The moon hung high above the horizon, bathing the world in a pale silver light as the storm clouds slowly dissipated. In the stillness that followed the chaos, Sylas stood before the shattered altar of the Hollow King, his thoughts fractured like the obsidian stones beneath his feet.
A gentle breeze rustled the dead leaves scattered across the ground, whispering tales of a time long past. He could feel it now, like a heartbeat buried beneath the earth—a resonance from another age, an echo of a war so ancient it had been buried even in myth.
Behind him, Alira knelt before one of the broken runestones, her fingers brushing the faintly glowing etchings that still pulsed with archaic energy. "These glyphs... they predate even the old empires," she murmured, her voice reverent. "I think this place was once a sanctuary, or perhaps a battlefield. Maybe both."
Sylas said nothing, but his eyes remained fixed on the central shard of the altar. It bore a symbol he had seen only once before—deep in the ruined archives of Ashenmoor: two serpents entwined around a burning star. It was the crest of the Forgotten Circle, a cabal of mages from the First War who had nearly unmade the world with their forbidden knowledge.
"Do you remember what the archivist said?" he finally asked, voice low. "That the Circle was never destroyed. Only scattered."
Alira stood, the wind catching her dark hair and flinging it back like a banner. "You think the Hollow King was one of them?"
"Not just one," Sylas replied, his jaw tightening. "I think he was their creation."
A sudden gust of wind carried a flurry of dust from the ruins, revealing a hidden passage beneath the altar—a narrow staircase descending into the dark.
They exchanged a glance. Sylas stepped forward first.
The descent felt endless.
Each step creaked with the weight of centuries. The walls, carved from black stone, bore markings so worn by time they were nearly invisible. But Alira traced them all the same, her fingers sparking with faint magic as she absorbed their story.
"They recorded everything down here," she whispered. "Battles, betrayals, even the fall of the First Spire. This is no mere tomb. It's a vault of memory."
As they reached the final landing, a massive stone door loomed before them. In its center, the same serpents-and-star crest glowed faintly. Sylas placed his hand against it, and the door trembled.
With a low groan, the stone shifted, revealing a circular chamber beyond.
And at its heart—a throne.
The figure upon it was skeletal, clothed in robes that shimmered with starlight, the bones laced with filigree of silver and arcane crystal. Its skull turned slowly toward them, empty sockets filled with cold flame.
"You come too late," it said.
Alira reached for her blade, but Sylas held out a hand. "We mean no harm. We came seeking answers."
The voice echoed from the walls, ancient and patient. "Then hear them: the First War never ended. It merely retreated. The Circle broke the world, and in the breaking, sowed seeds that bloom still."
"What is the Hollow King?" Sylas demanded.
"A guardian. A failsafe. He was made to awaken when the world dared balance again. To tip the scales once more. You killed him... but not his purpose."
Alira stepped forward. "Then what comes next?"
The skeletal figure slowly rose. "The last of us are awakening. The Circle stirs. The void watches. The second war draws near."
The flames in its eyes dimmed, and the throne room began to collapse around them.
"Go now," it whispered. "Before memory turns to ash."
They barely made it out as the ruins crumbled behind them, the sky now streaked with red lightning in the distance.
Sylas stared toward the storm.
"This wasn't the end. It was only the first memory."