CHAPTER I: THE WHISPER OF GLYRHOLD

  The wind howled like a starving beast as I rode through the Vale of Virellen, my black warhorse snorting frost into the morning air. The land around me stretched wide and wild, ancient forests clawing at the horizon with leafless limbs, their trunks gnarled by time and cursed memories. The sun was barely a smudge behind thick clouds, casting no warmth upon the frost-crusted ground. I could feel the pulse of magic beneath the earth — old, primal, and restless.

  I am Primus, Knight of the Exiled Sigil, once bound by oath, now freed by fire. My armor bears the scars of decades, the crimson etchings along my pauldrons whispering enchantments to ward against hex and blade. Strapped across my back is Vaelrend, the rune-forged greatsword said to be birthed in the heart of a fallen star, and along my belt, vials of elixirs, scrolls of forgotten languages, and tokens from every kingdom I've outlived.

  Ahead, rising like the tooth of some buried god, stood the ruin of Glyrhold Keep. A message scratched into the bark of an ash tree had drawn me here — a crude symbol of flame eating a crown. The Mark of the Hollow Flame. A cult I had slain once before, or so I had believed. If they had returned… then their ambitions had outgrown the shadows.

  My horse shifted nervously as we neared the gates. Magic hung in the air like fog, bitter and metallic on the tongue. The stone arch was cracked, ivy long dead, but runes glowed faintly where the stone touched sky. A ward. Not one I feared — not anymore.

  I dismounted and whispered an old word to my mount, and it galloped away, obedient to the binding. The gates of Glyrhold loomed before me, dark and waiting.

  A whisper stirred the wind.

  "Primus..."

  I drew Vaelrend, and the sword drank in the gray light, its runes flaring blue. The whisper did not come from outside — it came from within me.

  The keep was calling me by name.

  I turned from the cursed archway of Glyrhold Keep, the whisper still curling in the back of my mind like smoke in a tomb. My instincts, honed through endless campaigns and blood-soaked years, caught the glint of steel to the east—just beyond the frost-thick underbrush at the tree line.

  I narrowed my eyes. Three figures moved cautiously through the thickets, weapons drawn, armor light and piecemeal. They were young—too young. I could tell by the way they held their blades: tight with fear, not with skill. One was a silver-haired girl in a faded blue cloak, a wand clutched in her trembling hand. A second, a stocky lad with a chipped axe strapped to his back, clambered over a fallen log, eyes wide. The last, a rogue-looking type with a scarf covering half his face, crept just ahead of them, scanning the trees.

  They hadn't seen me yet.

  I strode from the shadows, my boots cracking frozen twigs beneath me. The girl raised her wand with a squeak. The rogue nearly vanished into the woods.

  “Easy,” I said, voice like stone rolling down a mountain. “If I meant you harm, you’d already be ash.”

  The stocky one stepped forward, puffing his chest. “W-we’re here on guild orders. Monster sighting near the old keep. We’re handling it.”

  I stepped closer, and the blue runes of Vaelrend hissed as they caught the stray magic in the air. “You're handling nothing. This place reeks of a curse older than your fathers’ bloodlines. You don't know what sleeps in those stones.”

  The girl’s hand dropped. “You... you're him, aren’t you? The Wandering Knight. Primus.”

  The rogue lowered his scarf. “You slew the Wyrm of Harkesh… and walked out of the Weeping Mire alone.”

  I nodded once.

  The rogue muttered, “We should go. If he's here, then we’re in over our heads.”

  But the girl stared up at me, eyes filled not with fear, but a kind of stubborn hope. “Please… can we at least help? Even just watch? We're not nothing.”

  I looked back at Glyrhold’s looming ruin. The wind had grown still, as if the keep itself was listening.

  I fixed my gaze on the girl, then swept my eyes across the three of them. Young, yes—but not cowards. Their hands trembled, but none of them had turned away. That counted for something.

  “You’ll come with me,” I said, my voice low but firm. “We’ll clear the beasts that scavenge the outside of the keep. Those things — they’re drawn to the scent of the Hollow Flame’s sorcery, like rats to rot. You help me put them down.”

  The rogue opened his mouth to argue, but I raised a hand.

  “But once that’s done… you leave. This ruin isn’t for guild work, and it’s not for hopefuls playing at heroism. You go back and tell your guild leader exactly what you’ve seen, exactly what you’ve felt here. Tell them the Hollow Flame breathes again.”

  The girl nodded quickly, clutching her wand tighter. “Yes, sir. We understand.”

  The boy with the axe grinned nervously. “We’ll help. Then we run.”

  The rogue merely muttered, “I hope you know what you're doing.”

  I turned and began walking toward the right flank of the keep, where I had seen bones scattered in the frost—gnawed clean, cracked by unnatural jaws. The others followed behind, keeping low.

  Then the air changed.

  A sound like shattering glass erupted from beneath a mound of earth and snow. It exploded outward in a plume of dark soil and cold mist. From the pit crawled a creature twice the size of a man, its flesh ashen and cracked, ribs exposed through dry sinew, and a face that wore no skin — only a rune-burned skull. Hollow eyes stared at us.

  A Husk of the Hollow Flame.

  Its voice gurgled up from nowhere: “Thiiiis... realm... belongs... to the Emptied King.”

  “Hold,” I commanded, stepping forward, Vaelrend igniting in a blaze of arcane fire.

  “Stand back. I’ll take the front.”

  The others formed a loose half-circle behind me, the girl already casting, the rogue circling left with daggers drawn, the axe-boy holding steady.

  The Husk lunged with a bone-cracking shriek.

  The beast came fast, too fast for something so wretched. Its claws slashed like sickles toward my chest, but I was faster.

  I stepped into the strike, twisting Vaelrend in both hands — clang! The blade caught the blow with a crackling ring, blue sparks exploding outward as ancient magic met cursed flesh. The impact drove me back a step in the frost, but my footing held firm.

  Teeth bared behind my helm, I growled through my visor, “Now!”

  I shifted Vaelrend, pushing the beast’s arm wide and forcing it off balance.

  “Mage!” I barked. “Burn the runes along its spine — they feed its regeneration!”

  The silver-haired girl cried out a word I hadn’t heard in decades — old elvish. Her wand flared, and a lance of white flame erupted from her hand, striking the Husk’s back. It shrieked as the runes along its spine ignited like veins of coal.

  “Rogue! Left side! Hamstring it — make it fall!”

  The masked one was already moving, darting in with twin daggers glowing dull green. He ducked beneath the Husk’s flailing arms and drove both blades into the sinews behind its knee. A dry snap echoed as the beast buckled with a roar.

  “Axe!" I commanded. “Finish the leg — take it down!”

  The boy roared and charged, burying his axe into the weakened joint with all his might. Bone cracked, and the Husk collapsed in a heap of snapping limbs, screeching in a tongue that made my runes pulse in warning.

  I didn’t wait.

  I stepped forward, lifted Vaelrend high, and with a word only the sword and I understood — "Endar Velthuun" — I brought the blade down.

  The Husk’s skull split open like wet bark. Blue fire surged from the wound and consumed the creature in a halo of crackling light. Its body twitched once, then turned to ash.

  The silence that followed was as deep as a tomb.

  Steam curled from the runes on my armor. I turned to the three adventurers, their faces pale, their chests heaving.

  “You did well,” I said. “You’ve earned breath. But we’re not done yet. There are more in the woods — lesser thralls, drawn to its scream. We hold this ground… and then you run.”

  The girl swallowed hard. “Yes, Primus.”

  Somewhere deeper in the keep, another whisper stirred.

  “He comes…”

  I reached out my left hand, fingers curled with purpose, and uttered a phrase I had carved into the very marrow of my soul:“Calgrith Domir.”

  A deep tremor rolled beneath our feet, and from my outstretched hand, a dome of silver flame burst forth — not fire to burn, but to shield. The Aegis of Vorthain, a spell of the First Circle, once gifted to me by the Seer-Priest of Ashendale. The protective field shimmered and pulsed outward, wrapping around us all like a second skin, its runes orbiting our limbs and chests.

  The air crackled with defensive magic. Arrows would shatter, curses would bend, claws would glance — for now.

  I turned sharply to the girl, who stood with her wand still warm from the last casting.

  “Mage! You’re the light here — summon the holy blaze. The real thing. Don’t shape it like a candle, shape it like judgment.”

  Her lips trembled, but she nodded, falling to her knees, fingers forming ancient glyphs mid-air as she began the Rite of Lumina Sanctra, a spell that required time — and protection.

  I spun to the rogue, who was already retreating to the twisted remnants of a crumbled wall nearby.

  “Rogue. High ground. Top of that stone arch. When I give the word, strike whatever breaks my line. No hesitation.”

  He gave a quick nod and vanished into the mist like a shadow folding inward, climbing swift and silent up the collapsed masonry.

  Finally, I turned to the axe-wielder, who looked between his companions like a hound ready to bite.

  “You. Shield the mage. Anyone or anything — and I mean anything — that gets within reach, you break its bones. Understood?”

  He thumped his chest. “By axe and blood, they’ll not touch her.”

  “Good.”

  The silver dome shimmered as distant snarls echoed from the trees. The ground vibrated with dozens of padded feet. I could already feel the lesser thralls approaching — twisted corpses of animals and men, bound by flame and hunger.

  The girl’s voice rose into a chant, the runes around her glowing gold, and the sky above began to part — not with weather, but with holy light, a crack in the veil of night.

  I planted Vaelrend in the frozen earth beside me, and the runes along the blade flared like a heartbeat.

  From the tree line, shadows broke.

  Crawling. Screaming. Charging.

  They came like a black tide, spilling from the trees — twisted thralls of rot and flame, crawling, bounding, howling with voices stolen from the dead. Limbs bent wrong, eyes glowing with ember-hate, mouths split too wide to have once been human.

  I gripped Vaelrend tight and roared, the magic within my lungs echoing through the valley like thunder:“STAND! STRIKE! HOLD THE LINE!”

  The first beast lunged — a hound-shaped thing with too many legs and ribs that jutted from its sides like knives. I met it head-on, cleaving it in two. Blue fire leapt from my blade and licked the air as I spun, letting momentum guide the next cut.

  A second one leapt. I ducked low and thrust upward — Vaelrend pierced clean through its jaw, the head erupting in light before the body even hit the ground.

  “Left flank, now!” I shouted.

  The axe-warrior bellowed and met a charging brute with a mighty overhead swing, the blade biting deep into corrupted bone. Beside him, the girl had raised a tower of radiant sigils — the final verse of her chant flaring bright as holy light exploded outward, disintegrating a dozen thralls into ash mid-leap.

  The enemy’s charge faltered.

  From above, the rogue moved. A hiss of metal, a blur of motion — his daggers found necks, eyes, spines. A thrall got too close to the mage — before I could shout, the axe was already swinging. Her protector split the creature in half with a growl and didn’t even look back.

  “Push forward!” I roared. “Don’t wait for them — finish this before the real horror hears us!”

  Vaelrend danced in my hands, not just steel but flame and memory. With each strike, the blade pulsed brighter, feeding off the ancient magic around us. Every thrall I struck burst in a blossom of blue fire, until the snow was black with soot and the ash of the cursed dead.

  The last beast limped forward — some half-human shell crawling on one arm, muttering fragments of forgotten prayers.

  I ended it with a single blow.

  Silence fell.

  The field was littered with broken monsters, smoking flesh, and runes still glowing faintly in the air from the girl’s spell. She collapsed to her knees, breath ragged. The rogue descended from the ruin’s stone like a wraith, blades slick and eyes alert. The axe-warrior planted his weapon in the dirt, heaving for air, still standing guard.

  I lifted Vaelrend, its blade smoking with power, and pointed it toward the keep.

  “I’m going in.”

  I turned back to them.

  “You did what few could. Now hold your oath — go back. Warn the guild. The Hollow Flame isn’t just alive. It’s waiting.”

  They stared, wanting to argue, but none did. They had seen what waited in the shadows. And deeper in the ruin, something far worse awaited me.

  The frost-cracked ground bore the mark of battle, blackened with ash and steaming blood. The young adventurers watched me disappear beneath the archway of Glyrhold Keep, their eyes heavy with awe, fear, and a burden they had not expected to carry when they set out. They would return to the guild — wiser, quieter.

  And I would descend alone, where the true fire waited.

  Beneath the ruin, something stirred.A name, long buried.A throne of embers.A king who had forgotten his death.

  And I — Primus, bearer of Vaelrend, exile of thrones and slayer of gods — would face him.

  One way or another, the Hollow Flame would be extinguished.

  CHAPTER II: THE THRONE BENEATH ASH

  The moment I stepped beneath the archway, Glyrhold swallowed the world behind me.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Light died. Wind ceased. Even the warmth of my breath faded as I passed into the ancient darkness of the keep’s belly — a place where time itself had splintered. The magic here was thick, coiled around the stones like a serpent asleep, dreaming of fire.

  My boots echoed against cracked blackstone, each step accompanied by the faint sigh of something deep — something watching.

  Vaelrend pulsed in my grip. The runes whispered warnings in tongues that had no sound, only meaning. I knew then this ruin wasn’t just corrupted — it had been rewritten. Warped from reality, reshaped by the will of something that once ruled flame and void.

  My voice broke the silence, low and steady.“Vaelrend… guide my strike. Shield my mind.”

  As I descended a spiral stair, the walls began to bleed symbols — faint carvings in the stone, lit from within. They told a story. A throne surrounded by flame. A king crowned in ash. A pact made with something that lived between stars. A sacrifice.

  And at the base of the stair, I found the crypt-gate.

  A vast, rusted portcullis stood locked before a cathedral-sized chamber. Beyond it, I could hear chanting — a dozen voices or more, speaking in unison, weaving a ritual with every breath.

  I stepped forward.

  A cloaked figure emerged from the gloom. Tall. Unmoving. Runes sewn into his robe burned with faint red light. His face was gone — not masked, not hidden — simply not there. Like someone had forgotten to carve it into the world.

  He raised a hand, and the chanting behind the gate faltered.

  “Primus. Flame-bearer. You are late.”

  I lifted my sword, let its blue light fill the corridor.

  “And you… still breathe.”

  The figure chuckled without a mouth.

  “Not for long. But long enough to deliver you to him.”

  The gate groaned. Chains rattled above. Something massive shifted behind it — as if a throne was standing.

  The Hollow Flame had awakened.

  The faceless herald extended one thin, robed arm toward the now-raising portcullis. Chains groaned and snapped as rust fell like dying snow. Beyond the gate, the chanting ceased, replaced by an oppressive silence so thick it gnawed at thought itself.

  “He waits. As do they.” the herald whispered.

  I stepped forward.

  The corridor widened into a vast, vaulted throne chamber, carved from obsidian and bone. Pillars etched with screaming faces stretched into darkness above, each lit with a sickly red flame that did not flicker. At the far end, elevated upon jagged steps carved from molten rock and ancient sorrow, sat the Emptied King.

  His body was a ruin of flesh and cinders. Crown of bone. Cloak of black flame. He slumped slightly, as though wearied by centuries of stillness, yet even seated he radiated a pressure that bent the air. His eyes were not eyes — but pits of smoldering void.

  And flanking him...

  I knew them.

  My breath stilled, and Vaelrend’s runes dimmed in mourning.

  They once bore my crest. Knights of the Sigil. Brothers. One in silver, the other in gold — twin paragons who had ridden with me into the Maelwood and returned with dragon-blood on their blades. They had bled for the realm. And now they descended the stairs… in silence… their armor twisted and blackened, eyes empty and flickering with red flame.

  “They remembered your strength,” the herald said behind me.“So he gave them eternity.”

  The twin kingsguard reached the lowest step. Their hands went to their weapons.

  The silver one — Sir Aldryn — once knelt beside me as I was knighted.The golden one — Vaeren — once died saving my life… or so I had thought.

  They drew their blades, black and jagged echoes of their former glory.

  Above, the Emptied King stirred.

  His voice poured through the hall, thick and ancient.“You left my flame… Primus.”“Now... burn in it.”

  I raised Vaelrend, its blue flame roaring in defiance, casting streaks of light across the black stone like starlight breaking through a storm.

  My voice echoed through the vast hall, cutting through the silence like a blade."The only one burning here… is you, fallen king."

  The Emptied King said nothing. His hollow gaze never blinked, never shifted. He simply watched — like a god observing the ants crawl toward fire.

  The two corrupted knights, once brothers-in-arms, now monsters clad in the memory of their former honor, broke into motion.

  Aldryn came from the left, his silver blade a blur — graceful, sharp, deadly. I remembered that style — I had trained it into him myself.

  Vaeren followed from the right, his golden warhammer swinging in wide, crushing arcs, meant to break not just bone but will.

  The chamber became a battlefield.

  I twisted to meet Aldryn’s strike, Vaelrend ringing out as it deflected his cursed blade in a shower of blue and crimson sparks. His face — what little remained — snarled beneath a rusted helm, eyes glowing with seething red hatred.

  “You were my brother!” I spat, pushing him back.

  Vaeren’s hammer roared in from behind — I ducked just in time, the impact cracking the obsidian floor. I spun beneath the strike, dragging Vaelrend along the ground until it arced upward in a flaming crescent, catching Aldryn across the pauldron. The blow didn’t fell him — it enraged him.

  They pressed me, together, with terrifying coordination. They still remembered how I fought. But so did I remember them.

  I feinted left, drawing Vaeren into a wide swing, then pivoted and rammed my shoulder into Aldryn, breaking his form. A sharp cut followed — his side burst in corrupted flame, but he did not fall.

  “You’re not the men I bled beside.” I growled. “You’re only echoes now.”

  I raised Vaelrend high, runes blazing with a new fury. “Then let fire cleanse what shadow has stolen.”

  With a cry that shook the chamber, I launched myself at them both — blue flame colliding with cursed steel in a clash that split the black air like thunder.

  Above, the Emptied King leaned forward on his throne, watching in perfect silence.

  

  The chamber shuddered beneath the fury of our clash — flame and shadow biting into stone, the screams of the past echoing from the very walls.

  I parried Aldryn’s overhead slash, catching it with Vaelrend and twisting hard to disarm him, just as I ducked beneath Vaeren’s hammer, the weight of his corrupted strength shattering a nearby pillar.

  I drove my boot into Aldryn’s chest, sending him skidding backward across the floor, smoke trailing from the gash in his armor.

  And then, from above —That voice.

  "Stop holding back, Primus."

  It didn’t boom. It resonated — as if spoken from inside my skull, echoing through every old wound I carried.

  The Emptied King leaned forward on his obsidian throne, one hand resting lightly on the armrest, the other extended slightly, fingers curled like he was tasting my soul in his palm.

  His voice slithered through the hall like fire through dry leaves.

  "You shine like a flame caged in its own fear.""Where is the wrath that burned the Wyrm of Harkesh? The fury that broke the Mire? The man who turned his sword against gods and kings alike?"

  A single ember dropped from his cloak and hissed upon the stone.

  "Show me what you are.""Show me what you still are."

  I stood still for a heartbeat. My chest heaved. The corrupted knights circled, hesitant now.

  I looked up at the throne, past the crown of bone, past the veil of black fire, into the emptiness that used to be a man.

  And I felt it — that ancient fury I buried beneath duty.The memory of betrayal.Of the brotherhood lost.Of the flames I refused to unleash, fearing what I might become.

  I gripped Vaelrend in both hands. The sword answered — runes erupting into a storm of light, blue and crimson flames now roaring together in harmony. The chamber wind howled as my power surged, shaking the very walls.

  I spoke not as a knight. Not as a hero. But as the executioner of kings.

  "Then burn with me."

  Flame erupted from my blade — not conjured, not summoned, but released.

  It had been waiting.

  The True Fire, locked within Vaelrend since the day I forged it beside the Astral Forge with the blood of three gods and the vow of one man. It poured out of me now in roaring arcs, a tide of pure will, searing away shadow, lighting the throne hall in a blaze that defied the void.

  The two kingsguard staggered.

  Aldryn dropped his blade.

  Vaeren fell to one knee.

  The fire did not touch them — not yet. But their corrupted armor hissed and cracked as the memory within them stirred. The curse trembled beneath the weight of who they once were.

  And then… I saw it.

  Behind the flickering red glow in Aldryn’s eyes… a flicker of pain.Recognition.Regret.

  “Primus…” he breathed, voice broken and gravel-thick.“I… remember…”

  Vaeren clutched his helm, red light spilling from the gaps.“We rode together. The black banners of Tormath… the charge at Hollowmere…”

  The Hollow Flame faltered in them — for just a moment.

  But atop the throne, the King did not move.

  The cloak of black fire wrapped tighter around him as if bracing for the end. His skeletal hand tapped once upon the obsidian armrest, and for the first time in centuries, he smiled — though it held no warmth.

  "What took you so long… my knight?"

  His voice was quiet now.Not a taunt.Not a threat.But a whisper from the corpse of a man who once called me brother.

  I stepped forward, flames parting before me, Vaelrend now a storm of light in my hands.

  “I had to bury everything you killed.”“But I’ve dug it up now. And I’m here to finish it.”

  The air went still.

  Aldryn and Vaeren knelt behind me, silent — not allies, not enemies, but memories watching their end approach.

  The Emptied King rose at last.Tall.Ancient.Burning.

  The obsidian throne cracked under his weight as the Emptied King stood fully for the first time in centuries.

  Fire surged around him in ribbons of black and crimson, his tattered royal cloak erupting in ash. In his gauntlet he raised the Broken Sword of Solvar, its edge jagged, stained with the blood of the realm it once ruled. Each step he took rang with ancient power, with sorrow, with the twisted pride of a monarch who had damned everything — and who now sought to die not as a monster, but as a king.

  He lifted the blade high and roared:

  "I AM VORTHAR THE LAST!HIGH KING OF THE FLAME-SCORNED THRONES!THE EMBERLORD OF THE EMPTY CROWN!"

  And he charged.

  Like a tidal wave of fire and despair, he came at me — not with the hollow strength of a cursed wretch, but with the burning soul of the man I once called commander.

  I stepped forward to meet him, lowering Vaelrend until the blade carved into the stone beneath my feet, the heat seething through the air like a furnace unleashed. My voice thundered from the core of my being — not just defiance, not rage, but purpose.

  “I AM PRIMUS!SWORD OF THE EXILED SIGIL!THE LAST KNIGHT OF THE NINTH ORDER!BETRAYER OF KINGS — AND EXECUTIONER OF GODS!"

  We collided in a blaze that sundered the world.

  Vaelrend met the broken royal sword with a scream of metal and magic, the clash erupting in a shockwave that shattered pillars and ripped the scream from the very air. Stone walls cracked. Fire coiled around us like dragons in combat.

  I brought my blade down again — this time, not to wound.

  To end.

  The sword of Vorthar shattered in his hand. His body burned from the inside out, but he did not cry out. He laughed — a choked, broken thing, filled with both pride and sorrow.

  His knees hit the floor first. Then his hand. Then… nothing.

  Behind me, Aldryn and Vaeren still knelt — heads bowed, silent tears hissing against their steaming armor, not from pain… but from memory. They did not resist the fire as it crept over them, blue and gentle now, a flame of release. Their curses unbound.

  At the edge of the chamber, the herald fell to his knees, robes billowing as the dark runes faded from his body. He watched the ashes drift upward, hands clasped over his hollow face, whispering a prayer that had not been spoken since the world was young.

  The throne was empty now.

  The fire had ended.

  And with it, the last king of the Hollow Flame.

  The chamber, once filled with the screams of battle and the roar of unbound flame, now lay in profound, sacred silence.

  Ash drifted gently through the air, glowing like fireflies caught in mourning. The jagged obsidian stones still pulsed with fading heat, and Vaelrend, once a burning beacon of fury, now shimmered softly at my side—its hunger sated.

  I stood before the blackened remnants of Vorthar, the Emptied King.

  He had died not screaming, but kneeling. A sovereign of flame who had sought one final act of honor, and in doing so, had earned it. There was no glory in his fall—only truth.

  And before his scattered embers, I knelt.

  I laid Vaelrend across my knees and bowed my head, not for the tyrant he became, but for the man he once was… and for the two knights who had followed me into fire, into betrayal, into silence—and now, into peace.

  “Sleep, Aldryn. Sleep, Vaeren,” I whispered.“You kept your oath. And I remember you.”

  Their armor hissed softly as the blue fire consumed the last of the curse, leaving behind only armor… and honor.

  I rose slowly and turned.

  At the far end of the hall, the Herald remained kneeling, his hood cast back, his faceless void tilted upward, still murmuring that forgotten prayer—one of service, of sorrow, of farewell.

  He sensed me approach and bowed lower, pressing both palms to the stone floor.

  “He is gone,” the Herald said, voice quivering. “And with him, my purpose. I was made to serve the flame. It has died.”

  He lifted his head—not with defiance, not with fear, but with a quiet acceptance.

  “Let me join him, knight.Let me end with him.There is no name for a herald without a king.”

  The silence returned, waiting for judgment.

  I stood over him, the warmth of Vaelrend at my back, its light casting long shadows over the ancient stone.

  I stood over the Herald, motionless, as silence filled the crumbling throne chamber like the last breath of a dying song. The flicker of embers curled upward from the ashes of kings. The blue fire around Vaelrend had dimmed to a gentle glow — like a hearth’s flame, not a weapon’s blaze.

  The Herald waited, head bowed, expecting my sword. Expecting an ending.

  But I did not move.Not for a long time.

  Then finally, my voice broke the stillness — low, steady, and carrying weight not of war… but of memory.

  "Vorthar was not always a king of ashes."

  The Herald’s head tilted, ever so slightly.

  "He once stood tall beneath the banners of five realms, wearing a mantle not of flame, but of justice. I remember him at the summit of Dawnspire, holding his newborn son, whispering hopes into the wind."

  I stepped past the Herald, gazing up at the now-vacant throne.

  "He once rode beside me to the borders of Ysmar, where a plague had taken hold of the villages. He dismounted, not with armor, but with bread. He carried the sick in his arms."

  The flames on the wall grew softer as I spoke, as though the stones themselves remembered.

  "And Aldryn…" I continued, voice tightening. "He was once a farmboy with nothing but a stick and a will of iron. He trained until his hands bled just to earn his place in the Ninth Order."

  "Vaeren was the drunkard’s son who taught himself swordwork by shadow. He saved a town of strangers before he'd ever wielded a real blade."

  I turned to the Herald now, looking down at the hollow where a face should be.

  "You were there, weren’t you?" I asked gently."Before the flames, before the madness. You sang their praises in courts and councils. You were the one who reminded him of his people's names when his grief grew too heavy to speak."

  The Herald did not reply. But the prayer had stopped.

  "You think your purpose died with his crown," I said."But it didn’t."

  I reached down — not with Vaelrend, not with threat — but with an open, ungloved hand.

  "Come with me.""Walk with me beyond these walls.Speak his name not as a tyrant, but as the man he once was.Let the world remember him for that — for who we knew.Let us carry his story as it should have ended…With honor.”

  The Herald trembled.

  Then slowly — hesitantly — he raised a hand of his own.

  And placed it in mine.

  The ruin groaned.

  Stones above cracked and split, ancient supports finally succumbing to the weight of forgotten sins. The fire that had once been a throne now dimmed to dying embers, no longer fueled by madness, no longer chained by wrath. The magic that had bound Glyrhold together—twisted and fueled by the Hollow Flame—was unraveling.

  And still, the Herald held my hand.

  His faceless void shimmered, and slowly, like mist being pulled from a mirror, his face began to return.

  Eyes first — soft, weathered, deep with sorrow and light. Then skin, pale and creased with time. And finally a gentle smile, the kind worn only by those who had lived too long and had loved something too dearly.

  He looked at me — not as a servant, not as a wretch — but as a man.

  “Thank you, Primus,” he said quietly, his voice no longer a hollow echo but human, steady.“Thank you for giving my brother… and me… warmth in our final hour. Even after we were lost.”

  The rumbling deepened.

  “You offered me a new life,” he continued, voice soft as falling ash. “But I was forged for the throne. And as it falls, so do I.”

  I gripped his hand tighter. But he simply smiled again — not with sadness, but peace.

  “Remember him. And remember me too.”

  "...."

  I nodded.

  “Always.”

  And then I bowed — not as a warrior, but as a brother-in-arms to another.

  The Herald stepped backward into the chamber, as stone rained from above and flame licked the edges of the hall. His robes fluttered as though caught in wind that no longer blew, and within seconds, the ruin collapsed around him, a silent, final burial for a king, his knights, and the last of his blood.

  I walked out alone.

  And when I stepped through the shattered archway into the gray morning light, Glyrhold was no more.

  Where once stood a monument to pride and pain, now remained only stone and silence.

  I drew the Broken Sword of Vorthar, its weight still noble despite its ruin. I drove it into the earth — not in rage, not as a trophy… but as a marker.

  A gravestone.

  And I whispered a single word to the wind:"Rest."

  My black warhorse awaited, faithful still. I mounted and turned toward the road, the weight on my shoulders somehow lighter — not from loss, but from closure. My oath had been kept.

  By dusk, I rode beneath the iron gates of the Guild of the Ember Crest, where lanterns burned warm against the twilight.

  The courtyard erupted into life.

  The three young adventurers I had once led stood at the entrance — the girl in blue rushing forward, eyes wide with disbelief, followed closely by the axe-boy and the rogue, his scarf now drawn respectfully down.

  Behind them, dozens of guild members looked on, whispering, wide-eyed.

  And then, from the stone steps, the Guildmaster descended — a man of silver hair and steel eyes, who had once served under Vorthar himself in a younger age. He stopped before me.

  “Is it done?”

  I dismounted. My armor still smoked with fire. My sword still bore ash.

  “The Hollow Flame is gone.”“The king… is at peace.”

  The Guildmaster placed a hand on my shoulder. “And you, Primus? What of your oath?”

  I looked toward the horizon.

  The burden I carried was still there. But now, beside it, was honor.

  “Fulfilled,” I said.

  And for the first time in a long, long while…

  …I smiled.