The staff’s light cut through the library’s gloom like a dying star, its glow guttering against the press of the Hollow Crown’s presence. Liraeth’s hands trembled—not from fear, but from the weight of what she’d just seen.

  Kael had hesitated.

  Kael had spared him.

  And now Sorin knelt between them, his body a battleground, the black veins pulsing like roots digging into his flesh. His breaths came in shallow, ragged hitches, his fingers clawing at the cracks spreading from his temples. The crown’s voice still slithered through the air, but it was weaker now, fraying at the edges.

  "You can’t stop it this time."

  Liraeth tightened her grip on the staff. "We already have."

  Kael didn’t lower his sword. His golden eyes—so like Sorin’s, so like the boy in the memory—flickered with something unreadable. "You don’t understand what’s happening."

  "I understand enough." She stepped forward, the staff’s light flaring as she leveled it at Sorin. Not to strike. To reach. "Sorin. Look at me."

  He didn’t. His gaze was locked on the floor, his pupils dilated, his lips moving soundlessly. The veins pulsed darker.

  Kael’s voice was a blade’s edge. "He’s not in there anymore."

  "Liar." The word tore from her throat. She’d seen it—felt it—in the vision. The boy with the rusted dagger. The Hollow King’s grip slipping. Sorin had fought it once. He could fight it again.

  The library shuddered.

  Dust rained from the ceiling as the shelves twisted, their contents spilling onto the floor—mirror shards reflecting screaming faces, vials of liquid shadow rolling toward them like beads of ink. The shadow-figure from before coalesced in the wreckage, its form flickering between solid and smoke.

  "Such pretty defiance," it mused. "But the crown doesn’t break. It bends."

  Then—

  A sound.

  Not from the shadow.

  Not from the crown.

  From Sorin.

  A single, shattered word:

  "Run."

  The floor split beneath them.

  Liraeth didn’t have time to react.

  The world upended—one moment, she was standing; the next, she was falling, the library’s ruins collapsing around her in a cascade of broken memories and shattered glass. She caught a glimpse of Kael lunging for her, his hand outstretched, but the rift swallowed her whole before their fingers could meet.

  Darkness.

  Then—

  Impact.

  She landed hard on packed earth, the staff clattering from her grip. The air here was thick with the scent of damp stone and iron, the silence so absolute it rang in her ears.

  Where—?

  Her vision adjusted slowly.

  She was in a tunnel.

  Low-ceilinged, its walls carved with faded murals—figures in procession, their faces worn smooth by time, their hands raised in supplication. At the far end, a sliver of torchlight flickered.

  And beside her, the staff’s glow had dimmed to a faint ember.

  No.

  She snatched it up, her pulse hammering. The light sputtered, then steadied—barely. Whatever power sustained it was fading.

  A whisper echoed down the tunnel.

  Not words.

  Music.

  A choir’s dirge, sung in a language that scraped against her bones.

  Liraeth knew that sound.

  The Blood Choir.

  Kael had spoken of them—fanatics who worshipped the Hollow King’s remnants, who believed his return would herald a world remade in ash and silence.

  And they were here.

  Somewhere in these ruins.

  With Sorin.

  Her fingers tightened around the staff.

  Then she moved.

  The tunnel twisted deeper, the air growing thick with the scent of old blood and burnt offerings. The choir’s voices swelled—a dissonant harmony, half-prayer, half-scream. Liraeth moved silently, her boots barely disturbing the dust. Every instinct screamed at her to turn back, to find Kael, to regroup—but Sorin was here. Somewhere in the dark.

  The staff’s dim glow caught on the walls. The murals shifted—no longer faded, but fresh, the paint still wet, the figures writhing as if alive. A procession of robed devotees, their faces hidden behind masks of bone, carrying something between them.

  A crown.

  Not the Hollow King’s jagged diadem.

  Something older.

  Something hungrier.

  A whisper brushed against her mind—

  "You do not belong here, thief of flames."

  Liraeth froze.

  The voice wasn’t the shadow’s. Wasn’t the crown’s.

  It was hers.

  But not.

  A memory? A ghost?

  The staff pulsed in her grip, its light flaring for a heartbeat—just long enough to reveal the figure standing at the tunnel’s end.

  Tall. Hooded. A mask of gilded bone obscuring his face.

  But she knew him.

  Kael.

  No—

  Not Kael.

  The way he held himself was wrong. The tilt of his head, the curve of his shoulders—like a puppet mimicking human grace.

  Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

  The figure lifted a hand. The choir’s hymn stuttered, then stilled.

  "Liraeth," he said, and the voice was Kael’s, but the smile beneath the mask was not. "You’re just in time."

  Behind him, the tunnel opened into a cavern—a cathedral of sorts, its vaulted ceiling strung with chains, each link holding a corpse wrapped in funeral shrouds. At its center, an altar of black stone.

  And on it—

  Sorin.

  Bound. Bleeding.

  The black veins had spread to his chest, branching like cracks in glass. His eyes were open, but they weren’t his own—the pupils swallowed by void, the whites threaded with gold.

  The figure—Riven—stepped aside, gesturing to the altar. "He’s been waiting for you."

  Liraeth’s fingers ached around the staff. "What did you do to him?"

  Riven’s mask tilted. "Nothing he didn’t ask for."

  Then—

  A flicker of movement.

  Sorin’s lips parted.

  A single, strained word:

  "Lira… run…"

  Riven laughed—a sound like breaking glass. "Too late for that."

  The choir began to sing again.

  And the shadows moved.

  The corpses in the chains twitched.

  Liraeth didn’t wait.

  She lunged, the staff’s light blazing as she swung for Riven’s head. He dodged—too fast, too fluid—his own weapon materializing in his hands. A sickle, its curved blade etched with runes that bled.

  Their weapons clashed.

  The impact reverberated up her arms, the force nearly knocking her back. Riven fought like Kael—same footwork, same precision—but where Kael was controlled, Riven was feral. His strikes came in a whirlwind, each one aimed to maim, not kill.

  He’s playing with you.

  The realization burned.

  She feinted left, then twisted, driving the staff’s end into his ribs. Bone cracked. Riven staggered, but didn’t fall. His mask slipped, just for a second—

  And beneath it—

  Kael’s face.

  But wrong.

  Scarred. Aged. Eyes hollow with something worse than madness.

  "You left me," he hissed.

  A memory flickered—

  —A battlefield. A brother’s scream. Her hands, slick with blood, reaching—

  She shoved it aside. Not now.

  The choir’s hymn rose to a crescendo.

  The chained corpses jerked, their shrouds unraveling to reveal bodies mummified in gold thread, their mouths sewn shut with black wire.

  And then—

  They fell.

  The chains snapped. The corpses hit the ground—

  And stood.

  Riven grinned behind his mask. "Meet the congregation."

  The first corpse lunged.

  Liraeth barely dodged, its gilded fingers grazing her arm. Where they touched, her skin burned, the flesh blackening as if scorched.

  Not corpses.

  Revenants.

  And they were everywhere.

  She backed toward the altar, toward Sorin. His breaths were shallow, his body trembling as the crown’s corruption spread. If she could reach him—

  Riven’s sickle flashed.

  She barely parried in time, the force driving her to her knees.

  Above her, Riven raised his blade.

  "This," he murmured, "is how it always ends."

  Then—

  A roar.

  A blast of heat.

  The cavern’s wall exploded.

  Kael stood in the wreckage, his sword dripping with liquid shadow, his golden eyes blazing.

  "Get away from my sister."

  The explosion of stone and fire still rang in Liraeth’s ears as Kael charged forward, his broken sword cutting through the air with lethal precision. Riven twisted away at the last second, his sickle flashing in retaliation—but Kael wasn’t aiming for him.

  The blade carved through the first revenant instead, its gilded body splitting like rotten fruit. Black ichor sprayed, sizzling where it struck the cavern floor.

  Liraeth didn’t waste the opening. She rolled to her feet, staff flaring back to life, and lunged for the altar.

  Sorin’s breath hitched as she grabbed his wrist. His skin was fever-hot, the black veins writhing beneath her touch.

  "Sorin—"

  His fingers twitched. His lips parted—but no words came. Only a choked gasp, as if something inside him were fighting to speak through the crown’s hold.

  Behind her, steel clashed.

  Kael and Riven moved like reflections in a shattered mirror—same stance, same footwork, same brutal efficiency. But where Kael fought with grim focus, Riven fought with something worse.

  Joy.

  "You always were predictable," Riven taunted, ducking under Kael’s swing and slashing upward. The sickle’s edge grazed Kael’s ribs, drawing blood. "Still holding back. Still weak."

  Kael didn’t answer. He adjusted his grip, feinted left, then drove his blade straight for Riven’s throat.

  Riven barely dodged. The tip of the sword caught the edge of his mask, cracking the bone.

  A sliver of his face showed beneath.

  Liraeth’s breath caught.

  Kael’s face.

  But wrong.

  Not aged. Not scarred.

  Rotting.

  The skin was peeling, the flesh beneath blackened and necrotic, as if something had been eating him from the inside.

  Riven laughed—a wet, gurgling sound—and ripped the mask away entirely.

  "See what your mercy cost me?"

  Kael froze.

  Just for a heartbeat.

  But it was enough.

  Riven struck.

  The sickle bit deep into Kael’s shoulder, hooking like a butcher’s blade. Blood sprayed. Kael snarled, wrenching himself free, but the damage was done. He staggered, his sword arm trembling.

  Liraeth moved without thinking.

  She swung the staff, its light blazing as she drove it into Riven’s back. The impact sent him sprawling, his body skidding across the stone.

  The choir’s hymn stuttered.

  The revenants hesitated.

  For a single, fragile moment, the cavern was still.

  Then—

  A whisper.

  "Liraeth."

  Sorin’s voice.

  But not.

  The Hollow Crown’s power pulsed, the black veins surging up his neck like serpents. His eyes—gold and void—locked onto hers.

  "You should have let me die."

  The altar screamed.

  The black stone split open.

  Tendrils of shadow erupted from the fissure, lashing around Sorin’s limbs, his torso, his throat. They pulled, dragging him down into the altar’s maw.

  Liraeth lunged, grabbing his arm. The moment her fingers closed around his wrist, the world twisted.

  —A throne room drenched in blood. Sorin (not Sorin) kneeling at her feet, her spear buried in his chest. He smiled as he died. "Next time," he whispered. "Next time, I’ll save him."—

  The vision shattered.

  Reality snapped back with a crack.

  She was still holding onto Sorin, her muscles straining as the shadows pulled harder. His fingers dug into her forearm, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

  "Let go," he choked.

  "Never."

  Kael was at her side in an instant, his good hand seizing Sorin’s other arm. Together, they pulled—but the altar’s grip was relentless.

  Riven rose from where he’d fallen, his rotting face twisted in triumph.

  "You can’t stop it," he rasped. "The Hollow King always returns. And this time, he’ll finish what he started."

  The choir’s hymn rose to a deafening crescendo.

  The revenants shrieked, their gold-threaded bodies convulsing as the shadows poured from their mouths, their eyes, their stitched-shut lips. The darkness swirled, coalescing above the altar—

  Into a crown.

  Not the one Sorin had worn.

  This one was older.

  Hungrier.

  It hovered for a heartbeat—

  Then plunged for Sorin’s skull.

  Liraeth did the only thing she could.

  She let go of Sorin—

  And shoved Kael aside.

  The crown struck her instead.

  The world shattered.

  White-hot agony lanced through Liraeth’s skull as the crown’s presence flooded her mind—a thousand screaming voices, a thousand fractured memories, all clawing at her sanity. She tasted blood, felt her bones bending under the weight of something ancient and ravenous.

  "You are not the one," the crown hissed through her teeth. "But you will do."

  Her vision swam—

  —A city burning. A brother’s corpse in her arms. A spear in her grip, its point leveled at Sorin’s throat. "Do it," he begged. "Before I become him again."—

  The memory bit, deeper than any blade.

  Then—

  Hands on her shoulders.

  Real. Warm. Alive.

  Sorin wrenched her around, his golden eyes wide with horror. The black veins still pulsed across his skin, but his voice was his own.

  "Liraeth—fight it."

  She tried. Gods, she tried.

  But the crown was everywhere, its hooks sunk deep into her thoughts, her muscles, her soul. She felt it rewriting her, stitching its will into her flesh.

  Her fingers twitched.

  The staff clattered to the ground.

  Riven’s laughter echoed through the cavern.

  "Perfect."

  Liraeth’s body moved without her consent.

  She turned, slow and graceful, toward Kael—who was still on his knees, clutching his bleeding shoulder.

  Her hand rose.

  Power surged.

  A whip of liquid shadow lashed from her fingertips, wrapping around Kael’s throat. He gagged, his fingers scrabbling at the darkness, but it only tightened.

  No.

  No no no—

  Sorin lunged for her, but the revenants were faster. They swarmed him, their gilded hands pinning him down.

  Riven stepped closer, his rotting face alight with triumph.

  "You see now, don’t you?" he crooned. "The crown doesn’t want the Hollow King. It wants the key to the Hollow King."

  Liraeth’s voice spilled from her lips, but the words weren’t hers.

  "Break him."

  Kael’s eyes met hers—pleading, furious, heartbroken—as the shadows pulled.

  Something in his shoulder snapped.

  He screamed.

  Sorin roared, thrashing against the revenants.

  And Riven—

  Riven smiled.

  "Now," he whispered. "Let’s make a king."

  The crown’s hold slipped—just for a second.

  Just long enough.

  Liraeth wrenched control back, her fingers curling into claws.

  "You want a Hollow King?" she spat. "Then take one."

  She grabbed Riven’s wrist—

  And shoved the crown’s power into him.

  His triumph turned to terror.

  The rot on his face spread, the flesh sloughing away as the crown’s corruption flooded his veins. He staggered back, clawing at his skin, his screams merging with the choir’s dying hymn.

  "No—NO—"

  The revenants collapsed, their gold threads blackening.

  The altar cracked, its shadows recoiling.

  And Sorin—

  Sorin moved.

  He tore free of the revenants’ grip, his hand closing around the fallen staff. The moment his fingers touched it, the light blazed, searing through the cavern’s gloom.

  Riven was on his knees now, his body crumbling to ash.

  "You don’t understand," he gasped. "He’ll never be free. The crown always—

  Sorin drove the staff through his chest.

  Riven shattered.

  The cavern fell silent.

  The crown’s presence vanished like a snuffed candle.

  Liraeth collapsed, her body her own again, her breaths coming in ragged gasps.

  Sorin caught her before she hit the ground.

  His hands were shaking.

  "I’m sorry," he whispered.

  She didn’t answer. She couldn’t.

  Across the cavern, Kael groaned, pressing a hand to his ruined shoulder. His golden eyes locked onto hers—alive, furious, relieved—before flickering to Sorin.

  "We need to go," he gritted out. "Before the rest of the Choir comes."

  Sorin nodded, hauling Liraeth to her feet.

  She swayed, but didn’t fall.

  The staff’s light guttered, then steadied—a fragile glow in the dark.

  Together, they ran.