Ashes Beneath Hollowspire - Part 2

The next morning broke with a sky the color of old slate. Clouds churned above Hollowspire like a wounded beast trapped beneath the heavens, restless and clawing. The town sat under that bruised sky like a secret buried too shallow, its edges rimmed in blackened shale and the mine yawning open like a throat carved into the earth. Its scaffolds groaned under their own weight, reinforced with etched sigils that shimmered faintly in the shifting light. No workers moved among them. No carts rolled over the gravel paths. The mine was not abandoned, but it had long stopped belonging to the living.

In the quiet upper floor of their inn, Elira stood in a beam of dust-flecked light, her silhouette wrapped in flame-hued fabric. Her hands moved with rhythmic precision, weaving tendrils of magic through the air, glowing embers tracing sigils of listening and translation. Her eyes narrowed in concentration.

“The rhythm beneath us hasn’t stopped,” she murmured. “It’s stronger now. More defined. Not just passive resonance.”

Vaelin leaned at the window, arms folded as he watched the mine's black mouth. The glass beneath his hand felt unnaturally cold. “What is it, then?”

“Communication,” she said. “Like something trapped... knocking.”

“Trying to speak.”

Tovik lounged nearby on a fraying armchair that had seen too many guests and not enough repairs. He bit into a cold apple with theatrical disapproval. “Well, I vote it asks for help in less creepy ways. Maybe send us a polite letter instead of humming through the dirt like a cursed lullaby.”

The trio left their room as fog thickened along the narrow streets, curling low like breath from the stone itself. The townsfolk were out, but not alive with purpose. Faces glanced up, then away. Children crouched near doorsteps, drawing patterns in the dust. One girl had carved a complete containment glyph, Elira’s breath caught. It wasn’t just imitation. The lines were perfect.

They reached the mayor’s office, a square structure that rose above the others like a pawn pretending to be a king. The stonework was too new in places, the foundation reinforced with sigil-burned anchors. It was a building pretending to belong.

Inside, the air changed. It felt edited. The fire in the hearth burned too evenly. The furniture had been arranged for conversation, not comfort. Every book was placed with intentional care, spines outward, pages uncracked.

The mayor stood behind his desk as if rehearsed. Broad-shouldered, dark-haired, his face worn with practiced warmth. He looked not like a man, but like the memory of one.

“Master DuMonte,” he said to Tovik, voice honeyed with recognition. “Or do you still go by Redmire?”

Tovik’s mouth opened before he could think. Then shut. Then curled into a grin sharp enough to cut silk. “Depends on who’s asking, and how good the wine is.”

The mayor smiled, and it didn’t reach his eyes. He opened a drawer and placed a book on the desk, red leather, gold-leafed title gleaming like blood under sunlight.

The DuMonte Lineage: Southern Branch.

Elira leaned forward, magic twitching at her fingertips. Tovik opened the volume and froze. Not in fear. In recognition. Not of truth, but of detail.

The pages were thick and parchment-scented, filled with ornate illustrations and noble crests. But one image stopped them cold: a younger version of Tovik, drawn with impossible familiarity. Labeled Tovik DuMonte, heir to the southern Hollowspire claim. The text told of a duel in Bracken Hollow, an affair with a scandalous noble’s daughter, exile, and return. His handwriting signed one of the journal entries.

Vaelin’s tone was stone-cut. “How old is this book?”

“Two centuries,” the mayor said, “though the last two chapters were added in the last few years. Since the mine reopened.”

Tovik closed the book slowly, deliberately. “That’s quite a fiction you’ve printed.”

“Is it?” The mayor’s smile sharpened. “The temple responded to your presence. The constructs bent their knee to the DuMonte name. That name has power in this place.”

Elira stepped forward, the light in her eyes no longer soft. “You didn’t just dig through stone. You cracked open memory. Something buried. Something meant to stay buried.”

“Danger and legacy,” the mayor replied, “walk the same corridor.”

“Legacy is no substitute for truth,” Vaelin said.

“Truth is fragile,” the mayor replied. “Belief? Belief is immortal.”

They left in silence, boots echoing off the stone like distant drums. The wind had changed. It now smelled faintly of sulfur and parchment—like something trying to burn a story into the air.

Back at the inn, Elira laid the book on their table. Her hands hovered over the image of Tovik.

“It’s memory magic,” she said at last. “Recursive. Reinforced by belief. This town doesn’t just think you’re a DuMonte. It remembers you as one.”

Tovik sat down heavily. “The more I let it play out, the more I feel it pulling me in. It’s seductive, really. Respect. Inheritance. Legacy. All the things I pretend to be... offered like a crown.”

Vaelin knelt beside him, voice low and steady. “But you didn’t write this script. And we’re not letting it end you.”

A low rumble trembled through the floorboards. It vibrated the walls, setting Elira’s sigils flickering.

She looked up. “The tempo shifted again.”

This time, it wasn’t a knock.

It was a gaze.