Page 3 of Hollowed

But she pushed me.

Hard.

I stumbled forward, the oil making my feet slip. The doors opened ahead of me with the wind. Smoke rushed out like a mouth inhaling. I choked. My knees hit the threshold.

I looked back.

They stood in perfect formation one moment—a line of shadows witnessing my fate.

Then, like smoke inhaled by stone, they vanished. Not one by one. All at once. As if the corridor itself swallowed them whole.

She was gone.They wereallgone.

The doors closed.

And I was alone.

Except for the fire.

It reached for me like it knew me. It curled around the altar, licked the stone, tasted the remnants of the girls who had been made holy before me. The heat slapped my face. My vision blurred. The veil began to smolder.

I turned my head, shielding my eyes.

And still I did not move.

I waited for the burn.

I waited for God.

I waited for someone to call me by name.

But all that came was heat.

And behind it?—

Something else.

Not voice. Not shadow.

A presence.

Waiting.

The silk went first.

A hiss. A snap. A flare.

It lit at the hem and traveled upward like a verdict. The oil made it fast. Hungry. Ribbons of red twisted into flame, devoured my legs in seconds. I screamed. Not because of the fire.

Because of the sound of it.

Because it sounded like something being born.

The heat hit my skin, then my scalp. The ends of my hair curled and burned, the bitter smell curling up into my throat. I screamed and clawed at the wrap, hands shaking, nails splitting against soaked fabric. I ripped it from my thighs, from my chest, from my arms, until I stood half-naked, covered in oil and smoke and sweat.

Alive.

Not untouched. But not dead.

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