There are names you are not meant to speak.
Not because they are forbidden, but because they are empty.
Names that once belonged to people who no longer exist, or perhaps never did.

Long ago, a circle of voices gathered in a ruined chapel.
They began with prayers, but the prayers twisted, each word echoing as if answered.
They weren’t.
The hollow itself had begun to respond.

From that night forward, they called it the “Caller of Hollow Names” and it became a ritual of desperation.
You whisper the names of those forgotten, and something answers in their place.
It never speaks clearly.

They say those who wear this oath-marked garment at night feel a weight, a weird air around them. Like someone or something is trying to speak a name they shouldn’t know. 
And if you listen carefully… sometimes, it’s your own.

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