The tide had turned.
Kaelen felt it not in the water that churned at their feet, but in the air — thick with salt and omen. The moon hung low and swollen above the sea, a pale eye in the heavens, and the stars whispered as they passed beneath them.
They stood on the black coast of the drowned kingdom, where once the towers of Iskaran had stretched toward the sky like spears of pearl. Now they were broken spires, their roots buried in brine, their tops cracked by centuries of tides.
Iskaran had not merely sunk — it had wept its way into the sea. The ghost of a kingdom, shattered by pride and sealed beneath waves that never truly slept.
Aelric let out a slow breath, eyes narrowing as he surveyed the bay. "This place smells wrong."
Kaelen didn't answer. His fingers were curled tightly around the hilt of his father's sword, the Ember glowing low against his chest. It had been pulsing since they left Halvyr Keep — faster now, more urgent, as if the very stones of Iskaran remembered the fire.
The tide revealed a stone path only at moonrise — just as the old texts had warned. Slippery, jagged steps led them down into the ocean, winding between reefs that seemed almost shaped by hand. Between every crest and hollow, statues jutted from the waves — half-submerged, salt-eaten visages with blind eyes and open mouths.
"This was a city," said Lys, her voice low. "Not just a kingdom. Look at the carvings — these weren't ruins. They were temples. Thrones."
Kaelen nodded. "A sunken sanctum."
As they descended, the world grew quieter. The crash of the sea dulled into a low, rhythmic murmur. The moon's light painted the submerged road in silver and shadow, and the deeper they went, the more they saw.
Coral grew over shattered bridges. Lanterns, sealed in ancient glass, flickered faintly with blue flame. The bones of drowned royalty lay draped across cracked mosaics — skeletons still clad in rusted armor, blades fused with barnacle and blood-iron.
And in the deepest part of the city, where the light barely reached, rose the monolith.
It was not built. It had grown — black stone shot through with veins of pearl, forming a tower that bent unnaturally toward the sea's edge. And within it, sealed by magic older than the stars, was the Third Crown.
Aelric exhaled. "How in the hells are we supposed to get inside that?"
Kaelen stepped forward. The Ember in his chest flared with sudden heat — not angry, but welcoming. A resonance. Like something inside the monolith knew him.
He reached out.
The stone breathed.
A ripple of pressure slammed outward, knocking all three to their knees. Water spiraled upward like reversed rain. From the mouth of the monolith, voices emerged — layered, ancient, and discordant:
"You wear the flame. But do you bear the cost?"
Kaelen stood. "I do."
"Do you remember the pact?"
He hesitated. "Not yet."
"Then remember in pain."
The ground cracked. From beneath the waves, the Hollowborn rose.
Not like before — not shadows or whispers, but full and terrible things. Wreathed in kelp and rusted mail, eyes glowing with voidlight, they marched in silence through the water as if the sea bowed to them.
Dozens. Then hundreds.
Kaelen drew his sword.
Aelric cursed beside him. "Well, that answers that."
The battle exploded like a storm.
Kaelen met the first wave with fire. The Ember surged, wreathing his blade in golden flame, cutting through rot and bone like cloth. Every strike burned brighter. The Hollowborn fell in heaps — screaming, clawing, dissolving into ash.
But more came.
They fell upon Lys, dragging her beneath the surface — until she unleashed a surge of warding magic that turned the sea itself against them. Lightning danced along the waves, singing the air.
Aelric moved like wind, blades in both hands, cutting down enemy after enemy, blood and seawater clinging to his cloak like a second skin.
Kaelen fought his way to the monolith, step by agonizing step. The closer he came, the louder the voices grew. Inside his head. Inside his bones.
"You were king once, child of fire. You broke the world. Will you rebuild it, or burn it again?"
He reached the gate.
Placed a palm against the seal.
And remembered.
A flash — a throne room ablaze, nine crowns melting into gold. A woman, dark-eyed, dying. The Ember in his hand, burning through flesh and oath alike.
He screamed — not from pain, but from knowing.
Then the door opened.
The Hollowborn shrieked and fell back, as light poured from the monolith — pure, searing light that washed over the sea like a second moonrise. They fled into the depths, howling.
Kaelen stepped through the veil.
The chamber within was dry, silent, perfect.
And floating above a pedestal of bone and crystal was the Crown of Iskaran — wrought from deepsteel and shimmering with a tide-bound gleam. It pulsed in harmony with the Ember.
Kaelen approached, reached out.
The Crown did not resist.
When his fingers closed around it, the world shuddered. The sea roared. The stars dimmed. And in a place far beneath time, the Hollow King opened his eyes once more — not in fury, but in recognition.
He remembers.
Kaelen staggered back, the Crown in hand. The weight of memory surged in his veins.
He turned to his friends. "We need to leave. Now."
And behind them, in the depths of Iskaran, something else stirred. Watching. Waiting.
Not all that was drowned had died.