The world tore at its seams.

  Liraeth’s vision fractured—one moment, she was in the cavern, the next, she was there, standing on a street of polished bone beneath a sky the color of a fresh bruise. The air tasted of burnt metal and rotting petals. Shadows moved where they shouldn’t, slithering between the cracks of buildings that twisted as she looked at them.

  Kael’s grip on her arm was the only thing anchoring her to reality. His fingers dug into her flesh hard enough to bruise. "Don’t move." His voice was a blade’s edge. "Don’t breathe. Don’t even blink."

  She didn’t dare.

  Before them, the city pulsed like a living thing. Towers of bleached ribcages arched overhead, their peaks lost in the swirling dark. Figures—things—drifted through the streets, their forms shifting between human and something else, their faces stretched too long, their limbs too many, their mouths sewn shut with threads of gold.

  And at the center of it all, the tower.

  The door.

  The thing stepping through.

  Liraeth’s lungs burned. She hadn’t taken a breath since the vision began. The staff on her back trembled, its light smothered beneath the weight of the city’s presence.

  Kael’s breath hitched. "We’re not supposed to be here."

  A whisper slithered through the air, threading between the buildings, the shadows, the very cracks in the world:

  "But you are."

  The voice wasn’t Sorin’s. Wasn’t the Hollow King’s.

  It was older.

  Hungrier.

  The door in the tower groaned open wider.

  Something shifted in the darkness beyond—a shape too vast to comprehend, its edges fraying like torn cloth, its presence scraping against her mind like rusted nails.

  Liraeth’s vision blurred. Blood trickled from her nose.

  Kael wrenched her back.

  The city shattered.

  Reality snapped back like a bowstring.

  Liraeth gasped, her knees hitting solid ground. The cavern was gone. The fissure, the crown, the pool of shadows—all vanished.

  They were somewhere else.

  Somewhere worse.

  The air smelled of dust and dried ink. Shelves stretched endlessly in every direction, their contents not books but things—jagged fragments of mirrors, vials of liquid shadow, a sword with a blade made of smoke. Above, the ceiling was a mosaic of shattered glass, each shard reflecting a different ruin.

  A library.

  But not for books.

  For memories.

  Kael staggered to his feet, his golden eyes scanning the shelves. "Sunspire’s underbelly," he muttered. "Where the Hollow King hid what he couldn’t bear to remember."

  Liraeth’s hands shook. "How do you know this place?"

  He didn’t answer.

  A sound echoed through the shelves—a wet, ragged cough.

  Sorin.

  She lunged toward the noise, her boots kicking up centuries of dust. The staff’s light flickered back to life, its glow illuminating the path ahead—and the figure slumped against a shelf, his skin streaked with black veins, his eyes half-lidded and hollow.

  But still his.

  "Sorin!" She dropped beside him, her hands hovering over his chest, afraid to touch. The Hollow Crown was gone, but its mark remained—a lattice of black cracks spreading from his temples, pulsing like a second heartbeat.

  His fingers twitched. "Lira…?" His voice was raw, as if he’d been screaming.

  Kael materialized behind her, his gaze locked on Sorin’s corrupted skin. "The crown’s still in him," he said quietly. "Just deeper now."

  Sorin’s breath hitched. "Saw things—"

  "We know," Kael cut in. "Don’t say them out loud."

  Liraeth’s throat tightened. "We need to get out of here."

  A chuckle rippled through the library.

  Not from Sorin.

  Not from Kael.

  From the shelves.

  The shadows between the books moved, coalescing into a figure—tall, gaunt, its face a shifting blur of features. When it spoke, its voice was a chorus of whispers, each word overlapping:

  "You don’t leave the Hollow King’s mind so easily."

  The shadow-figure stepped forward, its form flickering like a dying candle. The air around it warped, as if the library itself recoiled from its presence.

  Liraeth’s fingers tightened around the staff. "What are you?"

  The thing tilted its head—too far, too wrong. "A memory. A regret. A question never answered." Its voice fractured into a dozen whispers, each one layered with a different tone—some young, some ancient, some barely human.

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  Kael’s sword was in his hand before she could blink, the broken edge glinting in the staff’s wavering light. "Stay back."

  The figure laughed, a sound like crumbling parchment. "Or what? You’ll kill me?" It spread its arms. "I’m already dead. Just like him."

  Its gaze slid to Sorin.

  Sorin, who was shaking now, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His fingers clawed at the black veins spreading down his neck. "It’s—inside—"

  The shadow sighed. "Oh, little king. You let it in. You wanted it in."

  Liraeth stepped between them, the staff flaring. "Enough."

  The figure’s smile stretched. "You don’t remember, do you? What he did to you?"

  A flicker—

  —A throne room. Blood on her hands. Sorin (not Sorin) holding a knife to her brother’s throat.—

  The vision vanished as quickly as it came, leaving her dizzy.

  Kael’s voice cut through the haze. "Ignore it. It’s just an echo."

  "Echoes are all that’s left," the shadow murmured. "The Hollow King shattered time. Now the pieces are coming back."

  Then—

  A book fell from the shelf behind them.

  Then another.

  Then the entire library shuddered, shelves collapsing like dominos, their contents spilling across the floor—mirror shards showing screaming faces, vials leaking liquid shadow, the smoke-blade writhing like a living thing.

  And beneath it all, a single word, scratched into the floor in a hand she recognized:

  "RUN."

  They ran.

  The library twisted around them, corridors folding in on themselves, doorways leading nowhere. The shadow’s laughter chased them, bouncing off walls that shouldn’t exist.

  Sorin stumbled, his legs giving out. Liraeth caught him, her arms straining under his weight. His skin was fever-hot, the black veins pulsing faster.

  "He’s losing himself," Kael said grimly.

  "No." She hauled Sorin forward. "Not yet."

  A door appeared ahead—old oak, banded with iron. Unlike the shifting chaos around them, it stood solid. Real.

  Kael reached for it.

  The moment his fingers brushed the handle, the world lurched.

  Silence.

  They stood in a ruin.

  Not the library. Not Sunspire.

  A child’s bedroom.

  Or what was left of it.

  The walls were scorched, the toys melted into grotesque shapes. A small bed sat in the corner, its sheets stained with something dark.

  And on the floor, a boy.

  No older than ten, curled into himself, his golden eyes wide with terror.

  Sorin.

  Younger. Unscarred.

  Alive.

  The shadow’s voice slithered through the room: "This is where it began."

  The boy didn’t see them. He was staring at the door, his breath coming in tiny, frantic hitches.

  Something was on the other side.

  Something knocking.

  The knocking grew louder.

  Each strike made the walls tremble. Dust sifted from the ceiling as the boy—young Sorin—scrambled backward until his spine hit the scorched bedframe. His small hands clutched a rusted dagger, the blade too big for his grip.

  Liraeth stepped forward instinctively, but Kael caught her wrist. "Don't." His voice was rough. "This already happened. We can't change it."

  The shadow-figure materialized beside them, its form flickering with each thunderous knock. "But you can watch."

  The door burst open.

  Not from force—from fire.

  Flames roared inward, licking at the wooden frame, and through them stepped a figure wreathed in smoke. Tall. Armored in blackened steel. A crown of molten gold dripped down its brow, searing flesh as it went.

  The Hollow King.

  But not Sorin.

  Never Sorin.

  This thing was older, its face a shifting void beneath the crown, its eyes two pits of smoldering embers. When it spoke, the voice was the crumbling of cities:

  "There you are."

  The boy raised his dagger. His arms shook.

  The Hollow King laughed—a sound like breaking glass—and reached for him.

  Liraeth moved before she could think.

  She lunged, staff blazing, but her hands passed through the Hollow King like mist. The vision didn’t bend. Didn’t break.

  She was a ghost here.

  Just like the shadow.

  Just like Kael, who stood frozen, his golden eyes locked on the scene with something like recognition.

  The Hollow King’s fingers closed around the boy’s throat.

  "You’ll make a fine vessel," it whispered.

  Then—

  The dagger flashed.

  Young Sorin drove the rusted blade into the Hollow King’s wrist.

  For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

  Then the crown screamed.

  The molten gold writhed, peeling back from the boy’s strike, revealing the thing beneath—not a face, but a hole, a yawning absence where a man should have been.

  The Hollow King recoiled.

  And the boy ran.

  The vision shattered like glass.

  They were back in the library, the shelves now overturned, the air thick with the scent of burning parchment. Sorin—their Sorin—was on his knees, his hands pressed to his temples, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The black veins had spread to his collarbones, pulsing in time with some unseen heartbeat.

  Kael exhaled sharply. "That’s why the crown chose him."

  Liraeth turned. "What?"

  "He resisted it. Even as a child." Kael’s voice was hollow. "The Hollow King doesn’t want a vessel that obeys. It wants one that fights."

  The shadow-figure chuckled. "And oh, how he fought."

  Then it was in front of her, its shifting face inches from hers. "But you already knew that, didn’t you, Liraeth?"

  A flicker—

  —A battlefield. Sorin (not Sorin) kneeling before her, her spear at his throat. His golden eyes full of tears. "Do it," he begged. "Before it takes me again."—

  She wrenched herself free. "No."

  The shadow sighed. "You always say that."

  Then the library moved.

  The floor split beneath them, shelves collapsing into the abyss, and the last thing Liraeth saw before the darkness swallowed them was Kael reaching for her—not to pull her to safety, but to push her forward.

  Into the rift.

  Into the past.

  Into the truth.

  The fall lasted forever and no time at all.

  Liraeth plunged through darkness that clung like tar, the staff’s light smothered to a dying ember. She couldn’t see Kael. Couldn’t see Sorin. Only the rush of fractured memories—

  —A burning city. A spear in her hands. A brother’s scream.—

  Then—

  Impact.

  She landed in a field of ash.

  Not the library. Not the ruin.

  A battlefield.

  The sky was the color of a fresh bruise, streaked with smoke from distant pyres. The ground beneath her boots was littered with bones and broken blades, the air thick with the metallic tang of old blood.

  And ahead—

  A figure stood at the edge of a crater, his back to her, his armor blackened and cracked.

  Sorin.

  But not the Sorin she knew.

  This one wore the Hollow Crown like it had always been part of him, its jagged points fused to his skull, his skin threaded with the same black veins she’d seen in the present.

  When he turned, his golden eyes were hollow.

  "You shouldn’t be here," he said.

  His voice was wrong.

  Too many layers.

  Too many echoes.

  The crown’s voice.

  Liraeth’s fingers tightened around the staff. "Where is this?"

  "The end," said another voice.

  Kael stepped from the smoke, his armor dented, his sword broken. But his eyes—his eyes were the same.

  The same as now.

  Liraeth’s breath caught. "You remember this."

  Kael didn’t look at her. His gaze was locked on the Hollow King. "Every second."

  The Hollow King’s mouth twisted into something that wasn’t a smile. "You were always the stubborn one, little brother."

  Brother.

  The word hit like a blade.

  Liraeth’s vision swam—

  —A younger Kael, laughing as he sparred with a golden-eyed boy. Sorin. Not the Hollow King. Just a boy. Her friend. Her—

  The memory shattered as the Hollow King raised a hand.

  The battlefield rippled.

  And the truth came crashing down.

  The vision rewound.

  The pyres unburned. The dead stood. The crater sealed itself, the earth knitting together like a wound.

  And there, at its center—

  Two figures.

  Sorin, on his knees, his hands bound.

  And Kael, holding a knife to his throat.

  "Do it," Sorin whispered.

  Kael’s hands shook. "I can’t."

  "You have to." Sorin’s golden eyes were bright with tears. "Before it takes me. Before I become him."

  Liraeth tried to move, tried to scream, but the memory held her frozen.

  She could only watch as Kael—

  —hesitated.

  A shadow moved behind them.

  The Hollow King.

  The real one.

  It placed a hand on Kael’s shoulder.

  "Let me show you another way," it whispered.

  And Kael—

  Kael lowered the knife.

  The battlefield dissolved into smoke.

  Liraeth gasped as the vision spat her back into the present—into the ruined library, into the choking dark.

  Kael stood over Sorin, his broken sword raised.

  Not to strike.

  To defend.

  Against her.

  "You saw," he said quietly.

  Her hands shook. "You let him live."

  "I let the world burn instead." Kael’s voice was raw. "And now it’s happening again."

  Sorin groaned, the black veins creeping toward his heart.

  The crown’s voice slithered through the air:

  "You can’t stop it this time."

  Liraeth stepped forward.

  The staff flared.

  "Watch me."