The Hollowlands did not welcome the living.
Each step Caelum took dragged against the earth like a prayer for death. The mists here were thicker, colder, and alive in ways that defied all reason. Shapes shifted within them — outlines of men, beasts, and things with too many limbs. Whispers curled at the edges of his hearing, promising salvation, promising oblivion.
He ignored them.
The blood from his wrists had dried into stiff trails down his arms. Every breath felt heavier than the last, as if the very air sought to crush him. He clutched his wounded side, grimacing, but he did not slow.
The Hollowlands fed on weakness.
He would give it none.
The Soul-Web here was broken. Caelum could feel it: a thousand snapped threads flailing in the dark, seeking any anchor, any desperate connection. Normal magicians would be powerless here — their spells unraveling before they could even speak the incantations.
But Caelum Vey was not normal anymore.
Where others would drown, he thrived.
A flicker of movement snapped him alert.
Caelum dropped low, letting the mist swirl above him, watching as something massive lumbered across the broken road ahead. A creature half-formed from the remains of Eidolon corruption — jagged bone jutting from misshapen flesh, hollow sockets where eyes once might have been.
A Weaver Wretch.
Once, creatures like this had been men.
Now they were barely that.
The Wretch sniffed the air, dragging one twisted limb through the mud, searching.
Caelum held his breath.
His instincts screamed to attack, to tear through it, to assert dominance.
But he was no fool.
Weaver Wretches operated in packs. If one was here, others were near. A single misstep could draw a dozen more.
Patience, he reminded himself.
Patience, and precision.
The Wretch shambled past, disappearing into the mist. Only then did Caelum rise and continue.
Each heartbeat was a battle.
Each breath a rebellion against a world that no longer wanted him.
And somewhere in the deep folds of his mind, the Eidolon shard pulsed — not in warning, but in hunger.
He was growing stronger.
Stronger... and further from who he had been.
He stumbled onto a stretch of ruined stone road, half-swallowed by the earth. Massive, ancient trees loomed overhead, their bark charred and slick with rot. Strange flowers bloomed at their roots, petals like razors.
The Hollowlands had no mercy.
Neither could he.
The mist parted briefly, revealing a figure standing ahead — cloaked in black, their face hidden.
Caelum froze.
Enemy?
No — not immediately aggressive. Not moving.
He took a cautious step forward.
The figure raised a hand, and with it, reality itself seemed to ripple.
Caelum's soul screamed in recognition.
This was no ordinary magician.
This was a Warden of the Severed — enforcers tasked with maintaining the Broken Zones like the Hollowlands, wielders of forbidden magics Solaris dared not name.
And if he had any hope of surviving here, he needed to learn from them — or destroy them.
The figure spoke, voice low and echoing strangely through the mist.
"You bleed the scent of Eidolons, boy," they said. "You walk with death at your heels. Why?"
Caelum's throat was dry, but he forced words past it.
"Because life offered me nothing."
The figure chuckled — a hollow, splintered sound.
"Then perhaps," they said, "you might survive after all."
---
The world shifted.
Without warning, a surge of power exploded outward from the Warden, twisting the mists into whips and claws. Threads of magic, visible even in the Hollowlands, lashed toward Caelum, seeking to bind him, to test him.
There was no time for thought.
He moved on instinct — drawing on the corrupted Web within himself, calling forth the broken threads he had stitched into his soul.
Power answered.
Soulglass cracked along his right arm, releasing a burst of silver-black mist that devoured the incoming attacks whole.
The Warden's hood tilted, as if amused.
"Good," they whispered.
More threads came — sharper, faster — but now Caelum could see them. Could feel them.
He twisted, sidestepped, and retaliated — a single slash of raw Eidolon force lashing out from his fingertips.
The Warden caught it easily, redirecting the attack into the ground, where it shattered the stone.
"Good," they repeated. "You have the hunger. But not the will."
A flare of anger rose in Caelum's chest — raw, unbidden.
He lunged forward, ignoring pain, ignoring exhaustion.
The fight was brutal, wild, nothing like the formal duels of Solaris. It was survival, pure and simple. Caelum fought like a cornered animal, and still, the Warden toyed with him, parrying, dodging, forcing him deeper into exhaustion.
At last, Caelum stumbled, falling to one knee, gasping.
The Warden stopped.
They lowered their hood.
A woman, her hair the color of ashes, her face marked by deep scars that glowed faintly with runic light. Her eyes were the color of dusk — neither truly alive nor dead.
"You will not survive here," she said quietly. "Not unless you abandon everything you think you are."
Caelum met her gaze, defiant.
"I already have."
For a long moment, she said nothing.
Then she extended a hand.
"Rise, Caelum Vey," she said. "The Hollowlands welcome their own."