Malrik sat in the middle of the forest, where the earth was cold and the wind hot. Yet, he wasn’t truly present anymore. He was in contact with his ancestors, and their weight pressed heavily on his shoulders, dragging his consciousness down through the soil and through the years. The sounds of the forest faded into a nursery rhyme he hadn’t heard in decades.

Suddenly, the hands feeling the dirt were not large and scarred, but small and soft. He was ten years old again, hiding in the shadows of his father’s privy chamber, listening to words he shouldn’t have. His father, King Lucien, and his mother, Queen Elowen, were speaking. King Lucien, with his hand firmly placed on the table, said, "We have to make sure Malrik never finds out about his true self. We have to hide it from him."

Queen Elowen, her face etched with worry and her eyes filled with fear, replied, "Yes, my king." King Lucien turned to her and said, "You will need to destroy that scroll. Burn it."

Malrik, who had been hiding, began sweating profusely. His hands shook as he covered his mouth to stifle any sound, desperate not to be heard by the king and queen. King Lucien looked down at the table and said, "Why did she have to send this scroll after ten years? We made a deal that she would never come back or reveal herself. This could ruin my reputation and my life." Tears began to drop onto the table as Queen Elowen held his shoulder. "My king, everything will be fine. I shall love Malrik to the extent that he will never think I am not his mother."

"I shouldn’t have gone for that royal pilgrimage," King Lucien lamented. "If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have seen her and fallen for her temptation. I was drunk, Elowen. I wasn’t in my right senses. I had no idea she was a Hollow Walker. It is as much an abomination to mate with a human as it is with a Hollow Walker. I will be doomed, and so will my kingdom."

Queen Elowen said, "No, I will not let this kingdom go down. I shall take care of this, your highness. You don’t need to worry. She has no right to threaten us this way." King Lucien looked at her and asked, "What will you do?"

She placed her hand on his head and gently caressed it. "You don’t have to worry, my king. I will take care of this mistake you have made."

Malrik stared at them, his eyes blank, silently repeating to himself, "Scroll. I have to find that scroll. They can’t burn it." He lowered his head but wondered, "Where is it?"

King Lucien asked, "Where is the scroll? Where have you kept it?" Malrik raised his head and widened his eyes as she replied, "It is in my bedchamber. I came to you as soon as I read it, but I left it there."

King Lucien stood up straight and said, "Won’t someone find it and read it?" She smiled and replied, "No one enters my bedchamber without my permission, your highness."

As she leaned in, her focus entirely on the broken king, Malrik saw his opportunity. He didn’t breathe. He pressed his back against the cold stone wall and slid inch by inch toward the heavy oak door. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird, but he forced his feet to be light—footsteps learned from years of playing where he shouldn’t.

He slipped through the narrow gap of the door just as a heavy sob broke from his father’s throat, the sound masking the faint click of the latch. He was out.

The hallway felt miles long—the shadows stretching like claws. He knew he had mere seconds before the queen left to "take care" of the evidence. He turned toward the West Wing—toward the Queen’s private bedchamber.

Every instinct told him to run, but he kept to the velvet rugs to muffle his pace. He reached her door and didn’t hesitate; he pushed inside. The room was dim, lit only by the dying embers in the hearth. He went straight for her vanity, his small hands trembling as he tossed aside silk scarves and jars of cream.

Then he saw it—not on the table, but tucked inside a hollowed-out book near her bedside. It didn’t look like royal parchment; it looked like old skin, wrapped in a cord of braided hair. His hands trembled as he held it, his face covered with sweat, his throat dry, and his knees shaky. He carefully unbraided the hair and opened the scroll slowly, gulping hard as it felt like pins were in his throat. The words on the scroll looked foreign to Malrik; the handwriting was messy, as though it had been written in a rush.

"To Their Majesties, King Lucien and Queen Elowen of Silverclaw Palace,

I understand that I previously stated I would not interfere in my son’s life to protect the king’s reputation, but I must see my son. Our kind is on the brink of extinction; we are down to just five of us now. Malrik has the potential to continue the legacy of the Hollow Walkers, and I need him with me, Your Highnesses.

There is a young girl, the same age as Malrik, whose parents died during their travels. I have taken her in, and if she is betrothed to Malrik, they may marry when the time is right, which could help prevent the extinction of our people. I appeal to you, King and Queen, for your assistance. This letter is an act of desperation.

I am ill and do not have much time left. I need to see my son, to know what he looks like now. Malrik must learn who he is as a Hollow Walker, the creators of the ancient art known as Mourn Root. He needs to master his powers, and I assure you, if you help him, he will help your kingdom flourish.

As you read this letter, I kindly request a reply. I will send the girl to you so that they can be betrothed at this young age, awaiting the right time to marry and unite. I do not wish to use threats, but I will do whatever it takes to ensure my race does not vanish.

We live in the Silverclaw pack, close to the northern border. If it is more convenient, you may come to visit us instead of having me come to the palace, so that I can see my son one last time.

Sincerely,

Astrid, the woman with no dignity

...

Malrik’s hands hovered around the name as he mouthed it. Suddenly, he heard the sound of the queen’s heels approaching, so he quickly rolled up the scroll and hid it, running out of her room just seconds before she entered. Peeking in from the doorway, he watched her walk towards the scroll and set it on fire. Malrik stood there, transfixed.

As night fell, the atmosphere felt different, as if the air was aware of something unsaid. The queen climbed into a carriage, and Malrik, feeling scared and uncomfortable, hid inside it. The ride was long; the northern borders were far from the palace. The air felt thick as the queen sat rigidly, as if resolute about whatever she planned to do.

The carriage finally stopped in front of a hut after the coachman asked several questions to the locals about a woman named Astrid. The queen stepped out and walked towards the door, a guard following close behind her. He knocked, and when the door opened, Malrik peered out and saw Astrid smiling weakly, with a little girl standing beside her. Malrik leaned out further, but when the little girl spotted him, he quickly pulled his head back into the carriage.

Unable to hear their conversation, he peeked out again, but the girl was no longer looking in his direction. As he tried to come down and hide, he saw the queen extend her hands, her claws elongating to a terrifying length. She pierced Astrid’s neck, dragging her fingers down her throat as Astrid gagged. The little girl screamed, and Malrik’s eyes widened in horror as he watched his real mother fall to the ground, struggling to breathe. The little girl began to cry beside Astrid, whose blood pooled around her. The queen’s fingers were stained red, and the man beside her handed her a cloth, which she used to wipe her hands.

Turning back towards the carriage, the queen spoke to the guard as she walked towards it and climbed inside. The guard then poured a liquid around the house and set it ablaze. Malrik couldn’t believe his eyes; he trembled in horror as the house burned, the little girl still screaming, unable to escape.

The guard got into the carriage and it rode away. Malrik, still in the bush, walked out slowly as he saw the house burning. What rolled down his cheeks were not tears but thick red blood.