Shadows Of Gotham

The Hollow wasn't supposed to look like much.

A crack in the earth. A wound that bled shadow and cold air. Barely noticeable if you didn't know what you were looking for.

But after taking her power, it howled.

Amora stood at the edge of the chasm, hood pulled low, her breath catching as the ground seemed to hum beneath her feet. Shadows slithered along the edge like fingers stretching toward her, familiar yet foreign. Her stomach twisted.

The Hollow was wider now. The last time they'd been here, it had been barely large enough to drain her magic. Now it yawned, as if it had tasted her power and wanted more.

A chill ran up her spine.

She stepped closer.

The wind coming from within wasn't just cold—it reeked of death and rot and old, terrible things that shouldn't have had names. Her fingers tightened on the hilt of her dagger. It wasn't fear of the dark. It was the knowledge that this wasn't just shadow.

This was Tartarus.

Every demigod at camp had grown up with horror stories. Of the endless pit beneath the Underworld. Of monsters crawling along ceilings and walls. Of Titans trapped there, still half-sentient with rage. Of the way time twisted and the ground breathed and even your thoughts could betray you.

Luke used to joke that even gods didn't dare go there.

And here she was. About to walk into it alone.

She should be scared. And she was.

But she was also done waiting.

Annabeth was her friend. Her family. And Amora had let her be taken. She was supposed to protect her—wasn't that what she'd come to Gotham for? A second chance? A way to stop hurting people?

And now the only people who mattered were slipping through her fingers.

The shadows at her feet stirred restlessly, reacting to her pulse. She closed her eyes and took a slow breath, trying to center herself. But instead of calming, her mind whispered Go. Now. Before they stop you. Before you stop yourself.

She crouched at the edge of the chasm.

A faint red light pulsed far, far below, like a heartbeat deep in the earth.

The descent would be instant. One jump. And everything would change.

"Annabeth," she whispered. "Hold on."

Then, without another word, Amora stepped off the ledge—

—and let the Hollow swallow her whole.

The fall didn't feel like falling.

It felt like unraveling.

One moment Amora was stepping into the Hollow, shadows reaching toward her like strands of silk tugged by some ancient current. The next, the ground vanished beneath her and she plummeted through a darkness thicker than death. There was no wind, no sound—only weightlessness and cold. Her scream was swallowed instantly.

She didn't know how long she was falling. Time didn't work properly here. It twisted and folded in on itself. Minutes could stretch into hours. Hours could pass like seconds.

Then—impact.

Her body hit the ground with a jolt that should've shattered every bone in her frame. But it didn't. The shadows around her flared at the last second, instinctive and sharp, catching her like a cushion of obsidian silk. Still, the breath punched out of her chest, and for a long moment she lay there in the dust of Tartarus, eyes closed, heart hammering, trying to remember how to move.