The air in Vaelris always tasted bitter when the Dream Beacon pulsed. Kyren leaned against the cracked wall of their apartment, the damp stone cold against his back, and watched the city flare with sickly blue light through the window. The pulse came every evening, a low thrum that sank into your bones and stole a piece of your soul—if you had one to give. Kyren didn't. He was Hollow, and the Beacon's hunger passed him over like a shadow skipping a barren rock.
Inside their one-room home, his mother, Lirra, stirred a pot of root stew over a stuttering flame. Her hands, once steady enough to weave baskets sold at the fringe market, trembled now, her knuckles pale. She winced as the Beacon's pulse hit, a ripple of psychic static that made the air hum. "Stronger tonight," she muttered, voice thin as thread. "They're taking too much."
Kyren's father, Torren, sat at the table, carving a wooden charm - a bird, wings half-formed, meant to fetch a few coins. His knife slipped, nicking his thumb, and he cursed under his breath. "Shortages again," he growled, sucking the blood from his finger. "Beacon's failing, and they'll drain us dry before they admit it."
Kyren's stomach twisted, a familiar ache that had nothing to do with hunger. He was sixteen, old enough to know the weight of their stares—neighbors, merchants, even children who spat "Hollow" like a curse.
His parents bore the shame of raising a son who couldn't dream, couldn't fuel the Beacon, couldn't be anything but a burden. He clenched his fists, nails biting his palms, and tried to push the thought away. It always came back.
"Kyren," Lirra said, catching his gaze. Her eyes, gray as storm clouds, softened despite the fatigue etching lines into her face. "Stop brooding. You're here. That's enough."
It wasn't. He saw the way she moved, slower each day, her spark dimming under the Beacon's pull. Torren, too, was fading—his broad shoulders hunched, his temper sharper. They'd been weavers once, respected in a better district, before Kyren's accident. Now they lived on the city's edge, where the Beacon's light flickered, and Shrouded Realms crept close enough to whisper.
Kyren forced a nod, his throat tight. "I'm fine, Ma." A lie, but one they all told. He pushed off the wall and crossed to the window, a warped pane barely holding back the dusk. Outside, Vaelris sprawled in a tangle of stone and iron, its rooftops jagged under the Beacon's glow. The spire loomed at the city's heart, a needle of black stone crowned with a crystal that pulsed like a dying star. Beyond it, the horizon shimmered, a haze where reality frayed, and the Shroud waited.
He'd heard the stories - everyone had.
The Shroud was a plague of broken dreams, birthing realms where time twisted and truth turned to ash. The Beacon kept it at bay, burning the dream essence of prisoners, and agents mostly. But, when shortages hit... anyone could be unlucky enough to be called by the directorate. Kyren had seen the aftermath of those who were siphoned stumble through the streets, eyes vacant, voices slurred, as if half their soul had been carved out. His parents would be next if the shortages worsened. And he could do nothing but watch.
Torren dropped his knife again, the clatter sharp in the quiet. "Kyren, fetch the lamp. Can't see a damn thing."
Kyren moved to the shelf, grabbing the oil lamp, its glass smudged with years of use. As he lit it, the Beacon pulsed again, harder this time, and Lirra gasped, clutching her chest stifling a coughing fit. Torren's hands froze, his face paling, and the air grew thick, heavy with something more than static. A whisper curled through Kyren's mind, not sound but thought, sharp and cold: You are not empty.
He froze, the lamp trembling in his grip. The voice wasn't his parents'. It wasn't human. His wrist prickled, a faint heat pulsing beneath his skin, there and gone before he could look. The lamp's flame flickered, casting shadows that seemed to writhe, and for a heartbeat, he swore he saw eyes in the dark beyond the window.
"Kyren?" Torren's voice cut through, rough with worry. "Boy, you alright?"
Kyren blinked, the whisper fading, the heat gone. He set the lamp on the table, forcing his hands to steady. "Yeah," he said, voice hoarse. "Just… tired."
Lirra frowned, her gaze lingering, but she said nothing. The Beacon's light steadied outside, its pulse fading, and the air lightened, the whisper gone. But Kyren's heart pounded, a rhythm that felt too loud, too alive. Something was watching him.
He turned back to the window, staring into the dusk. The Shroud was out there, waiting, and for the first time in years, Kyren felt a spark of fear - not for his family, but for himself. Hollows didn't hear whispers. Hollows didn't feel anything at the Dream Beacon's pulse. So what was that?