Six months.
That was all it had taken.
Six months of blood and steel, of monsters' roars and her silence, of wounds layered over wounds until her body had become a tapestry of scars. Six months of being thrown into the pit every dawn, her chains unlocked just enough to let her stagger forward, sword thrust into her hand like a mockery of purpose. Six months of slaughter, of surviving without thought, without name, without soul.
And so, she stood now as something the court whispered of with awe and dread alike: a swordswoman whose body moved with a rhythm not taught but beaten into her bones, whose hollow eyes reflected no triumph, no exhaustion—only the stillness of a vessel that had been shaped into perfection.
They watched her in the monster arena again that morning. The walls still stank of blood. The audience—King Veythar, his heirs Kaelith Draven and Seliora Vaelith, the dukes and barons, the circle of magicians—spoke not of pity, but of calculation. She cut through the beast's throat, her chain clinking faintly with each swing, her movements impossibly precise. She did not breathe faster, did not cry out, did not even blink as she severed life after life.
"Flawless," whispered Duke Malrick Thorne, fingers steepled. "The body remembers now what the soul has forgotten."
"Not forgotten," corrected Vaelor Kryne, lips thin, "erased. Soon, we need not fear even fragments."
King Veythar did not speak. His eyes gleamed with satisfaction, though it was not satisfaction enough. She had been hardened, hollowed, sharpened into a weapon that bled elegance. But to him, perfection required one more step. The mages had prepared the altar. The Hall of Silence was ready to receive its final offering.
That night, the chains were pulled tighter. She was led down corridors that smelled of wax and salt and death, her bare feet echoing on stone. No one explained where she was being taken. No one needed to. Obedience was her only truth now.
---
The chamber lay deep beneath the Crimson Palace, hidden even from the oldest archives of the kingdom. The Altar of Severance, they called it—an altar built to unmake.
It was carved from obsidian, streaked with veins of crimson that glowed faintly as if the stone itself drank blood. Circles upon circles of runes sprawled across the floor, their etchings filled with dried offerings from years past. Chains, thicker than any she had worn before, hung from the ceiling like the ribs of some colossal beast.
In the center was a stone dais shaped like a bed but colder, crueler, with grooves etched for the flow of blood. At its heart pulsed a magic circle—intricate, cruel, and complete.
The girl was dragged there, her chains rattling softly. She did not resist. She lay down where they placed her, wrists and ankles shackled so tightly that bone ground against iron. Her eyes did not lift to the ceiling. Her lips did not move. She was the hollowed one, the vessel.
But inside her chest, her heart beat still. And within it lay something none of them knew, none of them could ever bind—blood that was not just of spirit, not just of dragon, but of Kaelus.
---
The mages began to chant.
Their voices filled the chamber, weaving syllables that twisted through the air like serpents. Incense burned, thick and choking, its smoke curling into the runes until the whole chamber seemed alive.
"By command of Crimson Dominion," the head mage intoned, "by right of conquest and blood, we strip the spirit from the vessel. We take what is eternal and bind it to our lord. We sever the chain of memory, of soul, of core. By will of King Veythar, let this be done."
The runes flared. Her body arched as light stabbed through her chest, threads of silver unraveling from deep within. It was not flesh they touched, but something deeper, brighter—her spirit core, the fragment of what made her Illyria, what tied her to Seraphine, to her lost kingdom, to the truth of who she was.
She trembled. Her lips parted. For the first time in months, sound slipped free.
"…Dad…"
The word was faint. Broken. Barely human. But it rippled through the chamber like thunder.
King Veythar's gaze narrowed. The mages pressed harder, chanting louder. The threads of silver pulled further out, luminous strands that seemed to weep as they left her body.
Her memories—already tattered—bled with them. The forest. Laughter. The warmth of arms that had once held her. Azeriel's voice, calling her daughter though she had been his weapon. The falsehoods that had been her truth—vanishing, one by one, into the light being stripped away.
But something resisted. Not her. Not the hollow girl broken by torture. Something deeper. Something ancient.
Her blood.
Her veins pulsed black for a heartbeat, unnoticed by most, though the runes shuddered when it happened. A resonance. A defiance. For her father was Kaelus—not merely a dragon, not merely a fallen god, but the demonized weapon of the Primordial. His blood flowed in her, a truth that chains and chants could not erase.
The mages faltered for a breath. Then they pressed harder, forcing the core from her chest. It floated above her now, a sphere of fractured silver light, dimming with every word of the chant.
---
She lay still. Tears leaked from her eyes though she did not know why. Her mouth formed words she could no longer remember. Dad. Home. Seraphine. Each syllable fractured, forgotten even as it passed her lips.
The core dimmed.
The circle drank it.
The altar exhaled.
And in that moment, what had been Illyria—what had been Selene—died.
Not in body, but in soul. Her chest caved inward where warmth had once been. Her eyes, once hollow, now were voids that reflected nothing. Her body remained breathing, her limbs bound, her chains humming—but the vessel that had been girl, daughter, princess, beloved… was gone.
The Hollowed One remained.
"Perfect," King Veythar whispered, stepping closer. His hand brushed her cheek as one might admire a fine blade. "At last, she belongs to me."
The mages bowed. The dukes whispered. The chamber hummed with cruel triumph. None of them saw the faint, imperceptible shadow that curled inside her veins when her core was taken. None of them heard the silent roar of a chained dragon, far away, whose heart had been torn the same night.
---
Far beyond the Crimson Dominion, in the Spirit Kingdom's forgotten depths, an ancient dragon weapon stirred in chains. His chest gaped where his heart should have been, black ichor dripping into the stone. His eyes opened, burning with the fire of a being older than empires.
The same night the girl's core was stripped, his heart had been torn. A bond formed in pain, invisible, unrecognized, but unbreakable.
And further still—in the Divine Realm—the sky split with fire. Blades of gods clashed against the claws of demon lords. The Spirit God raised his spear, shouting commands, while the Hell Realm surged like a tide. Divine ichor burned against infernal flame. The war raged, unseen by the Hollowed girl below, but its shadow stretched toward her still.
---
The chamber quieted. The ritual was done. The core was gone.
The girl lay still upon the altar, breathing shallowly, eyes empty. Chains glowed faintly around her limbs, binding her not just in body but in identity. She was no longer Illyria. No longer Selene. No longer a child, a daughter, a person.
She was hollow.
The Hollow Altar had claimed her.
And though the humans rejoiced in their victory, though King Veythar smiled with greedy pride, the universe itself shuddered—for what they believed broken was not broken at all. It was waiting.
Waiting for the blood of Kaelus to wake.
Waiting for the spark they had failed to see.
Waiting for the tragedy to burn into reckoning.