Black Hollow was not on any map worth trusting.

  Nestled against the poisoned edge of the Fog Forest, it survived only because nothing else wanted it. The soil was bitter, the water metallic, and the beasts that wandered too close often bore signs of corruption—extra eyes, warped limbs, warped instincts.

  Lysara grew up among these things.

  She learned early how to tell which mushrooms would kill you slowly and which would kill you fast. She learned to keep her back to trees, to listen for silence instead of sound, and to never assume something dead was truly gone.

  Her mother, Salinne, Black Hollow’s healer, half Shae born.

  Where her mother taught her how to listen and trust the forest, Valos taught Lysara the rest.

  He was an old alchemist who had passed through Black Hollow decades earlier and never left. Some said he was hiding. Others said he was waiting for something to end him.

  Lysara suspected both were true.

  With a sharp push, Lysara shoved open Valos’s door.

  The old alchemist didn’t look up.

  He was hunched over a cluttered table of parchment and vials—bushy brows pulled low, muttering curses at a stubborn alchemical rune. A half-empty bottle of bitter liquor slumped at his elbow.

  “You’re late,” he grunted. “Expected you before nightfall.”

  “I know.” Lysara dropped her satchel on the table. “Something’s wrong tonight.”

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  “Girl,” Valos rasped, finally lifting his gaze to her, “something’s always wrong in this town.”

  His eyes narrowed sharply.

  “…Your damn hair dye’s fading again.”

  She touched her hair instinctively. The moonlit sheen was back—bright, impossible to hide.

  “And your eyes…” He squinted. “Potion’s wearing off. Anyone with enough wit to stand upright will notice.”

  Lysara’s shoulders sagged.

  Valos clicked his tongue—annoyed, but worried beneath it.

  “I told you this would happen. You can’t hide forever.”

  “I’m trying,” she whispered. “But the corruption—”

  He waved a dismissive hand. “Damn shadow’s trying to swallow you again, isn’t it.”

  She looked away.

  His jaw tightened. He sighed—long, exhausted, older than the room around him.

  “Lysara… you’re not meant for this cesspit. Black Hollow chews up anything rare. And it’s starting to sniff around you.”

  Her chest tightened. He wasn’t wrong.

  “I can’t just leave you here,” she said softly.

  Valos snorted. “I’m a half-crippled old alchemist living off rotgut and spite. I’ll manage. You won’t.”

  He shoved a sealed letter toward her.

  She blinked. “What is this?”

  “A recommendation,” he grunted. “For the Academy in the Kingdom of Thalorien. And before you ask—yes, they accepted.”

  She stared.

  “Valos… how did you—?”

  “I bribed three colleagues, forged two seals, and blackmailed a librarian,” he said proudly. “Point is you’re in.”

  Lysara’s breath trembled.

  The Thalorien Academy.

  A place with real arcane libraries.

  Real knowledge.

  Maybe—if she dared—a place to learn how to heal herself.

  Valos softened—barely.

  “You really want me to go,” she whispered.

  “I want you to live.” His voice cracked like old wood. “Your mother died wishing for that.”

  Lysara lowered her head.

  The ache returned.

  “Valos,” she murmured, “someone followed me tonight.”

  His expression darkened instantly.

  “They’ll try again,” he said. “And next time, they’ll bring enough men to bury half the Hollow. Pretty girls with rare bloodlines fetch high prices outside Thalorien.”

  She swallowed.

  “So… I leave tonight.”

  “Good girl.” He turned back to his desk. “And Lysara—be careful.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good. Now go before the scum take more notice of you.”

  Lysara stepped out into the silence.

  Leaving Black Hollow might save her life.

  But whatever waited in Thalorien…

  …would change it forever.