Chapter 1
Chapter 1: Sorrel – The Mark Sings of Rust
I feel it in my bones before I see it in the land.
The mark on my palm—silver veins that branch like riverbeds—throbs with a sound I can only describe as rust. Not the sharp scrape of metal on metal, but the slow, hungry crumble of something once strong turning to dust. I press my hand flat against the cool stone of the Weave-Spring, where water bubbles up from deep below the Hollow, and the rust-song gets louder.
The Glimmer Hollow isn’t a place you find by accident. It lives tucked between a maze of limestone caves and a grove where glow-fungus drapes from every branch like pale gold curtains. For as long as my people have known it, the Hollow has held the veil thin—thin enough that magic breathes the same air as rain, thin enough that humans walk right past without seeing us. But that thinness is fraying.
I cup my hands in the Weave-Spring. The water should be clear as glass, warm as sunlight on skin. Today it’s murky, cold as river ice. A drop rolls down my wrist and leaves a brown stain that won’t wash off.
“Told you it was off.”
I look up to find a flash of green and gold zipping through the air—Zeph, a glimmer-folk no bigger than my thumb. Their wings aren’t like dragonfly wings; they’re made of the same stuff as the glow-fungus, and when they beat, they leave trails of soft light that fade like breath on glass. Glimmer-folk don’t guard the Hollow—they weave it. Every thread of magic that hides us is spun from their wings and their will.
“The Weave’s coming loose,” I say, my voice quiet enough that only Zeph can hear it over the drip of the spring. “Not just the Spring. The Circle-Stones are cold to the touch, and the fungus is dimming. If it goes out entirely… humans will see. And whatever’s bleeding into our world will come faster.”
Zeph lands on my shoulder, their tiny fingers gripping my cloak. “Saw him last night. The Moon-Blessed one. Pacing the edge of the grove like he’s trying to outrun his own shadow. He can feel it too.”
I know who they mean. Kael. The one who changes with the moon’s pull, but not in the way stories say. He doesn’t turn into a beast of rage—he becomes something older, something tied to the earth itself. But late , I’ve heard him howl, and it’s not a sound of anger. It’s a sound of loss.
