Altair only ever stepped foot in the halls of the Hollow King once, and those memories were still new; thus, he could recognize it even in its ruined state.
It couldn't have been more than hours since I left.
The dust was overwhelming, irritating Altair's eyes and forcing the white raven, Moonless, to fly a couple of meters back.
Looking at the white Raven, Altair couldn't help but feel strange; it was a newborn Entity of the fog — created from someone he knew previously, and a monster formerly hunting him through the fog.
Now, it was reformed as a Lamb-class Entity; the last thing Altair needed was another Entity by his side, but there was one bound to him by Covenant.
There is a reason I don't use this damn power. He felt the urge to scoff, but looked away from the bird and back to the situation at hand.
There wasn't a single one of the faceless attendants present, nor anything that could give him a tip about what happened.
"Why are we in this dump in the first place. It smells terrible, and the dust? Oh my god, the dust, what if it gets in between my feathers? All this dirt and grime is going to ruin my feathers."
Behind him, Moonless rambled nonstop, a reminder that this was part of Deon after all — someone who could never stop talking, fused with someone who couldn't speak throughout his life at all.
His mouth fired like a machine gun, though the most impressive part wasn't how much he talked, but that every word was about absolutely nothing.
The white raven circled around him, letting out low gurgling croaks. The closer Moonless got to Altair, he felt Covenant activate; it wasn't a side of his power that he ever knew existed.
That white light?
Altair froze for a moment, and a realization hit him like a tidal wave. For a moment, he felt a dark sense of foreboding.
"Moonless, let's talk later," Said Altair while looking at the large stairway. "Can you return to my ability?"
Moonless tilted his head mid-flight, "Sure thing."
To Altair's surprise, the raven instantly knew what he was talking about when it came to his ability. Flying straight at him, the raven disappeared in a flash of light, leaving Altair alone in the ruins of the Hollow King's ruined hall.
Hopefully, I won't have to deal with this many Entities for much longer.
The staircase in front of him lay in ruins, shattered in places with large gaps where steps had once been, moss creeping over its edges.
Ascending through the broken steps, the sense of foreboding didn't go away; in truth… it weighed on him severalfold.
Every step he made brought him closer to Gilran's throne, and that's what weighed on him. He didn't feel this way even when he first walked up these steps with countless terrifying Fog Entities around…
And yet somehow, he couldn't shake off the feeling of apprehension.
Cold wind brushed against him, ruffling his hair. The breeze slipped through the caved-in ceiling, but when he looked up, there was no sky — only the ever-present grey mist.
Reaching the top of the broken staircase, the wind howled even louder. The chilly winds of autumn brushed against Altair's torn and wounded skin.
"Here you are."
It was a hoarse, exhausted voice calling out to him — Gilran, the King of Hollows.
His appearance was even more shabby, his clothes were nothing but rags, and the howling wind seemed to affect him the most.
Altair stood still for a moment, looking around the ruins of the Throne room. Even here, the ceiling was broken, a golden chandelier fell to the ground, cracking its stone floor open.
The throne Gilran sat on was broken to pieces, and the tarnished bronze it was made of was now fully overtaken by rust; the red carpet leading up to it was nothing but rags, scattered by the wind.
"What's going on…" minding his tone, he hurriedly added, "Your majesty."
"Don't worry, you don't have to bother with formality. And honestly, why should you? After all, a dying king who clings to a mad vision of grandeur even in his final moments is nothing but a fool with a fancy hat."
Dying? All of a sudden?
"It's not all of a sudden." He chuckled. "It was written all over your face."
Altair involuntarily raised an eyebrow. I was read like an open book? I can't even read my own handwriting, that's just…
"Ironic, isn't it?"
I really don't enjoy how this makes me feel.
The Hollow King leisurely looked at Altair, leaning on his right hand, his grey eyes appeared lifeless, but the corner of his lips was curled into a smile.
"You have to think of this world as a theater, we are all just actors in it, wearing masks and costumes, pretending to be what we want to present… my costume just had more gold decorating it, that's all."
Altair just silently stood there, listening to the Hollow King. As he finished talking, Altair couldn't wait any longer and just outright asked:
"What is it that you want with me?"
The Hollow King's smile vanished completely, leaving his face devoid of all emotion, almost perfectly mirroring Altair's own.
"A costume change. As I've said before, you have a perfect mask… but I want you to use it for something else."
"I'm not allowed to refuse, am I?" He already got the gist of what the Hollow King wanted just through his previous action, but Altair wanted nothing to do with it.
"We both know that it's a bit too late for that."
"Thought so."
Each type of Aberrant was vastly different:
Those that gained their powers through fusing with Fog Entity Droplets were called the Bound Aberrants, while those born as one were called Innate Aberrants, and those artificially made to become one were called Transmutated Aberrants.
Each of them had a different path set for them to grow in power. Altair's Covenant was a power he gained from his parents — he was an Innate Aberrant.
But not anymore.
He fused that droplet into my core…
The remnant Will of the Droplet had to synchronize with the Core of the Aberrant; if there wasn't a high enough rate of synchronization between the two, the core of the Aberrant would crack.
That's why they were forced to complete certain tasks given by the remnant Will of their Droplet, and Altair already did that.
"You sent me there to create a new Entity."
"Mostly, but not quite." Gilran smiled, but it didn't reach his lifeless, grey eyes, as he stood up from his broken throne. The howling wind brushed his torn robes to the side, showing his skin underneath… except, there wasn't any.
There was nothing underneath.
The King of Hollows was nothing but a shell.
"I sent you there to get a retainer, and you didn't disappoint… You will be a perfect King of Hollows."
"You want me to replace you and get stuck down here forever?" Altair raised an eyebrow; he would rather not do that.
"Oh, of course not. You will only need to come down here every three days. You have a lot of work up there, don't you?"
Altair simply raised his left hand, showing his wrist where a red symbol of an eye was shown; instead of a pupil, there was a number present:
448
The years he would need to serve in prison, according to the bloodweight mark.
"Please," Gilran scoffed, showing a semblance of genuine annoyance. "I know that your current costume is… burdensome to say the least."
With a flick of Gilran's wrist, the bloodmark disappeared as if it had never been there. "You need a fresh start up there while continuing my work down here. And for that, you also need a new name."
Gilran snapped once, with it, his figure grew dim, and a light enveloped Altair, coming straight out of his chest. He felt intense pain, falling to his knees.
Every joint felt like it was on fire, his muscle fibers tearing apart and knitting themselves back together again. His scalp burned as if molten metal were being poured over it, and his eyes felt a sudden sting as if a needle pierced them.
The youth couldn't even scream; he only bit down on his lips until they bled, his fingernails ripping off as he clawed desperately at the broken pavement.
The pain lasted for what felt like hours, but Altair had no idea how much time actually passed.
"A completely new costume. There is no going back now, use that perfect mask of yours until it becomes your new face… for that, you will also need a new name."
He heard the voice of Gilran, but as he looked up, he could no longer see the King of Hollows anywhere; only a torn robe and a jagged crown of rust could be found on the ground.
Still in pain, the young boy got up from the ground, slowly walking up to the tarnished crown.
"A new name?"
He thought for a moment, picking up the crown from the ground, his grasp gradually tightening.
"Cale."