Chapter 3: The Prophecy of the Hollow King

  "The gods whispered of a prophecy, but no one listened until it was too late..."

  Scene 1: The Storm in the Sky, the Whisper in the Dark

  The storm gathered on the horizon, its shape twisting like a living thing, dark fingers clawing toward the heavens. The people of Albion stood in the streets, their faces turned skyward, whispering prayers beneath their breath.

  The gods had sent a warning.

  The high towers of the Grand Temple of Albion loomed over the capital, their spires carved with ancient runes that had stood unbroken for centuries. Within those sacred halls, the High Priests had gathered, their robes trailing over polished stone, their voices hushed but urgent.

  At the head of the chamber, beneath a vaulted ceiling painted with constellations of long-dead kings, sat King Eldric the Just. His expression was unreadable, his fingers steepled before him as he listened to the frantic words of the temple’s highest seers.

  The great brass braziers burned low, casting long shadows against the gilded pillars.

  The head priest, an aged man with a voice like crumbling parchment, spoke first. “The signs are clear, my king. The prophecy is unfolding.”

  A murmur rippled through the gathered priests.

  Eldric’s gaze remained fixed. “The prophecy?”

  The priest nodded gravely. “The Hollow King.”

  Silence fell like a blade.

  A young woman stood off to the side, her arms crossed, watching the exchange with sharp, unreadable eyes. Astrid Ravenshield, daughter of Albion’s greatest general, a strategist in her own right.

  She had heard these whispers before.

  She stepped forward now, her voice cool. “Tell me, high priest—how long has this prophecy existed?”

  The priest turned toward her, eyes narrowing. “Since the time before time.”

  Astrid arched a brow. “And now, suddenly, it is unfolding?”

  The priest scowled. “Do not mock the gods, Lady Ravenshield.”

  Astrid tilted her head. “I mock nothing. I simply question why the gods did not see fit to intervene until now.”

  Another murmur.

  Eldric leaned forward, studying the priests. “What does this prophecy say?”

  The aged priest hesitated only a moment before speaking.

  “A warrior will rise from the storm, clad in the fury of the sea. He will defy the gods, break the old order, and bring ruin to the divine.”**

  The brazier flames flickered as if stirred by unseen hands.

  Eldric’s expression did not change. “And this warrior?”

  The priest’s voice dropped to a whisper. “He is not yet risen, but he is coming. The gods have seen it.”

  A long silence stretched through the temple.

  Then Eldric exhaled, his voice calm. “And what would you have me do?”

  The priest’s lips pressed thin. “He must be stopped before he reaches these shores.”

  Astrid folded her arms, her mind racing.

  So.

  This was not a prophecy.

  This was a preemptive strike.

  She glanced at her king, measuring his reaction. Eldric was not a man easily swayed by fear. But there was something in his eyes—something calculating.

  The storm outside rumbled, thunder rolling over the city like a distant drumbeat of war.

  Eldric leaned back, considering. “We do not even know his name.”

  The priest’s voice wavered. “We will soon.”

  The temple doors creaked open, a gust of cold wind rushing in.

  And for the first time since the meeting began—the fire in the braziers flickered, then died.

  The gods had already made their choice.

  Scene 2: A Bargain with the Divine

  The dream was not a dream.

  Ragnor knew it the moment the world shifted around him, the edges of his vision blurred like ripples upon a still lake. He stood within a vast, empty space—an expanse of swirling mist and endless sky, neither land nor sea beneath his feet.

  And before him, a figure stepped from the light.

  It wore the shape of a man, but it was not a man. Its form flickered, shifting between golden radiance and shadow, its face unreadable, its presence vast and suffocating.

  The gods had come.

  The figure’s voice was smooth, calm, and far too human. “Ragnor Frostborn.”

  Ragnor did not move. He did not kneel.

  “What are you?”

  The figure smiled—or at least, it did something that resembled a smile.

  “A messenger. A voice of those who shaped the world before your kind set foot upon it.”

  The air hummed with power.

  Ragnor’s fingers curled into fists. “The gods.”

  “If that is what you wish to call us.”

  The figure took a slow step forward. The mist parted beneath its feet, and suddenly, the world was not empty.

  A city rose from the fog, its towers bathed in golden light, its streets lined with banners bearing Ragnor’s sigil—the Stormborn crest, emblazoned upon the banners of a kingdom that did not yet exist.

  A throne stood at the end of a long hall, carved from black stone, its seat adorned with silver and gold. It was a warrior’s throne, a conqueror’s seat.

  The figure gestured to it. “This is yours.”

  Ragnor’s breath was steady, but inside, his blood ran colder than the northern winds.

  “I have no kingdom.”

  The figure’s smile widened. “Not yet.”

  The sky darkened around them, flickering with unseen power.

  “You do not have to suffer.” The voice was soft now, patient, almost kind. “You do not have to bleed. You do not have to fight. The gods will grant you a throne, a kingdom, a dynasty.”

  A golden crown shimmered into existence above the throne, its light reflecting in the air like a star suspended in the void.

  “Bow, and you will rule the world.”

  Ragnor’s heart pounded against his ribs.

  He saw it now—the trap. The truth beneath the illusion.

  The gods were not warning him.

  They were bargaining.

  Ragnor exhaled slowly, stepping forward. The figure did not move, waiting, expectant.

  Then, in a voice as steady as the tide, he spoke.

  “A throne given is a leash.”

  His fingers brushed the hilt of his sword.

  “A throne taken is a crown.”

  The golden light flickered. The warmth in the air turned cold.

  The figure’s smile faded.

  “You do not understand what you are refusing.”

  Ragnor’s grip tightened. “Oh, I understand well enough.”

  The illusion trembled. The golden city cracked. The sky above splintered like shattered glass, the throne crumbling to dust before his eyes.

  And for the first time, the figure’s voice was not calm.

  It was cold.

  “Then you will be destroyed.”

  A wave of power surged toward him, blinding light swallowing the world—

  And Ragnor woke.

  His breath came hard, his skin cold, his chest rising and falling beneath the weight of something unseen. The night was silent around him, the only sound the distant crash of waves.

  But the air was different now.

  Something had shifted.

  The gods had come to him.

  And now, they would come for him.

  Scene 3: Selene’s First Doubt

  The tide whispered against the shore, its rhythm steady, relentless. The sky was a deep canvas of dark clouds, still swirling with the remnants of last night’s storm. The air was thick with salt, with the weight of something unspoken.

  Ragnor stood alone at the edge of the sea, staring toward the vast unknown. His arms were folded across his chest, his expression carved from stone.

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  He had not slept.

  Selene found him there, watching, waiting, listening.

  She approached slowly, her footsteps soundless against the damp sand. The warriors had begun moving inland, setting up temporary shelters and scouting the ruins further up the coastline. But Ragnor had remained behind, unshaken, unmoving.

  For a long moment, she stood beside him in silence. Then, at last, she spoke.

  "You did not sleep."

  Ragnor did not look at her. "No."

  Selene hesitated. "What did you see?"

  He was silent.

  Selene studied him, watching the way the sea wind stirred his dark hair, the way his shoulders were tense beneath his cloak. She had fought beside this man, bled beside him, followed him across a cursed sea to a land they had never seen. But something was different now.

  Something had changed.

  She knew it the moment she looked into his eyes.

  "You do not trust the gods."**

  It was not a question.

  Ragnor finally turned to her, his gaze steady. His voice was calm. Certain. Unyielding.

  "No."

  Selene frowned. "Why?"

  The silence between them stretched. Then, finally, Ragnor spoke.

  "Because they fear me." His eyes darkened. "And what kind of god fears a mortal?"

  Selene inhaled sharply. A cold knot twisted in her stomach.

  She had grown up believing in the gods. She had whispered their names before battle, carved their runes into her blade. They were the sky, the storm, the unseen hands that shaped the fates of men.

  And yet—they had come to Ragnor. Not to bless him. Not to guide him. But to stop him.

  Selene did not speak.

  For the first time, she did not know what she believed.

  Scene 4: The Architects’ Watchful Eye

  Far beyond mortal sight, deep within the bones of the world, something stirred.

  The chamber was vast, carved from black stone that swallowed the torchlight and whispered of ancient things. Walls lined with relics of lost empires, tomes bound in leather older than the gods themselves, sigils that pulsed with forgotten power.

  At the heart of it all sat a man who was not a man.

  The Architect.

  He leaned forward over a stone basin, his sharp fingers tracing the swirling mist that danced across its surface. The images flickered—Ragnor standing upon the shore, rejecting the gods, the storm gathering over Albion.

  A small smile touched his lips.

  A voice from the shadows. "It has begun."

  The Architect did not look up.

  Another figure knelt before him, cloaked in darkness, its face unseen. "The gods have moved against him," the voice said. "Shall we?"

  The Architect tilted his head, considering. His gaze returned to the basin, watching as Ragnor’s fate unraveled, a thread slipping through divine fingers.

  "No."

  The figure hesitated. "But if he is the one—"

  The Architect’s gaze sharpened, silencing the question before it could be asked.

  "The gods do not fear the warrior." His voice was soft, yet it filled the chamber. "They fear the flood."

  His fingers dipped into the basin, disturbing the mist.

  The images blurred, twisted, darkened.

  "Let the storm break the dam," the Architect murmured. His lips curved in amusement. "Let him believe he is free."

  The kneeling figure hesitated, then bowed lower. "As you wish."

  The chamber grew silent again, save for the quiet hum of something ancient waiting beneath the surface of time.

  The Architect watched, patient as the tide, as the gods made their move.

  Then, as if speaking to no one at all, he murmured, “And yet, even they do not see the whole board.”

  The kneeling figure did not dare respond.

  The Architect only smiled, his fingers brushing against the swirling mist in the basin. The gods had played their move. Now, he would wait for the Hollow King to make his.

  Scene 5: The Gods' True Fear

  The sacred halls of the Grand Temple of Albion stood silent, the air thick with the weight of divine presence. A thousand candles burned upon the altar, their flames bending unnaturally, as if responding to something unseen.

  The High Priests knelt before the golden statue of the All-Father, their foreheads pressed to the cold marble floor. The scent of incense filled the air—thick, heady, suffocating.

  And then the gods spoke.

  A tremor ran through the temple, deep and resonant. The candles flared, their flames turning black for a single breath before returning to gold.

  The voice that filled the chamber was not a voice at all.

  It was a command. A warning. A certainty.

  "Ragnor Frostborn is not a mere man."

  The priests did not raise their heads.

  "He is an event. He is a consequence."

  A shadow flickered over the golden statue, its form twisting, shifting, warping into something unrecognizable before vanishing.

  One of the younger priests shuddered. "But… but he is only a warlord. A raider."

  The divine presence grew heavier. The walls trembled.

  "No."

  A gust of wind surged through the temple, snuffing out half the candles in an instant. The air turned frigid.

  "He is the Hollow King."

  A long silence stretched through the chamber.

  The head priest finally raised his face, his expression lined with dread.

  "And what must be done?"

  A single word thundered through the temple.

  "Erasure."

  The priests flinched.

  "He must not reach Albion. His name must be stricken from time. His warriors must be dust. His people must be forgotten."

  The temple doors creaked open on their own, spilling golden light into the night.

  The gods had spoken.

  There was no war to be won.

  Only a man to erase.

  Scene 6: The Gods Declare War

  The Grand Temple of Albion was silent.

  The air was thick with the weight of unseen hands, of fate twisting itself into something new. The golden light of the altar flickered, shadows stretching unnaturally, cast by flames that had begun to burn colder than before.

  At the center of it all stood King Eldric the Just.

  His fingers rested upon the arm of his throne, his expression unreadable as he watched the divine messenger before him.

  The figure was neither fully man nor fully light, its edges shifting, its face half-hidden beneath a veil of shifting fire.

  And when it spoke, the words burned.

  “Ragnor Frostborn will not reach Albion.”

  Eldric’s jaw tightened. “You are certain.”

  The messenger’s form flickered, shifting like the dying embers of a great flame. "His name will be lost. His warriors will be dust. His people will be forgotten."

  A long silence followed. The assembled High Priests bowed their heads lower, their bodies hunched beneath the weight of the divine decree.

  Eldric’s fingers drummed against the armrest of his seat.

  "And if he reaches our shores?"

  The messenger’s form pulsed, a shimmer of light twisting into something sharper. “Then the order of the world is broken.”

  Eldric exhaled slowly, his mind working behind his steady gaze.

  His people had followed the gods for generations, had whispered their names before battle, had carved their runes into steel and stone. But now—now the gods spoke of a man as if he were a force beyond their control.

  He could feel the weight of something unnatural settling over the world.

  He did not like it.

  And neither, it seemed, did Astrid Ravenshield.

  She stood in the shadows of the great hall, her keen eyes studying the flickering form of the divine messenger. A strategist’s mind was never still, never unquestioning, and now she saw something that made her uneasy.

  The gods did not command.

  They pleaded.

  Astrid took a slow step forward, the polished stone cool beneath her boots. "Can he not be reasoned with?"

  The messenger did not turn its gaze toward her.

  It only spoke again, its voice colder. “The Hollow King does not bargain.”

  Astrid’s lips pressed together.

  Neither do you, she thought.

  The gods were not negotiating. They were moving out of fear.

  And fear made men—and gods—desperate.

  The messenger lifted its hands. The very air in the temple darkened, trembling beneath the force of something greater.

  King Eldric’s gaze flickered toward his war council. Men who had served him for decades, now looking upon the divine decree with troubled expressions.

  At last, he spoke. “If the gods wish to strike him from time, then we must act swiftly.” His voice was steady, but cold. “Double the patrols along the coast. Reinforce the strongholds. Summon every banner.”

  One of the high priests turned to him, brow furrowed. “You prepare as if for siege.”

  Eldric’s fingers tightened on the arm of his throne. “No.” His gaze was unreadable. “I prepare as if the gods are wrong.”

  And far away—across the sea, across the ruins of a forgotten island—a storm began to form.

  Not of wind.

  Not of rain.

  Of fate itself.

  Scene 7: The Storm Breaks

  The sky turned black.

  Not with the slow creeping of dusk, nor the heavy shroud of a gathering storm—this darkness came unnaturally, sudden and absolute, blotting out the sun in a way that made men’s hearts pound in their chests.

  The Stormborn warriors stood scattered across the shoreline, their arms weary but ready, their eyes lifted toward the sky where lightning forked in unnatural silence.

  And then—it came.

  The first crack of thunder shattered the air like a war-drum, and with it, the sea itself convulsed. Waves rose higher than they should, crashing against the jagged rocks of the island’s cursed shore, as if the ocean had come alive in fury.

  A scream. One of the warriors was pulled beneath the water, his body swallowed by the waves before any could reach him. Another lightning strike, another ship burning, the scent of charred wood and flesh thick in the air.

  They were not just being punished. They were being unmade.

  Ragnor stood at the front, feet planted firm, his cloak snapping violently behind him in the unnatural wind. He felt it.

  This was not a storm of nature.

  This was an execution.

  A second bolt of lightning split the sky, striking one of the remaining ships still moored in the water. The impact sent an explosion of splintered wood and fire into the air, warriors shouting as the sea swallowed the wreckage whole.

  Sigurd stepped forward beside him, eyes narrowed against the whipping rain. “This is not the work of men.”

  Ragnor’s jaw clenched. “No. It is not.”

  Another ship was hit. Then another. Each strike precise. Calculated. Chosen.

  The gods were not warning him anymore.

  They were erasing him.

  Selene appeared at his side, her breath coming hard, her golden hair drenched from the storm. Her voice was tight, edged with something new—doubt.

  "They have already decided." She exhaled sharply, looking at him. "They will not wait."

  The words should have made Ragnor hesitate.

  They did not.

  He turned his gaze skyward, watching as the storm howled above him, as the gods flexed their wrath upon the world.

  He lifted his hand, fingers brushing the hilt of his sword.

  And for the first time in his life—he did not fear the sky.

  He defied it.

  Scene 8: The Hollow King’s Choice

  The storm raged, tearing at the island like a living thing. Waves crashed against the jagged cliffs, sending salt and spray high into the air, while the wind howled through the broken ruins that stood as remnants of a civilization long forgotten.

  The Stormborn warriors had scattered, seeking shelter from the wrath of the heavens. But not Ragnor.

  He stood within the remains of an ancient temple, its great stone pillars cracked but unbowed, its carvings eroded by time but still whispering of something old, something lost. The firelight flickered, casting long shadows across the worn walls.

  And across from him, Eira watched.

  The strange woman, bound and captured during the last raid, sat against a fallen column, her red hair damp, her golden eyes sharp even in the dim light. She did not tremble. She did not plead.

  She simply watched.

  Selene stood beside Ragnor, arms crossed, her expression troubled. She had fought gods before—but this? This was different.

  For the first time, she had seen fear in the eyes of the divine.

  She turned to Ragnor, voice quiet but steady.

  "You saw them."

  Ragnor did not respond.

  "You felt them," she pressed. "How do you fight the sky itself?"

  The firelight flickered, twisting shadows across the temple floor.

  Ragnor clenched his fists, the memory of the gods’ voice still coiled like smoke in his mind. The offer. The warning. The promise of erasure.

  Then, at last, he exhaled.

  "I do not have to fight the sky." His voice was calm, steady as the tide.

  He turned toward Selene, his gaze hard as iron.

  "I only have to make them bleed."

  A sharp inhale. Selene stiffened, but said nothing.

  From the corner of the temple, Eira smiled.

  For the first time since she had been taken captive, she spoke.

  "And that," she murmured, "is why you are the Hollow King."

  Scene 9: The First War Cry

  The storm had passed.

  Or rather, it had moved on, leaving the island behind as if its wrath had not been fully spent. The black clouds churned on the horizon, twisting toward Albion like a beast scenting blood, and the air still crackled with unnatural tension.

  The Stormborn stood scattered among the ruins, their bodies bruised and their spirits shaken. Some had been lost to the waves. Some had been lost to something else.

  And yet—Ragnor stood.

  He walked through the wreckage of their makeshift camp, his boots crunching over the broken stone, his warriors watching him in silence. Their faces were shadowed, their gazes uncertain.

  Even the boldest among them had felt it—the hand of the divine, moving against them.

  Ragnor stopped before what remained of their fire, its embers glowing faintly in the morning light.

  He turned to face them.

  His voice, when it came, was not loud. It did not need to be.

  "The gods struck first."

  The warriors stirred, eyes snapping toward him.

  "Now, we strike back."

  For a heartbeat, there was silence.

  Ragnor’s warriors did not respond immediately. The sea breeze carried the scent of death, the wreckage of their fleet floating in the shallows, the bodies of warriors they had called brothers now lost to the storm’s wrath.

  Some clenched their fists, their eyes shadowed with grief. Some looked to the sky, as if wondering if their defiance would only bring another storm.

  And then, one voice—a single warrior, young and scarred—roared.

  Another joined. And another. Until the cliffs of the island trembled with their defiance.

  They did not kneel.

  They would not kneel.

  Then a roar split the air.

  The Stormborn raised their weapons, crying out, defying the sky itself. Their voices echoed through the ruins, across the jagged cliffs, across the open sea where the gods had thought to end them.

  Ragnor did not smile.

  He did not look toward the heavens.

  He had already made his choice.

  And the gods—they had made theirs.

  Far beyond the cheering warriors, standing apart from the rest, Sigurd watched.

  He did not lift his blade.

  He did not raise his voice.

  Instead, he tilted his head, eyes narrowed as he studied his brother.

  "So, he embraces it after all." His voice was soft, meant for no ears but his own.

  His fingers curled at his sides, his grip tightening.

  "But who is truly pulling his strings?"

  The storm had broken.

  The war had begun.