The forest breathed around them—a slow, sickly rhythm of wind through dead leaves.

  Liraeth’s fingers ached around the staff. Its light had dimmed, but the sigils still pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat fading from a wound. Beside her, Sorin knelt in the dirt, his dagger abandoned beside him. His breaths came too fast, his shoulders rigid as if braced against an invisible weight.

  The Exiled One didn’t sheathe his sword. His gaze cut through the darkness, tracking the shadows that twitched at the edges of the clearing. "They’ll follow the echo’s trail," he said, voice low. "We have until dawn."

  Sorin’s laugh was a broken thing. "To do what? Run?" He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, his scars flickering gold beneath his sleeves. "It called me a thief."

  Liraeth’s stomach twisted. The word had slithered into her bones, too—You promised me a world, thief—but it was the other voice that haunted her. The whisper of a name she shouldn’t know.

  Aeris.

  She crouched beside Sorin, her knee brushing his. The contact made him flinch, but he didn’t pull away. "What did it mean?" she asked softly.

  His jaw worked. For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t answer. Then—

  "The Hollow King stole something." His voice was raw. "From the gods. From the world. I don’t—" His fingers flexed, as if grasping for a memory just out of reach. "I don’t know what."

  The Exiled One went very still.

  Liraeth studied his masked face, the way his grip tightened on his sword. He knows. But before she could demand answers, a sound cut through the night—a distant, shuddering wail, like metal scraping against bone.

  The trees trembled.

  Sorin was on his feet in an instant, dagger reclaimed. "We need to move."

  The Exiled One nodded toward the northern treeline. "Sunspire’s ruins are a day’s march. The Watchers won’t cross its threshold."

  "Because of the staff?" Liraeth asked.

  "Because of you." He turned away, but not before she caught the shift in his posture—the barest tension in his shoulders, like a man bracing for a blow. "Daughter of the Last Sun."

  The title settled over her like a shroud.

  Sorin’s gaze burned into her back as they broke camp, his silence louder than any accusation. She could feel the question coiled in the air between them: How much do you remember?

  She wished she had an answer.

  The forest grew denser as they fled, the canopy choking out the moonlight. Liraeth’s staff lit their path, its glow painting the trees in sickly gold. Every rustle of leaves, every snap of a twig, sent her pulse skittering. The echo’s words clung to her, thorned and persistent.

  Find me, Aeris.

  A branch cracked behind them.

  Sorin spun, dagger raised—but it was only a fox, its eyes reflecting the staff’s light before it vanished into the underbrush. He exhaled sharply, his free hand rubbing at his chest as if soothing an old ache.

  "You’ve heard that voice before," Liraeth said quietly.

  His fingers stilled. "In dreams." A muscle jumped in his jaw. "It’s always the same. A throne. A crown. And—" He cut himself off, shaking his head. "It doesn’t matter."

  Liar. But she didn’t press. The shadows between the trees were too deep, the night too full of teeth.

  The Exiled One led them to a shallow ravine, its sides slick with moss. "Here," he said, gesturing to a crevice half-hidden by ferns. "We rest until first light."

  Sorin didn’t argue. He slumped against the stone, his head tipping back. In the dim light, the hollows beneath his eyes looked bruised.

  Liraeth hesitated, then sat beside him. The staff’s glow guttered as she set it across her knees, its warmth seeping into her skin. She traced the handprint again—her handprint, from a life she couldn’t recall.

  The Exiled One kept watch at the ravine’s edge, his sword resting across his lap. After a moment, he spoke, his voice barely audible over the wind.

  "The Hollow King didn’t just steal from the gods." He didn’t look at them. "He stole time."

  Sorin went rigid.

  Liraeth’s breath caught. "What does that mean?"

  The Exiled One’s mask tilted toward the sky, where the first pale streaks of dawn kissed the horizon. "It means the echoes aren’t chasing us." His fingers brushed his sword’s hilt. "They’re herding us."

  A chill prickled down Liraeth’s spine.

  Toward what?

  The answer came in a whisper, not from the Exiled One, but from the staff itself—a voice like cracking ice, familiar and terrible:

  Toward the throne.

  The Sunspire ruins rose from the mist like the ribs of a dead god.

  Liraeth’s steps faltered as the treeline gave way to the shattered expanse of the citadel. Towers of blackened stone leaned against the dawn, their peaks broken off as if snapped by a giant’s hand. The air smelled of lightning and old blood.

  I’ve been here before.

  The certainty of it lodged in her throat. Not as Liraeth, not as Aeris—but as someone else. Someone who had walked these halls when they still held light.

  Sorin stopped beside her, his dagger loose in his grip. His scars pulsed faintly, gold threading through the cracks in his skin like molten veins. "This place is—"

  "Alive," the Exiled One finished. He sheathed his sword, but his shoulders stayed tense. "The Sunspire remembers."

  A gust of wind howled through the ruins, carrying whispers that made Liraeth’s staff hum in response. The sigils along its length flared, casting jagged shadows across the rubble.

  The Exiled One’s masked face tilted toward her. "You feel it."

  It wasn’t a question.

  Liraeth tightened her grip on the staff. "What am I supposed to feel?"

  "Recognition." His voice dropped. "Dread."

  Sorin snorted. "Cheerful." But his knuckles whitened around his dagger.

  They picked their way through the ruins, the ground uneven beneath their boots. Crumbled statues watched them pass, their faces worn smooth by time. Liraeth trailed her fingers along one—a woman with outstretched arms, her features erased but her posture screaming grief.

  You were here too, the stone seemed to whisper. You knelt where the flames died.

  A sound echoed from deeper in the ruins—a low, shuddering groan, like metal bending under impossible weight.

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  Sorin went still. "That’s not the wind."

  The Exiled One drew his sword again. "The Watchers aren’t the only things that guard this place."

  Liraeth’s pulse hammered. The staff’s light brightened, its glow pooling around her feet. In its radiance, the rubble seemed to shift, shadows rearranging into shapes that almost looked like—

  Footsteps.

  Hundreds of them, frozen in the stone, all leading toward the heart of the ruins.

  Sorin sucked in a breath. "What the hells?"

  "The Last March," the Exiled One said quietly. "They followed the Hollow King here. When the Sunspire fell, the earth swallowed them whole."

  Liraeth’s vision doubled.

  For a heartbeat, the ruins were whole again—the towers intact, the banners streaming crimson against a sky choked with smoke. And the footsteps weren’t imprints in stone but living, breathing soldiers, their armor scorched, their eyes hollow with a fear that went beyond mortal terror.

  At their head, a figure in a tattered cloak turned back.

  Golden eyes. A smile that didn’t reach them.

  Kael.

  The vision shattered.

  Liraeth staggered, the staff’s light flaring wildly. Sorin caught her elbow, his touch searing through her sleeve. "Hey—"

  "I’m fine." She pulled away too quickly. The name Kael burned on her tongue, but she couldn’t force it out. Not with the Exiled One watching. Not when every revelation here seemed to cut them deeper.

  The Exiled One strode ahead, his boots kicking up puffs of ash. "The throne room is near."

  Sorin’s jaw clenched. "You say that like it’s a good thing."

  "It’s the only thing that matters."

  They reached a towering archway, its keystone cracked but still holding. Beyond it, the ruins opened into a vast courtyard—and there, at its center, stood the remnants of a throne.

  Not blackened. Not broken.

  Perfect.

  Liraeth’s breath hitched. The throne was carved from a single slab of obsidian, its surface so polished it reflected the sky. Vines curled around its legs, their leaves shimmering like beaten gold.

  But it was the crown that made her stomach drop.

  Resting on the seat, as if waiting for its owner, was a circlet of twisted silver and shadow. The metal pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat.

  Sorin made a sound low in his throat. His scars blazed brighter, the gold bleeding into his irises. "No." He took a step back. "No, I’m not—"

  The Exiled One grabbed his arm. "Breathe."

  Sorin wrenched free. "Don’t touch me." His voice wasn’t entirely his own—it echoed, layered with something older, angrier. The Hollow King’s voice.

  Liraeth’s staff flared in warning.

  A shadow moved at the edge of the courtyard.

  Then another.

  The Ashen Watchers emerged from the ruins, their elongated forms gliding over the rubble. They didn’t attack. Didn’t speak.

  They simply knelt.

  All of them, facing the throne.

  The Exiled One’s grip on his sword faltered. For the first time, he looked—unsure. "This isn’t right," he murmured. "The crown shouldn’t be here. It was destroyed."

  Liraeth’s pulse pounded in her ears. The staff tugged her forward, its light licking hungrily at the crown’s shadow.

  Take it, something whispered. Not the staff. Not the wind.

  Her.

  Aeris.

  Sorin’s hand clamped around her wrist. "Don’t." His fingers trembled. "Please."

  The Exiled One stepped between them and the throne. His mask, usually expressionless, seemed to warp in the crown’s eerie light. A crack splintered down its center.

  Then—

  A sound like shattering glass.

  The Exiled One’s mask split open.

  And beneath it—

  Liraeth’s heart stopped.

  Golden eyes.

  Kael’s eyes.

  The Exiled One—Kael—looked at her with a grief so vast it swallowed the world.

  "I tried to warn you," he whispered.

  Then the ground gave way beneath them.

  The world tilted as the ground crumbled beneath them.

  Liraeth’s stomach lurched—she caught a glimpse of Sorin’s outstretched hand, the Exiled One’s shattered mask, the crown’s silver glow winking like a mocking eye—

  Then they fell.

  Cold air ripped past her face. The staff’s light sputtered, painting the collapsing walls in jagged strokes. She braced for impact—

  A bone-rattling crunch as they hit solid ground.

  Liraeth gasped, her ribs screaming. The Exiled One—Kael—rolled to his knees beside her, his hood torn away. His face was older than in her visions, his golden eyes webbed with fine scars, but undeniably his.

  Sorin groaned a few feet away, his dagger still clenched in his fist. His scars pulsed erratically, gold threading through his skin like cracks in glass.

  Above them, the ruins groaned. Dust rained from the gaping hole where the courtyard had been.

  Kael—no, the Exiled One, he’s not the boy from your dreams—yanked her upright. "Move. The Watchers will follow."

  Liraeth wrenched free. "You lied." The words tore out of her, raw as an open wound. "All this time—"

  His jaw tightened. "Would you have trusted me if I’d told you?"

  Sorin staggered to his feet, his pupils swallowed by gold. "Trust you? You burned the journal." His voice was a snarl, edged with something darker—the Hollow King’s resonance. "What else did you hide?"

  The Exiled One didn’t flinch. "What you couldn’t bear to know."

  A sound echoed from the tunnel ahead—a wet, clicking noise, like chitin scraping stone.

  Liraeth’s staff flared on instinct. The light revealed a low-ceilinged passage, its walls carved with faded murals. The images made her breath catch:

  A crowned figure (the Hollow King) kneeling before a door of fire.

  A woman (herself?) driving a spear into his chest.

  And a boy (Kael) weeping over their bodies.

  "No more sacrifices," the mural whispered in a voice only she could hear.

  Sorin’s dagger clattered to the ground. He clutched his head, his breath coming in ragged bursts. "It’s too loud—"

  Kael grabbed his shoulders. "Focus. The crown is calling, but you’re not him. Not yet."

  Liraeth stepped between them, the staff’s light driving Kael back. "Don’t touch him."

  For a heartbeat, Kael looked at her with unbearable grief. Then his gaze flicked over her shoulder. "Then run."

  The clicking surged.

  Liraeth turned—

  —just as the Watchers poured from the tunnel walls.

  Not kneeling now. Not reverent.

  Hungry.

  Their elongated limbs scuttled over stone, their eyeless faces split by jagged mouths. The lead Watcher lunged, its fingers hooked into talons.

  Liraeth swung the staff. Light exploded outward, searing the creature’s flesh. It shrieked, dissolving into ash, but three more took its place.

  Sorin snatched up his dagger. His scars burned brighter, his movements fluid and lethal as he gutted a Watcher mid-leap. Black ichor sprayed—

  —and sizzled where it touched his skin.

  He didn’t flinch.

  Kael’s sword flashed, cleaving through a Watcher’s neck. "They’re not here for me," he shouted. "They want him!"

  A Watcher slammed into Liraeth, knocking the staff from her grip. Its weight pinned her—cold, reeking of burnt hair—

  Sorin’s hand closed around its throat.

  Gold fire erupted from his fingers.

  The Watcher screamed, its body crumbling to embers. Sorin stared at his own hand, his expression hollow with horror.

  The remaining Watchers froze.

  Then, as one, they bowed.

  Not to the staff.

  To him.

  Kael went very still. "Oh, hells."

  The tunnel trembled. From the darkness ahead, a new sound emerged—a low, rhythmic thud, like a heartbeat magnified a thousandfold.

  The crown’s pulse.

  Calling its king home.

  The Watchers’ bowed forms trembled in the staff’s dying light.

  Liraeth’s fingers twitched toward the fallen weapon, but the air itself had turned to syrup—thick, suffocating. Every breath dragged against her ribs.

  Sorin stood frozen, his hand still outstretched from incinerating the Watcher. Gold fire licked up his wrist, his scars blazing like molten wire. His pupils were gone, swallowed whole by the light.

  Not Sorin. Not anymore.

  The remaining Watchers pressed their foreheads to the stone, their jagged mouths moving in unison:

  "Hollow King."

  The word slithered through the tunnel, shaking dust from the murals. The crowned figure in the carvings seemed to lean forward, its shadow stretching toward Sorin.

  Kael lunged, his sword flashing. "Sorin—look at me."

  Sorin turned. Slowly. Deliberately.

  His voice, when it came, was layered—a chorus of whispers beneath his own. "You burned the truth."

  Kael flinched. "To protect her."

  "Liar." Sorin’s head tilted, the motion too fluid, too wrong. "You burned it to protect yourself."

  Liraeth’s fingers closed around the staff. Its light flared weakly, but the Watchers didn’t attack. They stayed prostrate, their bodies forming a grotesque path deeper into the tunnel—toward the pounding thud of the crown’s pulse.

  Kael’s sword dipped. "You don’t understand what’s down there."

  "Then tell me." Liraeth’s voice cracked.

  For a heartbeat, Kael looked like the boy in her visions—golden-eyed, grinning, alive with secrets. Then his face hardened. "The Hollow King didn’t just steal time. He split it." He jerked his chin at Sorin. "And he’s the shard left behind."

  The tunnel walls seemed to press closer. The murals shifted—not carvings now, but memories:

  A younger Kael, screaming as shadows peeled away from his skin.

  The Hollow King (Sorin’s face, Sorin’s hands) plunging a dagger into his own chest.

  And Liraeth—Aeris—weeping over them both.

  The vision shattered as the ground heaved.

  Stone split. The Watchers scattered like roaches as a fissure ripped open beneath them, revealing a yawning void—and within it, something moved.

  Not the crown.

  Something wearing the crown.

  A figure of smoke and shattered mirrors, its form flickering between a man and a monstrosity. The silver circlet floated above its brow, its shadow dripping like ink.

  The Hollow King’s echo.

  But this one was solid.

  "Thief," it hissed, its voice the sound of a hundred breaking promises.

  Sorin staggered back, clutching his skull. Gold light bled from his eyes, his nose, the seams of his scars. "No—"

  The figure lunged.

  Kael tackled Sorin aside at the last second. The echo’s claws raked Kael’s shoulder instead, shredding cloth and flesh. He snarled, shoving Sorin toward Liraeth. "Run. The crown’s not a key—it’s a cage."

  The echo laughed, the sound peeling layers from the walls. "And you are out of time, little prince."

  Liraeth grabbed Sorin’s arm. His skin burned. "We have to go—now."

  Sorin’s gaze locked onto the echo. The gold in his eyes flickered—fighting, failing. "I can’t…"

  The echo smiled with Sorin’s mouth. "You promised me a world."

  Kael slammed into the echo, his sword carving through its chest. It screamed—but didn’t dissolve. It grew, its form swelling to fill the tunnel.

  The Watchers wailed.

  Liraeth hauled Sorin backward as the ceiling began to collapse. Kael twisted toward them, blood streaming from his shoulder. "The capital!" he shouted. "Stop him before he—"

  A chunk of stone smashed into his chest.

  He went down.

  The echo loomed over him, its crown blazing.

  Liraeth screamed.

  Sorin’s hand clamped around her wrist. His touch was fire and fury, his voice barely human:

  "We are the Hollow King."

  Then the world exploded into gold.