Chapter 5: The Hollow Madness

  The landscape shifted as we moved further away from the Hollow. The towering, thick-barked trees that loomed over the village began to thin, their purple-hued leaves fading into deeper shades of green and brown. The further we traveled, the denser the undergrowth became. Thick patches of moss crept up tree trunks, their roots disappearing into the damp, blackened soil beneath our boots.

  The air grew heavier, the fresh morning breeze replaced with something thicker, more humid. It wasn’t exactly choking, but there was a wetness to it, the kind that clung to your clothes and left a faint sheen of moisture on your skin.

  Mushrooms—big, small, glowing, and clustered in tangled webs—began to dot the landscape, sprouting along tree roots, nestled against rocks, and in strange, unnatural formations along the bog-like patches of land. Pools of murky, still water sat just off the path, reflecting the sky in an eerie, oil-slick shimmer. The road beneath us was still firm, but the edges were soft and damp, crawling with tiny insects skittering across the surface.

  Everything felt alive here, but in a different way than the Hollow. The Hollow had felt welcoming and sturdy, old but comforting. This? This felt swallowed up. Claimed. Like the land itself was watching.

  I adjusted the grip on my buckler, scanning the trees around us. “So… you don’t seem too concerned about…you know… anything.”

  Bromm grunted, his expression relaxed as he walked. “Ain’t much reason to be.”

  I frowned. “Really? Because this place looks like it’s just waiting for something to crawl out of a hole and eat us.”

  Bromm chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah, lad. The creatures of the Hollow tend to stay away from the paths. Most folk who take the roads here know how to handle themselves. And most folk don’t travel alone.” He shot me a side glance. “So the roads remain safe, generally .”

  I raised a brow. “Generally?”

  Bromm shrugged. “Aye, there’s always the odd fool who ignores the signs, wanders off, or thinks they’re tougher than they are. But if ya’ got good company, yer better off than most.”

  He tapped the musket strapped across his back, then gestured forward toward the real source of his confidence. Bob. The massive, tusked beast plodded along a few paces ahead, his snout twitching, ears flicking lazily. He seemed utterly unbothered by the shift in scenery.

  Bromm smirked. “And my main weapon?” He gestured to Bob. “You’re lookin’ at him.”

  I blinked. “Bob?” Bob let out a grunt.

  Bromm nodded. “Aye. He’s got a better nose and ears than I do. Can sense trouble long before I could. If Bob’s calm, I’m calm.”

  Bob let out a deep, satisfied snort, like he was acknowledging the compliment. I eyed the massive boar, who seemed completely indifferent to our conversation, then glanced back at Bromm.

  “So, Bob’s basically your living, breathing threat detector?”

  “That, and he’ll gore anything that gets too close.”

  Bob grunted again, more forcefully this time. I squinted. “…Did he just agree with you?”

  Bromm chuckled. “Aye. He knows his worth.”

  I let out a breath, shaking my head. I wasn’t sure what was more ridiculous—the fact that Bromm relied on a pig as an early warning system, or the fact that Bob seemed to know exactly what was being said about him. At this point, I decided to stop questioning it. We walked on, the silence stretching between us until another thought struck me.

  "So… are there different types of magic?"

  Bromm let out a low "Heh," as if I’d just asked if water was wet.

  “Oh, aye.” He scratched his beard. “Anything you can think of, there’s probably some school or cult devoted to it. If it exists, some mage somewhere is tryin’ to master it.”

  That was… an interesting thought. "So there’s no set system? No, like… categories?"

  Bromm rolled a hand. "Depends who ya’ ask. Scholars love to put magic in neat little boxes—arcane, divine, druidic, blood magic, necromancy, all that." He waved a hand dismissively. "But magic ain’t neat. It don’t care what name you give it. In practice, it’s messier. Magic is magic. It’s just a matter of how you use it—and what it costs you."

  That was way more open-ended than I expected. I glanced ahead, where the trees were starting to thin again, revealing a stone outcrop in the distance nestled among the mist and fungi-riddled terrain. I had a feeling we were getting close. And judging by Bob’s flicking ears, so did he. As we drew nearer, I could make out that the structure was built from stone, but not just any stone. The surface shimmered faintly in the dim light, as if dusted with crushed opal, lending it an almost ethereal glow. It wasn’t rough-hewn like the ruins I’d seen in games or fantasy novels—this stone looked like it had been melded together, smooth yet imperfect, as if shaped by something other than chisels and mortar.

  The wooden trimmings along the edges were warped and gnarled, blending into the surrounding trees like they had grown into the building rather than being placed there. Thick, green moss clung to the walls, creeping into the cracks and folds of the structure, softening its edges.

  The roof was a different matter entirely. Very large, very bright, very vibrant. Like…mushrooms? It had to be. The entire roof was covered in them—massive, thick-capped things that glowed with a faint bioluminescence. They were huge. At least the size of a yoga ball, if not bigger, their stems anchored deep into the moss-covered roof, as if they had always been part of the design. Their colors varied—some a deep, electric blue, others a rich crimson, their undersides pulsing faintly like living lanterns in the dim light.

  The house, up close, looked more organic than stone or wood—as if it had been grown rather than built, its walls shifting between natural elements like they couldn't quite settle on what they were supposed to be.

  But that wasn’t the oddest part.

  The oddest part, by far…

  Was the mage who was inside.

  Given how strange this house was, my attention—all of my attention—was on the noise coming from within the structure. The words I could make out weren’t just an argument. No, this was something else. Something much worse.

  A verbal execution.

  "BETRAYER!! SCOUNDREL!! I SHOULD UNMAKE YOU WHERE YOU STAND!—BUT NO, THAT WOULD BE TOO KIND! INSTEAD, I SHALL TURN YOUR BONES TO ASH, FEED THAT ASH TO A GOAT, AND THEN INSULT THE GOAT FOR EVEN ACCEPTING SUCH FILTH!"

  I leaned in closer—

  Mistake.

  Snap-

  A branch cracked under my foot—too loud, too sharp, too late.

  Silence.

  Then—a rustle. A flicker of movement.

  Before I could react, he was there.

  Five feet from my face.

  As fast as a whip.

  Pressed hard against the window—nose flattened against the glass.

  The mage stared—not just at me, but through me, like he was peeling back my existence layer by layer. His eye twitched. A slow, shuddering breath fogged the glass.

  The curtain behind him was still swaying.

  Proof that he had moved that fast.

  What… the fuck?

  My soul physically tried to leave my body.

  Bromm, who had already been making his way up to the door when all of this occurred, was now knocking—completely unfazed. Like this was normal. Like this was just another day in the Hollow.

  Stolen story; please report.

  As his knuckles rapped against the wood, I saw the mage peel himself away from the window. Slowly. Deliberately. His movements were stiff, almost unnatural, like a puppet whose strings had just been yanked in a new direction.

  Then, without breaking stride, he drifted over to the door.

  The latch clicked. The door swung open.

  And then—

  "Ohhh, Bromm… it’s you."

  He practically hissed the words, his tone dripping with condescension, with the same energy one might use upon discovering a roach in their favorite chalice. His nose wrinkled, his lips curled, and for a moment, it looked like he was debating whether or not he should smite Bromm where he stood.

  Then, through gritted teeth—

  "What do you need?!"

  Bromm, utterly unfazed by the dramatic display, adjusted his musket strap. “Oi, I figured you’d have some answers for the lad here. You see…” He jerked a thumb in my direction. “He was summoned.”

  A beat of silence.

  The mage’s gaze snapped to me—slowly, as if just now acknowledging my existence. His lip curled. His brow furrowed, his mouth twisting into something that sat firmly between disgust and mild inconvenience.

  “…Was he?”

  He said it flatly, with all the enthusiasm of someone being told their least favorite cousin had come to stay for a month.

  I swallowed.

  I had a feeling this was going to be a long conversation.

  "Well, what are you waiting for?? Come in!"

  The mage threw his arms wide—absurdly wide—like he was unveiling a king before a grand court.

  Bromm, still as unbothered as ever, stepped inside like this was just another casual visit. I followed, far less sure of what I was walking into.

  And what I walked into was chaos.

  The air smelled of burning herbs, something sharp and metallic, and a faint ozone tang—like the aftermath of a lightning strike. Shelves sagged under the weight of bottles filled with bubbling green liquid, their corks barely containing whatever eldritch chemistry sloshed inside. Parchment—so much parchment—was strewn across every available surface, covered in crude, frantic drawings.

  The drawings…

  I stepped closer, narrowing my eyes.

  A scrawny, twisted little creature, barely a foot tall—small enough to perch on a table, but drawn with a sense of wrongness that made it anything but harmless. The frantic, jagged strokes of ink exaggerated its wiry frame, its limbs almost skeletal, fingers ending in curved, claw-like tips. Deep, heavy shading made its body look shriveled, like something burned and left to wither.

  There wasn’t just one.

  There were dozens of these sketches—some inked in deep, jagged strokes, others half-finished, as if abandoned mid-thought. Some were tucked into bookshelves, some nailed haphazardly to the wooden beams, others crumpled and discarded on the floor, as if their very existence offended him.

  I tore my gaze away as the mage shooed Bromm and me toward a pair of rickety wooden chairs near a firepit, where embers pulsed with eerie greenish light.

  He stalked past us, muttering to himself, then turned on his heel, fixing me with another sharp glare.

  "Right. Let’s get one thing straight." He pointed a bony finger at me. "If I’m going to be burdened with your miserable questions, you can at least do me the courtesy of remembering my name."

  He straightened, sweeping his arms out in a dramatic, almost painfully rehearsed motion, as if he were revealing himself on the stage of some grand theater. The firelight cast wild shadows across his face as he tilted his chin upward, voice swelling with importance.

  "I am Veldrin…"

  He let the name linger, like it should mean something—like it should carry weight. Then, without missing a beat, he flourished a hand toward the ceiling and continued,

  "Master of the Arcane! Keeper of Forbidden Wisdom! Archmage of—"

  Bromm loudly cleared his throat.

  Veldrin’s eye twitched.

  A long pause.

  Then, much flatter, as if physically pained by the lack of spectacle—

  “…Veldrin will do.”

  Veldrin sat down opposite me, the rickety chair beneath him groaning in protest.

  He was a middle aged man who looked like a once-great wizard who had completely lost touch with reality, living half in madness, half in magic. His thin, wiry frame was draped in robes—if they could even be called that—a chaotic patchwork of scorched fabric, ink stains, and something that looked suspiciously like melted wax. The edges were frayed and uneven, like they had been chewed on, burned, or both.

  His hair—wild, unkempt, and streaked with premature gray—fell past his shoulders in uneven tufts, as if he had hacked at it in frustration and then simply given up. His beard, though less unruly, was just as neglected, its wiry strands creeping down his chest in tangled disarray.

  He was tall—unnervingly so—with limbs just slightly too long for comfort, giving him the awkward, looming presence of a marionette whose strings had been hastily reattached. His thin hands, lined with burns, ink smudges, and half-healed scratches, constantly twitched—fingers tapping, curling, as if plucking at invisible threads of magic no one else could see.

  And then there were his eyes—deep-set, ringed with shadows from years of either too much or too little sleep. They burned with a feverish intensity, darting between Bromm and me like a man perpetually on the verge of uncovering a grand conspiracy—or having a full-blown breakdown.

  He sat stiffly for a moment, then suddenly lurched forward too fast, elbows hitting the table with a loud thunk, his stare locking onto mine with disorienting intensity.

  "So… you were summoned? Tell me… everything."

  And that’s exactly what I did.

  I told them everything—how I had been working in my home office, how I had probably downed one too many espressos, and how my heart just gave out. How my cat, Mr. Bittles, was probably eating my face as we spoke.

  I tried—miserably—to explain what my job was and how computers worked, but after a few painful attempts, we all silently agreed to move on.

  Veldrin didn’t interrupt.

  He just stared, his fingers resting on his chin, his expression distant and unreadable. Every so often, he would let out a low, thoughtful mutter—

  "Hmmm."

  "Peculiar."

  "Yes… yes, quite odd indeed…"

  I wasn’t sure if he was actually processing what I was saying or just adding dramatic pauses for effect.

  But I kept going.

  Because for the first time since waking up in this world, I wasn’t just lost in my own head—I was saying my story out loud. And for once, I wasn’t alone. Bromm and Veldrin were listening.

  Maybe now, I could finally start to make sense of how I got here… and, hopefully, find some answers.

  So, I told them.

  About waking up in a world that wasn’t my own, stranded in a forest with no explanation. About meeting Bromm, nearly getting gored by Bob, and stumbling into a village that felt pulled straight from the kind of fantasy I had only ever read about.

  But more than anything—I told them about the scroll.

  The one I had found in my pack, bound in a twisted organic string that unraveled on its own the moment I touched it. The one that glowed with shifting blue-green light, as if the ink itself were alive. The one that spoke to me in words I could read, yet still felt foreign.

  Welcome, Summoned One.

  It had called me that. Summoned. Like I had been brought here for a reason. Like I had a purpose.

  Except… I didn’t.

  Because the next lines had said otherwise.

  Status: No Mark. No Chain. No Oath.

  I had no claim. No ties. No path laid out before me. Even the scroll itself had seemed confused by that fact, its words twisting in uncertainty before it finally concluded with a vague, almost dismissive statement—

  "Purpose is not given. It is chosen."

  And then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, it was gone.

  The moment I reached the end of the message, the parchment ignited in green fire—silent, smokeless, unnatural. It burned away in seconds, leaving no trace. No ash. No explanation.

  Only more questions.

  And as I sat there, retelling it all, watching Bromm’s deepening frown and Veldrin’s twitching gaze, I realized something.

  I wasn’t just lost. I was completely untethered. No past. No mark. No place in this world.

  And that scared me more than anything.

  For a long moment, the weight of my words settled between us, thick and suffocating.

  Then—

  A pebble whizzed through the air and smacked Veldrin square in the forehead

  "BAH!" He yelped, jerking upright like he’d been struck by divine judgment. His chair scraped loudly against the floor as he shot to his feet, one hand clutching his forehead, the other jabbing wildly behind me.

  "YOU BRING SHAME UPON YOUR FOUL LINEAGE!"

  Wait. What?

  I barely had time to process his words before I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye.

  I turned—and froze.

  There, perched on the cupboard like a smug little goblin king, was the creature from the sketches.

  Small. Wiry. Grinning ear to ear with sharp, jagged teeth. Its ember-like eyes glowed with pure, unfiltered mischief. A long, whip-thin tail flicked behind it, curling idly as it bounced another pebble in its clawed fingers.

  A demon. A trickster.

  An imp.

  I must have said it aloud, because before I could even react, Veldrin’s hands clamped onto my shoulders like a vice.

  His wild, half-mad eyes bored into mine, pupils blown wide with frantic, desperate intensity.

  "YOU CAN SEE HIM TOO?!?!" he shouted, his voice cracking between relief, rage, and sheer, unhinged disbelief.

  Then, as if the realization had physically struck him, his grip on my shoulders tightened, and his entire body seized with triumph.

  "IT WASN’T THE HOLLOW MADNESS!!!" he bellowed, practically shaking me.

  For half a second, I thought he might actually start crying. Or laughing. Or both.

  Instead, he spun on his heel, thrusting both arms skyward as if declaring his victory over reality itself.

  "I AM VINDICATED!"

  Behind him, the imp wiped a tear from its eye and let out a gleeful, cackling snort.