Desperation drives Lady Alianor beyond Hawksmere’s walls, out into the sodden wilderness where the path dwindles into marsh and shadow. Each step into the Hollow feels like trespass, the air thick with whispers and warnings, as though the very forest conspires against her. Branches drip with rain, roots twist like snares, and the silence presses close, as suffocating as any dungeon. Yet for the sake of her maid Bess, Alianor pushes forward, deeper into the forbidden wilds.

At last, through mist and smoke, the stillness is broken — a rhythm, deliberate and heavy. The thud of a mallet. The sight of a charcoal mound glowing faintly through the haze. And there, in the clearing, stands the figure whispered of in hushed tones at firesides and in kitchens: Eamon Thorne, the outlaw of the Hollow. In that moment, the tales become flesh, and Alianor’s fate teeters on the edge of the unknown. Man, monster, or both? The Hollow has given up its secret — and it stares directly into her soul.