The chains clinked faintly as they were fastened around her wrists, their metallic bite sinking deeper into flesh already accustomed to the weight of iron. The Hall of Silence did not sleep. Its darkness bled into her bones, its whispers curling into her ears like lullabies of despair. She rose when commanded, moved when ordered, her steps silent against the stone as the mages guided her upward, away from the cavernous womb of shadows.
For the first time in months, the air that touched her skin was not saturated with incense and blood. It was colder, fresher, trembling with the scent of something vast—beast, soil, and the heavy weight of killing intent. She did not shiver. She did not think. She obeyed.
The gates opened, revealing the palace sanctuary of Crimson Dominion, reshaped into something grotesque. Once a place of prayer and quiet gardens, it had been transformed into a pit of trials. Towering walls, charred from fire spells and claw marks, enclosed the arena. Above, balconies swelled with courtiers and nobles, their silks fluttering in the wind, their eyes sharpened with hunger. They had come not for worship, but for spectacle.
The chains clinked as they were fastened to her wrists. The sound had become the rhythm of her existence, the pulse that followed her into sleep and waking. Metal, cold and unyielding, bound her every movement, a reminder that she was not her own. She had no memory of the time before chains. She had no memory of warmth, or laughter, or love. The words Selene and Illyria no longer meant anything. They had been carved out of her like flesh from bone.
Now she was only what the circle demanded: a hollowed vessel, forged for obedience.
A hush fell as the girl was led in. Chains dragged behind her like a shadow, glinting faintly in the torchlight. The sigils etched into her skin pulsed with obedience. Her eyes—once bright with a realm's legacy, once soft with innocence—were hollow now, reflecting nothing.
The guards dragged her from the Hall of Silence, their faces void of pity. She did not resist. Her bare feet moved against the stone, step after step, each movement precise as though her muscles had been etched with commands. Her head remained bowed, her hair—matted with blood and sweat—hanging like a veil across her hollow eyes.
They brought her into the Sanctuary of Blades. Once, it might have been a temple; the tall arches and vaulted ceilings still held traces of reverence. Now, it was an arena, a cruel theater where monsters were summoned and one broken girl was forced to fight.
The air reeked of iron and incense. Nobles filled the stands, their silks whispering as they leaned forward. The king sat at the highest tier, his children clustered at his side, their eyes bright with anticipation. The ministers murmured, their voices low but sharp.
At the center of the arena, a circle of glowing sigils spread across the floor. Guards shoved her into it and fastened her chains to the stone. A sword was thrust into her hand. Its hilt was rough, cold, alive with enchantments. She did not grip it out of choice—her fingers simply obeyed.
"Bring the beasts," King Veythar's voice thundered, rich with command.
The circle flared, and with it came a guttural roar.
The nobles gasped, delighted. The girl did not gasp. She did not feel. Her hollow body moved, muscles tightening, senses sharpening, each nerve screaming with heightened awareness. The chains at her wrists glowed faintly, humming with magic, synchronizing her breath with the rhythm of survival.
The gates opposite hers groaned open. From the shadows surged a monster of muscle and fang, its roar shaking the stone foundations. A hulking direwolf, black as soot, eyes crimson with enchantment, saliva dripping from its maw. Behind it, a second beast—a scaled abomination with wings half-torn, talons scratching sparks into the floor. They were not natural. They were bred for war, twisted by magic, made only to kill.
The nobles leaned forward, anticipation glittering in their eyes. Some whispered wagers, others whispered prayers. But all looked upon the girl—upon their weapon—with greed.
Chains at her wrists loosened, only enough for her to move. A sword was thrust into her hands, heavy, cold, foreign. Her fingers curled around the hilt not with choice, but because her body knew the command.
The beasts lunged.
Her body moved before thought. The blade carved through the air, clashing against the wolf's snapping jaws. Pain lanced through her arm as its weight pushed her back, claws raking across her chest. Blood spattered the stone. She did not cry out. Her hollow eyes simply followed the rhythm of motion. Step back, slash, block. The training in chains, the nights of cuts and reflex drills, all converged into this brutal dance.
The winged beast swept down, talons grazing her shoulder. The sword spun, redirected, cutting into scale. Sparks flew. Her body staggered, blood dripping steadily. To the crowd, she was breathtaking—so small, so broken, yet so precise, so deadly.
Her sword met flesh with terrifying precision. Blood sprayed across the sigils, hissing as it touched the magic. The beast howled, tail lashing, claws tearing at her side. She staggered but did not fall. She did not cry out. Her body absorbed the pain, translated it into motion.
Each clash was measured, deliberate, inevitable. The nobles clapped as though watching a performance, their voices rising in commentary.
"Look at the speed of her reflexes."
"She does not hesitate—perfect for the battlefield."
"She is a toy, but a beautiful one. A jewel of obedience."
To her, it was nothing.
Each strike of her blade was not will, but reflex. Each dodge was not instinct, but programming. Blood slicked her hands, chains rattled with each swing, and still, she moved. The beasts roared, nobles gasped, and King Veythar's smile widened.
Hours felt like moments. The direwolf collapsed first, its neck opened by her blade. The scaled beast fell second, its eye pierced with cold precision. Her body trembled, exhaustion gnawing, blood soaking through rags. But she did not falter. She could not. She obeyed.
Silence hung heavy. Then, like storm winds, the court erupted.
"A marvel," whispered Duke Malrick, his jeweled hand clutching the railing.
"A weapon worthy of kings," murmured Vaelor Kryne, eyes gleaming.
"Not a girl," said Elvaris Nyx, voice low with satisfaction, "but an army bound to flesh."
The words pierced her ears, but did not reach her mind. She stood still, blade dripping, chest heaving. The arena reeked of blood and magic. The chains at her wrists glowed faintly, feeding on her exhaustion, siphoning strength from her marrow.
The fight dragged on. Wounds opened along her arms and legs, blood seeping into the stone. The beast's roar shook the chamber, but she met it with silence. Step by step, strike by strike, she carved through its rage until at last, with one clean motion, her blade pierced its skull. The monster shuddered, collapsed, and dissolved into ash.
The chamber echoed with applause.
But the girl stood unmoving, the sword hanging in her grip, blood dripping from her body. She did not bow. She did not smile. She simply existed.
The mage lifted a hand. Another circle flared.
The second beast emerged—a creature with many heads, eyes glowing with fire. Its screeches rattled the walls.
Again, she moved. Again, the nobles watched. Again, she fought, bled, obeyed.
And then—when the monster's jaws closed around her, when her strength faltered and her hollow body nearly collapsed—something shimmered. A faint light, subtle and unseen by most. Around her neck, hidden beneath blood and hair, a necklace glowed. The chain was delicate, the charm faint, yet its power flared in that instant.
The monster's teeth, meant to crush her, slipped. Its strike faltered as though an invisible hand had pushed it aside.
She swayed. The nobles leaned closer. Was she breaking? Was she falling?
And then—
The faint glimmer of light against her chest. A necklace, small and unremarkable to those watching, hidden beneath the tatters of her tunic. It pulsed faintly, warmth against her blood-soaked skin. She did not understand it. She did not know what it meant. Her hollow eyes never registered its glow.
But something unseen coiled around her. In the moment when the scaled beast had nearly crushed her, the claws had veered just an inch away from her heart. When the wolf had aimed for her throat, its fangs had been diverted by a shimmer. None of the onlookers noticed. None of the courtiers saw. But the necklace—Seraphine's gift—still protected her, even in her emptiness.
The beast fell. The nobles roared in approval.
"Magnificent."
"A flawless blade."
"A circus more glorious than any other."
"She is not human—she is perfection."
Their words crawled across the air like maggots, devouring whatever dignity had once lived in her name.
The nobles called it skill. The king called it perfection. The mages called it obedience. None saw the quiet defiance of a bond written not in memory, but in soul.
King Veythar raised his hand. The crowd silenced instantly. His voice cut through the chamber like a blade.
"She will fight again. Every day, until her body forgets the difference between survival and command. Every scar will be her lesson, every monster her teacher. We will forge not just a weapon, but a legacy."
The courtiers bowed their heads. Some smiled. Some trembled. All obeyed.
Chains tightened around her wrists once more. The sword was wrenched from her hands. Her body sagged, her breaths shallow. She did not resist as the mages dragged her back through the gates, down into the earth, into the Hall of Silence once more.
The nobles whispered as her figure disappeared.
"She bleeds, yet she kills."
"She breaks, yet she obeys."
"She is ours."
The torches dimmed. The chains swallowed her again.
In the Hall of Silence, she was nothing. She had no name. No voice. No memory. No choice. The necklace at her chest glimmered once, faint as starlight in a storm, then dimmed. She curled into the chains, her breath rattling, her hollow body awaiting the next command.
Fight after fight, day after day, the routine continued. Her body became more scarred, her blood more familiar to the stone than water. The nobles grew more insatiable. They wagered on her battles, whispered of her future, of wars she would win, of kingdoms she would crush.
To them, she was spectacle. To her captors, she was investment. To herself—there was no self. Only chains. Only obedience.
When the day ended, when her body sagged with exhaustion, they did not grant her rest in light or warmth. A spell carried her back to the Hall of Silence. The air was always cold there, always thick with blood and incense. Darkness wrapped around her like a second skin. Chains held her in place, humming with ceaseless magic.
There was no time. No hunger. No thirst. No dream. Only obedience.
And yet—every night, as she lay shackled in the void, the necklace glimmered faintly against her chest. She did not know it. She could not feel it. But the spark remained.
The cycle repeated. The nobles grew more eager. The king's eyes gleamed brighter. Ministers schemed, dukes whispered, princes and princesses laughed.
At last, one night, when the final beast of the day fell,its blood steaming into the circle, from the balcony above , the great mage of Crimson Dominion leaned toward the king. His voice was soft, but his words carried the weight of prophecy.
"It is ready."
The chamber fell silent. Even the king did not breathe for a heartbeat.
The king's lips curved in satisfaction.
The chains hummed. The sigils glowed. The Hollowed One stood, bleeding, trembling, but unbroken in obedience. She had no name, no past, no voice. She was their weapon, perfected.
The nobles leaned forward, their greedy eyes fixed upon her like carrion birds. The Hall of Silence exhaled its eternal breath, as though sealing the truth.
And in that moment, the chapter of her humanity was closed.
The girl was gone.
The hollow blade remained.
The Hollow One was complete.