The classroom smelled of parchment and chalk dust, sunlight filtering through tall arched windows. Shelves of old tomes lined the walls, and a map of the ancient kingdoms hung near the front, its edges frayed.
Professor Maelor stood at the lectern, his robes gathered neatly, spectacles perched low on his nose. He had the calm patience of a man who had seen too many students fall asleep during lectures. Today, however, the class was unusually attentive.
Not because of him, but because of Clem.
She raised her hand, her voice steady and clear. "Professor… what exactly are the Hollow Ones? Why are they hunting us? And…" Her eyes flicked briefly toward Alaric, then back. "Who was Eryndor?"
The room stilled. Students leaned forward, whispers dying instantly.
Professor Maelor's lips pressed into a thin line. For a long moment, he said nothing, simply gazing at Clem as though weighing whether the truth was too heavy for the classroom. Finally, he sighed and set his chalk aside.
"You ask dangerous questions," he said quietly. "But perhaps the time has come for dangerous answers."
He paced slowly before the blackboard, hands clasped behind his back.
"In the beginning, before the schools, before the kingdoms, there was only the Creator. From His breath came light, from His shadow came dark, and from both, the world was woven. He did not shape it alone. His children — the Firstborn — carried fragments of His essence. Some bore only light. Some bore only shadow. And a rare few bore both."
The room hung on his every word.
"These Firstborn became our ancestors. Their blood shaped kingdoms, their powers forged schools like ours. But…" He stopped, his expression hardening. "Not all walked the path of balance."
Clem leaned forward. "What happened?"
Professor Maelor's voice dropped lower, carrying the weight of tragedy.
"One of the Firstborn was Eryndor. Gifted with both light and shadow, he was meant to be balance incarnate. But balance is fragile. He envied the gods who looked down upon him. He envied the mortals who worshipped others but not him. And so envy turned to ambition. Ambition turned to hunger. He sought not harmony, but dominion."
He turned to the blackboard, drawing a simple crown with chalk.
"Eryndor bent his power inward, feeding shadow with light and light with shadow until they twisted into something new — something no one else could command. He became the first Hollow King. The Hollow Ones, faceless and endless, were born from his corrupted essence. They were not creatures of flesh, but fragments of his broken will, unleashed to devour souls and fill his ranks."
Alaric's chest tightened. He remembered the whispers in the crypt, the faceless figures bowing to him.
Professor Maelor continued.
"Eryndor waged war against the schools, against the gods themselves. He claimed their teachings were lies, that they shackled the strong in service of the weak. He vowed to tear the heavens down and rule the world in eternal eclipse. For centuries, the Hollow Ones hunted students, masters, even divine vessels, seeking to weaken the schools and spread their king's dominion."
A murmur rippled through the class. Some students shifted uncomfortably. Others scribbled furiously in their notes.
"But…" Maelor said, his voice softening, "the gods intervened. Kenive himself led the charge. With the combined strength of mortals and divine, Eryndor was defeated — or so we believed. His body was destroyed, but his essence could not be unmade. It lingers still, fractured into whispers, bound to the blood of his descendants."
The chalk squeaked as he drew a jagged line through the crown on the board.
"Every few generations, the Hollow King's blood stirs in someone new. A vessel, born of both light and shadow. They say the Hollow Ones seek these vessels — not to kill them, but to awaken their king once more."
The class sat in silence. The only sound was the faint scratching of chalk against stone.
Clem raised her hand again, her voice careful. "And… if such a vessel were alive today?"
Professor Maelor's eyes swept the room slowly, lingering for a breath too long on Alaric before moving on.
"Then that vessel would be both weapon and target. The schools would see him as a danger. The gods would see him as a trial. And the Hollow Ones…" His voice dropped to a whisper. "The Hollow Ones would see him as their king."
Alaric's palms were slick with sweat beneath the desk. He forced himself to keep his expression still, but his pulse hammered in his ears.
Beside him, Clem's gaze flicked toward him briefly. Her expression was calm, but her knuckles tightened on her quill. Only she knew what his silence hid.
Professor Maelor turned back to the class, adjusting his spectacles. "Remember this lesson well. History is not just in books. It waits in blood. And blood always remembers."
The bell tolled, signaling the end of class. Students filed out in hushed conversation, their faces pale with unease.
Alaric lingered, his hands gripping the edge of the desk.
Clem touched his arm gently. "Now you know what they believe," she murmured. "But remember — belief isn't always truth."
Alaric nodded faintly, though his thoughts churned like a storm. The professor's tale had confirmed what he feared: Eryndor's legacy lived on. And in the shadows of his own blood, that legacy was waiting.
As they left the classroom together, Rudra's voice stirred within him, low and steady.
"He speaks half-truths. The Creator's story is deeper. But beware, Alaric — the closer you walk to truth, the closer the world will see you for what you are."
Alaric swallowed hard. Clem squeezed his arm once, grounding him in the moment.
Neither spoke again, but both knew one thing clearly: the story of Eryndor was no longer history. It was prophecy — and Alaric was standing in its shadow.