Chapter 5: The Hollow City
The storm broke near dawn, leaving the world hushed and glittering under a pale sun. Arno stood at the edge of a frozen stream, watching as the first rays of light fractured across the ice. His breath fogged in the air, each exhale carrying the metallic aftertaste of last night's borrowed power. The starlight had settled deeper now—not gone, but changed. When he flexed his fingers, the glow was fainter, the silver hue dulled to the color of old coins.
Downstream, Vey crouched by the water's edge, breaking the thick ice with sharp, efficient strikes from their dagger's pommel. The cracking sounds echoed unnaturally loud in the morning stillness. "We'll reach the Hollow City by nightfall," they said without looking up, their voice carrying clearly across the frozen expanse. They filled their waterskin with methodical precision, their gloved hands moving with the surety of someone who had performed this ritual a thousand times before. "If the bridges haven't collapsed into the gorge," they added, almost as an afterthought.
Arno knew the stories of the Hollow City, the kind told in hushed tones around dying campfires. Once, it had been a thriving trade hub where merchants from across the continent gathered to exchange goods and gossip. Then the great river changed course during some long-ago cataclysm, leaving its magnificent bridges spanning empty air, its docks overlooking dry land. Now it was a haven for those who preferred their pasts to remain forgotten – smugglers, deserters, fugitives from a dozen nations. And, if the rumors were true, people who had drawn from the Deck and lived to regret it.
The road worsened as they descended from the foothills, the packed snow giving way to patches of slick black ice. Vey moved with practiced ease, their boots finding purchase where Arno's slipped. He could see the ghost of their breath in the air, the way their shoulders tensed at every birdcall.
"You were one of them," Arno said suddenly.
Vey didn't slow their pace. "I was many things."
"The Cabal doesn't let people walk away."
This time, Vey stopped. They turned, the morning light catching the scar that ran from their temple to jawline—a wound that had come dangerously close to taking an eye. "No," they agreed softly. "They don't."
Finally, Vey turned back to the path, their movements deliberately casual. "The Hollow City has rules," they said, as if the previous conversation had never happened. "Don't mention the Cabal within earshot of strangers. Don't ask about why they built bridges over dry land. And if someone offers you a drink..." They paused, glancing back at Arno with a humorless smile. "Check the cup for scorpions first."
Arno's hand went instinctively to the hilt of his stolen dagger, the metal cold even through his gloves. "And the card?" he asked.
Vey's smile turned razor-thin. "Hide it better than you've been doing. There are people in that city who can sense such things from a mile away."
The city appeared as the sun dipped below the horizon, its crumbling towers and spiraling minarets silhouetted against a blood-red sky. The approach was guarded by the first of the legendary bridges – a massive stone arch spanning a gorge where no water had flowed in living memory. The bridge's surface was worn smooth by centuries of foot traffic, its sides strung with hundreds of rusted bells that chimed faintly in the evening breeze.
"Warning system," Vey muttered as they stepped onto the weathered stones. Their voice was barely above a whisper, as if afraid of disturbing something. "The hollow ones don't like surprises."
Arno's skin prickled as they moved forward. The starlight in his veins reacted to something – whether it was the bridge itself, the city beyond, or whatever watched from the shadows between buildings, he couldn't tell. The blank card grew warmer in response, pressing against his skin like a curious hand testing its boundaries. The sensation was neither entirely pleasant nor painful, but deeply unsettling, as if something alive and aware was shifting position beneath his ribs.
Halfway across, the bells fell silent all at once, as if someone had muffled them with an invisible hand. The sudden quiet was more unnerving than any noise could have been.
A figure emerged from the far end of the bridge, their form wrapped in layer upon layer of tattered silks that fluttered like moth wings in the still air. Their face was hidden behind a porcelain mask painted with a single black teardrop beneath the left eye. When they spoke, their voice echoed strangely in the gorge, as if coming from multiple directions at once.
"Toll for passage," the figure intoned, extending a hand wrapped in yellowed bandages.
Vey sighed and produced a silver coin from their sleeve with the practiced ease of someone who had performed this ritual before. "For the bridgekeeper," they said, placing the coin in the outstretched palm.
The masked head tilted to one side, the movement eerily birdlike. "And for the hollow ones?" The question hung in the air between them, heavy with unspoken meaning.
Vey hesitated, and in that moment, Arno felt it – a sudden shift in the air, a change in pressure that made his ears pop. The starlight in his blood flared brighter, sending silver streaks across his vision. The card pulsed once, hard enough to make him gasp, its heat suddenly intense enough that he half-expected to see smoke rising from his clothes.
The bridgekeeper went very, very still. After a long moment, they leaned forward, the porcelain mask inches from Arno's face. Though he couldn't see their eyes, he felt the weight of their gaze like a physical pressure.
"Ah," they whispered, the word carrying a note of something like reverence. "You brought payment after all."
The Hollow City smelled of wet stone and old smoke, with an underlying current of something less definable – something metallic and sweet that clung to the back of Arno's throat. Narrow streets wound between leaning buildings, their upper stories connected by a network of rope bridges that swayed ominously in the gathering darkness. Few lanterns burned in the windows; those who lived here clearly preferred the shadows.
Vey led them through the twisting alleys with the confidence of someone who had walked these streets before, their footsteps sure despite the uneven cobblestones. They paused occasionally, glancing back the way they'd come or studying the rooftops with narrowed eyes. Arno didn't need to ask why – the feeling of being watched was palpable, like invisible fingers tracing the nape of his neck.
Their destination was a tavern called The Severed Hand, its sign creaking in the wind. The carved wooden hand above the door was missing two fingers, the remaining ones curled into a gesture that might have been a benediction or a threat.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of spiced wine and the underlying musk of unwashed bodies. A dozen patrons hunched over their drinks at rough-hewn tables, their faces hidden in shadow. The conversation died as they entered, then resumed at a lower volume, the words indistinct but the tone unmistakably wary.
"You feel that?" Vey murmured as they claimed a corner table with a clear view of both doors. Their fingers drummed a restless rhythm on the scarred wood.
Arno did. The card was practically vibrating against his chest now, its heat verging on painful. The starlight in his veins surged in response, making his vision swim with silver streaks and casting strange halos around the candle flames. Across the room, a man with unnaturally black eyes – no whites, no iris, just pools of endless darkness – watched them over the rim of his cup. When he smiled, his teeth were filed to sharp points.
The pair sat down at the bar.
Vey's hand found their dagger under the table. "We're not staying long," they muttered to the barkeep, their gaze never leaving the black-eyed man.
Before Arno could respond, the tavern door creaked open. The bridgekeeper stood framed in the doorway, their porcelain mask gleaming in the firelight. The room fell silent, all eyes turning toward the newcomer.
"The hollow ones remember you, Arno of the Blank Card," the bridgekeeper intoned, their voice carrying through the sudden silence. They took a step forward, then another, their tattered silks whispering against the floorboards. "They ask – what will you draw next?"
Every eye in the tavern turned toward them. The card burned like a brand against Arno's skin, its heat so intense now he feared it might actually set his clothes aflame. His vision swam with silver light, the starlight in his blood reacting to something he couldn't see, something just beyond the edges of perception.
Vey stood slowly, their chair scraping against the floor. "Time to go," they said, their voice tight with tension.
Outside, the bridge bells began to ring – not their usual random chiming, but a rhythmic, almost deliberate pattern that sent a shiver down Arno's spine.
As they backed toward the rear exit, the black-eyed man rose from his table, his smile widening to impossible proportions. "The Cabal sends its regards," he called after them, his voice like oil on water.
Then they were running, plunging into the maze of alleyways as the bells grew louder behind them, their peals taking on an almost eager quality, as if heralding something terrible and wonderful about to be born.