Phantom Hollow To breathe, to feel, to know I'm alive

Hunst listened, his pale eyes narrowing slightly as Alara spoke, her words weaving the intricate tapestry of their shared bloodline, their fractured past. Her warmth, her love—it was felt, but he remained stoic, his jaw set firm as though weighing the weight of her words against the cold northern wind that had long shaped him.

It’s our blood, aye, he said at last, his voice low and deliberate, the Northern cadence of his tongue lending his words an air of gravity. But blood alone doesn’t shape the future, Alara. It’s what we do with it—what we reclaim—that matters.

His gaze flicked briefly toward Reverie, shadowed and unreadable. There was no denying her place in this tangled web, and no denying Alara’s sharp warning. Yet, Hunst’s loyalty was not something easily unraveled, not even by the stormy conviction of his cousin.

Maybe the Sea-Snakes of old kept no alliances, he murmured, turning his eyes back to Alara, but they also kept no fear. If there’s ruin to come, then we’ll face it. War, we’ll carve our place within it. I’ve seen what serving others brings—it’s high tide the sea serves us.

Her challenge, her promise—it stirred something deep within him, the ember that had burned faint and unyielding since his youth. He nodded slowly, a flicker of determination cutting through the stoic mask.

Then we’ll see it through, he said, the words resolute, heavy with finality. To the sea, Alara. But first— His gaze sharpened, meeting hers with the weight of an unspoken bond. I finish the job. River trusted me. No matter how much you swoon beneath his feet.

A rare softness flickered across his features, barely perceptible, as he added, And you’re right—Sea-Snake is a name that will never be forgotten. Not while we’re here to carry it.