It was twilight on the edge of Embernight Hollow, where the wild thyme grew thick and the air always smelled faintly of old rain and something sweeter—like apples gone to wine. The children had not yet stepped into the deeper dark. Not yet.

Here, in a shallow clearing beneath the leaning yew trees, the four of them sat in a circle, masked and humming—practicing.

Not for school. Not for church. For something older.

A lullaby they’d all heard in dreams. A song with no words until they sang it.

The masks hummed along—not loudly, not in sound exactly, but with a weight in the chest, like air thickening before a storm.

MIRA (pausing mid-note, fox mask lifted slightly to scratch her nose): “Do we even know what we’re singing? Or are we just making it up and hoping the Hollow approves?”

CALLEN (still humming, not looking up, owl mask tilted toward the earth): “It’s not about knowing. The masks remember. We just follow where the melody pulls.”

ELI (grinning under his raven mask, tapping his foot in rhythm): “Mine likes it when I go sharp. Said it reminds it of funeral winds. Whatever that means.”

TESS (barely above a whisper, voice echoing unnaturally through their deer mask): “The Hollow listens when we’re honest. Not when we’re perfect.”

They sang again—soft and strange—a weaving of tones that didn’t quite match, yet somehow belonged. A song of roots and moonlight, of waiting things beneath stones and rain-soaked leaves.

The masks did not glow or shimmer. But the clearing itself seemed to hold its breath. The trees leaned in closer. Even the birds went quiet.