The night after the Choir fell silent was worse than the battle itself.
The Shard glowed faintly at my side, not as a beacon of hope but as though it too was exhausted, weary from holding back the dark. Outside the cathedral, the Buried Ones kept scraping at the stone walls, patient and tireless. I didn't fear them as much as I feared the echo that lingered in my skull — the song of the Choir, replaying in silence.
I couldn't shake it. Even when I pressed my palms against my ears, the rhythm pulsed in my chest. My heartbeat wasn't my own anymore.
When I finally slept, it was shallow. And in that shallow sleep, I dreamed.
A figure sat on a throne of marrow, faceless, crowned with fused jawbones grinning in an eternal mockery of life. Its voice wasn't sound but emptiness.
"The Choir was mine," it whispered. "Their silence is only my breath drawn in."
I woke with my hand on my pistol, sweat cold on my neck. The Hollow King had spoken my name.
---
The March
At first light, we left the cathedral. The Shard pulsed steady again, tucked in Mara's hands, though I wondered whether it was protecting us… or luring something worse.
The streets were broken. Districts of Stonetide had collapsed into valleys of ash. Towers leaned like drunks, others fused into glass from the heat of the first fires. The wind carried voices that weren't voices — whispers that pulled at memory, fragments of old commands in my radio static.
We didn't talk much. Caleb limped badly, his jaw locked against the pain. Mara clutched her satchel like it was her lifeline. Joren walked point with his spear, too rigid, as though if he lowered it for a second the world would swallow him whole.
By midday, we reached the Hollow Quarter.
---
The Hollow Quarter
The first thing I noticed was the silence. Not the kind that waits, not the kind we'd come to dread. This was worse. This was absence.
No birds. No insects. No scurrying rats in the rubble. Just stillness.
Then I saw them.
At first, I thought they were statues. Rows of figures along the streets — men, women, children. A mother frozen mid-scream, clutching her child. A soldier locked forever in the act of raising his rifle. A beggar, arm outstretched in pleading.
But they weren't statues of stone. They were husks. Skin paper-thin, bodies hollowed from the inside. Their faces sunken, mouths open in silent terror.
My stomach turned. I'd seen bodies before — accidents, murders, riots back when I still wore the badge — but nothing like this. These weren't corpses. These were emptied.
Caleb broke the silence. "What… what did this?"
Mara's voice dropped to a whisper. "The Hollow King."
I turned on her. "You knew about this?"
"Fragments," she admitted. "Scraps of text. Rumors from survivors. The Hollow King wasn't born from the plague. He was before. A tyrant. He hollowed his people, drew their essence out, consumed it. When the Ashfall came, he didn't die. He changed."
Joren spat, gripping his spear tighter. "And now he sits here, feeding on what's left."
I looked around us — at the frozen screams, at the husks lining every wall — and I believed her.
---
The First Sign
We pushed deeper into the Quarter. The air grew heavier, pressing into my chest with every breath. Each inhale felt like it stripped something from me.
That's when I heard it.
Not a song like the Choir. Not a roar like the Harvesters. This was worse.
It was emptiness given voice — a hollow moan that rolled through the streets, vibrating through my ribs. My bones ached with the sound.
The husks around us shivered. Not alive, not dead, but something in between. Their jaws opened wider, as though they too were singing that voiceless moan.
Mara clutched the Shard close, her lips moving in a prayer I couldn't hear.
I raised my pistol. My hands shook, though I told myself it was just the weight of the air. I had faced riots, killers, the plague's first horrors — but this was different. This wasn't a thing you could cuff, or shoot, or outlast.
This was a king.
And he knew we were here.
---