The Hollowspire rose from the marsh like a jagged fang, its obsidian spire piercing the gray sky. Even from a mile away, Elara could feel the pull of the shards, tugging her toward it like an invisible current.
They had been walking for hours through the Mirelands, a place where the air smelled of stagnant water and decay. Trees leaned at odd angles, their roots drowning in pools of black water. Insects hummed unseen in the mist, and every so often something large splashed far off in the swamp.
Serenya led the way, her bow strung but not drawn. "Keep your voices low. Hollowspire's not just a ruin. It's a graveyard for people who came looking for the crown."
Kastor trudged behind her, still nursing the wound from the ash-born fight. He hadn't spoken much since the betrayal in the Vale, though Elara caught him glancing at her now and then, as if waiting for a verdict.
By midday, the tower loomed directly above them. Its base was half-sunk into the swamp, the stones black and slick with moss. A narrow stone bridge stretched over a chasm of stagnant water, leading to a heavy door bound in rusted iron.
"We're going in there?" Kastor asked, his tone somewhere between awe and dread.
"Unless you want Morvane to get here first," Elara said.
The inside smelled of wet stone and something faintly metallic. The air was unnaturally still. Torches lined the walls, their flames frozen—literally unmoving, as if trapped mid-flicker.
"Magic," Serenya muttered.
As they moved deeper, they found the first bodies. Adventurers in rusted armor, their skin gray and brittle as parchment. Each corpse had its hands outstretched toward the inner doors, as though they'd died mid-reach.
Elara's stomach tightened. "Something killed them fast."
"Or something stole their time," Kastor said quietly.
At the heart of the Hollowspire lay a vast chamber. The floor was covered in shallow water that mirrored the vaulted ceiling, giving the unsettling illusion of walking in the sky. In the center, atop a dais, sat an ornate pedestal—empty save for an outline where something circular had once rested.
"The Crown was here," Serenya said, voice low. "But it's gone."
Elara stepped closer. The shards in her satchel throbbed with heat. "No. It's still here. I can feel it."
That's when the water rippled.
Shapes began to rise—towering suits of armor, their helmets empty, their movements fluid like liquid metal. Each one wielded a weapon taller than Elara herself.
"Guardians," Serenya hissed, already drawing her bow.
The first charged, its massive blade slicing through the water and nearly catching Kastor off guard. He rolled aside, bringing his sword up to parry a second strike.
Serenya's arrows thudded into the armor, but the constructs didn't slow. Elara could feel the shards' pull intensify until it was almost painful.
"They're not here to fight us," she realized aloud. "They're testing us."
One of the Guardians swung at her, forcing her to leap back. "Or maybe I'm wrong!" she added.
The battle was chaos—Serenya's arrows deflecting blows, Kastor's sword ringing against steel, and Elara dodging between them, trying to reach the dais. Every time she got close, a Guardian blocked her path, its faceless helm tilted as if studying her.
Then she remembered Serenya's warning about power—it whispers until you can't tell where it ends and you begin. Elara closed her eyes and let the shards' pulse fill her senses. She stepped forward, not with her feet, but with the pull of the magic itself.
The Guardians hesitated. One by one, they lowered their weapons and stepped aside.
Elara climbed the dais. The pedestal shimmered faintly, and there—hidden in the reflection of the water—she saw it. The Ash Crown, not on the pedestal but beneath it, existing like a shadow in the mirrored world.
She reached down into the water, her hand passing through like smoke, and touched the crown. It was cold—deathly cold—and yet it set her veins aflame.
The moment she lifted it, the chamber changed. The frozen flames flickered to life, and the Guardians knelt, their heads bowed.
But before Elara could speak, a crack of thunder shook the tower. A voice boomed through the stone, deep and filled with venom:
"You've done my work for me, child."
Morvane stepped from the shadows at the far end of the hall, the mist curling around their boots. In their hands was a staff crowned with black crystal, the air around it warping as though reality itself resisted its presence.
"You think the crown belongs to you?" they sneered. "It belongs to the storm that is coming."
The Guardians turned their heads toward Morvane but didn't move. Elara gripped the crown tightly. She could feel its weight—not just in her hands, but in her soul.
"This isn't over," she said.
Morvane smiled. "Oh, it's only just begun."
A bolt of dark lightning split the air, striking the crown. The force hurled Elara backward into the water. The last thing she saw before darkness swallowed her was Morvane's hand closing around the artifact.
When she woke, the crown was gone, the dais empty, and the Hollowspire's doors stood wide open to the storm raging outside.
And Morvane's laughter still echoed in her ears.