The spiral staircase ended in a wide, dark chamber. The air was still, heavy with old magic. Pale crystal dust drifted in the shadows, and a throne of black stone stood at the center, split clean down the middle. Vines curled around its base, brittle and long dead. Luke stepped in first, his footsteps echoing too loud. Amara followed, silent, blade drawn at her side.
Something moved.
From behind the throne, a figure emerged—tall, robed in shattered armor etched with dying runes. His face was hidden behind a cracked golden mask, and from one gauntlet hung a long black chain, the links glowing faintly. In his other hand he held a spear carved from bone and glass, humming with restrained violence. Blue eyes blinked open across the mask, one after another, glowing with cold recognition.
"One binds. One breaks. One hides," the figure said, and his voice didn't echo—it simply arrived, already inside their ears.
Luke narrowed his eyes, magic pulsing at his fingers. "You're the one we're here to face."
"You are not ready."
The stone floor split beneath their feet.
The chain uncoiled like a serpent, pulling something behind the throne—a shape too large, too many-limbed, stitched together with bone and burning thread. A guardian, or perhaps a warning.
Amara was already moving. Her blade shimmered with flame as she darted left, circling wide. Luke stood his ground, drawing power into his palm. The Hollow King didn't wait. The spear came down like a hammer, cracking the air as it hit Luke's barrier. The force nearly drove him to one knee.
Amara struck from the side—fast, clean, deliberate. The King caught her blade with the chain and twisted. She rolled with it, kicked off the wall, and launched a blast of fire that struck his side and did nothing.
Luke retaliated with a burst of kinetic force. The Hollow King barely moved.
The creature behind him dragged itself fully into view, its form shifting constantly—part serpent, part centipede, all wrong. It opened a mouth that didn't belong to its shape and let out a scream that vibrated the bones.
They fought without speaking. Luke created space, drawing the King's attention, while Amara danced through shadows and fire. But something shifted when the King turned to her, mask tilting slightly.
"You don't remember," he said.
She hesitated. Just a flicker. Then her magic surged, darker now, streaked with something violet and sharp. Her next spell scorched a line through the air that sizzled against the runes on the wall.
Luke saw it.
Saw the way her aura pulsed—not with fear, but with something else. Something deeper.
"You good?" he asked, breathless.
Amara didn't look back. "Still me."
But Luke wasn't sure that was the right answer anymore.
The creature on the chain roared again—louder, closer—and with a violent twist, it snapped free. Chains shattered. Magic flared. The Hollow King raised his spear, all eyes on Amara.
"You should not exist."
And he charged.
The chamber pulsed with magic, old and raw. Luke moved fast, weaving between broken stone and half-glowing sigils, launching counterspells and force bursts with practiced efficiency. His breath came steady, sharp. Every strike he threw was layered—light wrapped in force, feints wrapped in traps. He wasn't trying to overpower the Hollow King. He was trying to outthink him.
It worked. At first.
His first barrage caught the King off balance: a flare-burst aimed high, then a gravity pulse just behind it. The Hollow King blocked the wrong one and stumbled. Luke closed the gap instantly, launching a blade of pure aether straight at the chest. It hit. The armor cracked. The King slowed.
Luke didn't hesitate. He spun into a shield-piercing rune with one hand while anchoring a countershock beneath the King's feet with the other. Magic flared, the ground fractured—and the King fell back two steps. The chain-creature behind him hissed and surged forward, but Luke turned and struck it mid-lunge with a vortex blast. It reeled, slamming into a stone pillar and bringing it down in a crash.
Not good enough. The Hollow King was already recovering. Faster than he should've been. He moved with perfect control, spear snapping outward in a thrust that broke through Luke's barrier and grazed his ribs. Pain flared, bright and sharp. Luke stumbled but didn't fall. He locked the pain away and pressed forward, sweat clinging to his jaw, blood dampening his shirt. Another misdirection spell. A vertical strike. Displacement rune. The King adjusted without hesitation.
Luke was beginning to realize—this wasn't a test of power. This was a test of endurance. He had to win quickly or not at all.
He kept moving. When the chain lashed out again, he wrapped it in frost, froze it mid-air, then detonated the ice in a flash. The beast shrieked. The Hollow King didn't react. Luke ducked a spear arc that sliced through the air where his head had been, then retaliated with a blast of pure concussive force. It hit squarely—and did nothing.
The Hollow King raised a hand. The chain flared. Luke knew what was coming—redirected force. He spun out, conjuring a kinetic mirror just in time to block the redirected blast. The impact still shoved him backward, boots skidding across fractured stone. His breath caught. His ribs ached. His legs screamed.
The King advanced.
Luke cursed under his breath and launched a double-cast: a null-pulse to disrupt the ambient magic, and a fireburst to cover his retreat. It worked, barely. The Hollow King paused.
Luke repositioned, eyes darting for any advantage. There was none. The air felt thinner now, heavier, as if the room itself were leaning in. Runes on the wall glowed brighter. The chain-creature was recovering. He was tiring. Fast.
Still, he moved. Another feint. A reversal. A spike of light behind the King's left shoulder—missed on purpose, to draw him off-center. He followed up with a shatter-sigil. It detonated—loud, blinding.
And still, the King came forward.
Luke raised another shield, but it buckled on contact with the spear. He recoiled, breath hitching, blood running down his side now freely. No theatrics. No drama.
Just the cold, final rhythm of a fight he wasn't going to win.
The chain lashed forward again, faster than before. Luke barely dodged. He landed hard, rolled. His hand trembled as he raised it to cast again.
Nothing.
His magic didn't fail—but his body did. Too slow. Too much blood lost. He tried to move, to rise, to fire off one more spell. Something. Anything.
The Hollow King stood over him, spear lifted high, gleaming with gathered force.
Luke couldn't move.