vision:
Liera standing in a golden grove, arms open.
Behind her, others. Dozens. Hundreds.
Smiling.
Waiting.
The ritual was working.
But even as the memory magic bloomed, a cold wind cut through the Hollow.
The lanterns flickered.
The sky darkened—not with night, but with something deeper.
Chizzy opened her eyes and looked north.
A shadow was descending.
The Beast had heard the names.
And it was coming to silence them.
She rose to her feet, voice unwavering.
"Stand ready. We have awakened the truth. Now, we must protect it."