Chapter 24: The False Hearth
The village lay curled in the cradle of the hills, smoke drifting lazily from crooked chimneys into the grey skies. The scents of applewood fires, fresh hay, and ripening fruit were thick on the air, and for a fleeting moment, Jasper was a boy again — in the fields of Myrrenstead, watching his father stack hay, hearing the lowing of cattle in distant meadows.
The road had given him no mercy these past days. Neither had memory.
Flame padded at his side, her golden coat dulled by the dust of the trail. Jasper pulled his hood low, but there was no hiding a horse-headed knight walking with a great golden jaguar — whispers of such a sight had even reached these far fields. The villagers turned to look as he passed, murmurs stirring among the stalls and crates.
The market square was alive with barter and bustle. Farmers displayed piles of apples in woven baskets; women traded bolts of rough cloth; coopers showed off gleaming barrels; cobblers laid out rows of hand-stitched boots. Children darted underfoot, clutching scraps of bread and laughing among themselves.
Through the throng, a boy of no more than nine approached. He moved slowly, hesitantly, his eyes wide — but not with fear. He stopped before Flame, who met his gaze calmly and lowered her massive head. The boy’s hand reached out, trembling slightly, and stroked the jaguar’s warm, muscled neck.
"You’ve tamed the great cat," Jasper said, a rare smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. "A friend for life."
The boy grinned, radiant, and looked up at him. "My parents have a stall," he said shyly. "Come meet them!"
The parents were a weathered but warm couple, their faces lined with sun and years of honest work. They sold apples and cider, jars of preserves, and loaves of dark bread. They spoke with the easy kindness of those who had endured much but had not let the world turn them bitter.
As the day grew long, the woman wiped her hands on her apron and invited Jasper and Flame to share supper at their farm — "a small token to a ronin of great known," she said, her eyes twinkling.
Jasper hesitated — memories of other kindnesses twisted into betrayals weighed on him — but the road had been long, his heart sore. He accepted.
Their farm lay just beyond the village, among rolling fields thick with apple trees and grazing cows. The boy ran ahead, laughing, and even Flame seemed to relax as they followed the narrow dirt path.
The barn was simple but clean; beds of fresh straw were made ready for them. The farmhouse smelled of stew and bread and woodsmoke. They ate at a broad table by the hearth — rich stew with fat chunks of meat, cider sweet and strong, laughter filling the rafters. Jasper let his guard down, just a little. Flame lapped at a bowl of milk and gnawed a bone stripped clean of meat.
Stories were told: of harvests won, of wolves driven off, of the turning of the seasons.
Jasper felt the warmth of the fire on his skin, the weight of comfort pressing down on his tired shoulders. His limbs grew heavy. The room tilted slightly. He tried to focus — tried to rise — but his body betrayed him.
Across the table, Flame’s great head sagged to the floor.
Darkness took them both.
He woke to blackness.
Cold stone against his cheek. The thick smell of damp earth. And iron — iron biting his wrists and ankles. Heavy chains clamped him to the rough cellar wall, cruel and unyielding. Flame stirred nearby, snarling weakly, her own golden form shackled with thick iron collars chained into the stone.
A door creaked open above them, and a warm circle of lantern light spilled into the gloom. Down the wooden steps came the couple — the ones who had fed him, smiled at him, promised safety.
Their faces twisted into something else now. Hunger. Triumph.
"We have been waiting," said the man, voice thick with something unclean. "We hollowed serve the Black Tower."
The woman smiled thinly. "Our fields are plentiful thanks to our dark lord. His gifts are bountiful... if you are willing to pay."
Their eyes shimmered red in the lantern’s light — for just a moment — and Jasper's blood ran cold.
Behind them, the boy stood at the top of the stairs, his small hands clenched at his sides. His eyes were still clear — no crimson glow, no corruption. A tear slipped down his cheek.
"I’m sorry," he whispered, barely a breath. "I had no choice."
Then he turned and fled, disappearing into the night, his clear eyes swallowed by the dark.
The door slammed shut.
Bolts clattered into place.
Jasper strained against his chains, feeling the cold bite of metal against his skin. Above him, the laughter of the hollowed echoed once more before fading into silence.
In the darkness, Flame roared — a sound of such fury and betrayal it shook dust from the rafters.
Jasper closed his eyes. The hollowed men... the Black Tower... all of it was real. And it had found him at last.
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
Chapter 25 — Flight from the Hollowed
Time had no meaning in the dark.
Jasper sat slumped against the cold stone wall, the rusted iron chains gnawing his wrists raw. Flame lay curled beside him, the golden jaguar’s breathing slow and shallow, the drug still thick in her blood. Above them, life went on in muffled echoes — the tread of boots, the clatter of dishes, a woman’s laugh, the creak of a chair.
It was as if they had already been buried.
Only once each day did someone descend, booted feet thudding on the wooden stairs, to kick a battered tin bowl of stale water across the dirt floor. No words were spoken. No food offered. Only the heavy silence of betrayal.
Jasper spoke sometimes, his voice low and broken with thirst.
"We will not die here," he whispered to Flame, resting a calloused hand on the jaguar’s side. "Not in chains. Not like this."
The golden cat flicked an ear but did not rise. Her strength, like Jasper’s, waned with every slow, dragging hour.
It was in the dead hush of night — when even the Hollowed above had ceased their wicked revelry — that salvation came.
A soft creak.
The faint scuff of a barefoot on wood.
The cellar door edged open, spilling a narrow blade of lantern-light into the pit.
There stood the boy.
The same boy who had smiled so brightly that morning in the marketplace. His face was pale now, drawn tight with fear. His hands trembled, but he held a small iron key. Without a word, he hurried down the steps.
The boy's hands fumbled with the locks. The chains gave way with dull, heavy clanks. Jasper collapsed forward, blood rushing painfully back into numbed limbs. Flame groaned low and lifted her head, blinking slow, amber eyes.
"You..." Jasper rasped.
The boy shook his head, cutting him off. His voice was a whisper, brittle with sorrow.
"My parents died long ago... when they knelt to the Black Tower. What you saw — that wasn't them anymore." His throat worked, trying to hold back tears. "They serve the Overseer now. Their bodies walk. Their voices speak. But their souls are hollow."
Jasper stared, the gravity of the boy’s words sinking deep into his exhausted mind.
"They sent for goblins," the boy continued urgently. "And Hollowed men from the other villages. If you stay, you'll be dragged back to the Black Tower in chains... or worse." He swallowed, glancing back up the stairs. "I can't stay here either. I won't."
Without waiting for permission, the boy darted back up the stairs. Jasper and Flame followed as best they could, stumbling, weak but moving.
Outside, the world was painted silver under the waning moon. The boy had been busy.
A battered farm wagon waited in the shadow of the barn, an old mule harnessed and ready. A jug of water, a sack of apples, and a dusty crossbow were stashed under a worn blanket.
They clambered aboard, Jasper lifting Flame carefully into the wagon bed. The boy cracked the reins without a word, and they rumbled away down a rutted, muddy track, the wheels moaning under the strain.
Behind them, back at the house, torches flared to life.
A bell tolled — a low, mournful sound — and voices shouted in alarm.
"They know," the boy said grimly.
Jasper looked back only once. On the ridge above the fields, he thought he saw figures gathering — tall, thin shapes, their eyes catching the torchlight with a brief, awful glimmer. Hollowed men. More of them than he could count.
Flame rumbled deep in her chest, her hackles raised.
The boy drove them on through the night. Past fields of dying crops, past empty orchards and crooked scarecrows, past silent crossroads marked with bone charms and black flags.
After a long while, he spoke again, voice hoarse with fatigue.
"There’s a port... a day's ride east, if the mule holds." His eyes stayed fixed on the dark road ahead. "Smugglers’ cove. They'll take you anywhere, for a price. Far from here. Far from him."
The boy’s hands were steady on the reins. He did not look back.
Neither did Jasper.
The Black Tower’s reach was long. But even the hollowed shadow of a man could not catch them — not this night.
Meanwhile, in the Black Tower...
The Black Tower loomed over the cursed marshes, its obsidian spires clawing at a sky choked with ash. Within its deepest chamber, lit by sickly green crystal, Sarah knelt on cold stone. Iron chains bound her wrists, their weight a constant reminder of her captivity. Her once-vibrant dress hung in tatters, and her eyes, red-rimmed from sleepless nights, burned with defiance.
The goblin lord, the Overseer, lounged on his throne of bone and crystal. His goblin form was warped by the dark star’s power—skin like charred bark, eyes glowing like molten iron. A cruel smile split his face as he toyed with a shard of black crystal, its surface pulsing with faint screams.
“You cling to hope,” he rasped, voice dripping with mockery. “Foolish. Your knight, Jasper, will not come. He flees south, abandoning you to me.”
Sarah’s jaw tightened. “He’ll come. And when he does, you’ll beg for mercy.”
The overseer laughed, a sound like breaking glass. He rose, dragging the chain’s end as he circled her. “Mercy? No, child. The dark star sees all. It showed me your heart—your grief, your rage. Your brother, cut down in his prime. Your dreams of a crown, stolen by fate.”
Her breath hitched. “Don’t speak of him.”
“Oh, but I must.” He leaned closer, his breath foul. “The star showed me Jasper’s hand in his death. A blade in the dark. A coward’s strike. You trusted him, loved him—and he betrayed you.”
“Lies,” she spat, but her voice wavered. The memory of her brother’s death—a battlefield far away, a story she’d never fully heard—gnawed at her.
He pressed the black crystal into her palm, its cold biting her skin. “See for yourself.”
The crystal flared. Visions flooded her mind: a blood-soaked field, her brother falling, Jasper’s silhouette in the mist, his sword red. The images twisted, blending truth and lies, fueled by her grief and the Tower’s malice. Her scream echoed as the crystal’s power seeped into her veins, her eyes flickering red.
“You are mine now,” the overseer whispered. “The dark star has chosen you. Go to Smuggler’s Cove. Find Jasper. End him. And you will be queen of ash and shadow.”
Sarah’s chains fell away, unneeded. Her gaze, now glowing faintly, fixed on the Overseer. “I will go,” she said, voice hollow. “And he will pay.”
The twisted goblin smirked, gesturing to a shadowed archway. A wraith-horse, its eyes like voids, awaited her. “Ride, my queen. The Cove awaits.”
As she mounted and vanished into the night, he turned to the crystal throne. Above, the Tower hummed, alive with the dark star’s will. “One falls,” he murmured, “and the prophecy begins.”
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
