The Hollow King sat upon his throne of bone and ash, his form ever-shifting like smoke caught in the wind, but his eyes—those terrible, ageless eyes—remained constant. They were black pits, as vast as the void itself, reflecting nothing but the broken remnants of a world he had once ruled and would rule again.
The Throne of Ash, which stood at the center of a crumbling citadel, was the last remnant of the kingdom he had torn apart millennia ago. The citadel stretched out like a broken crown, jagged spires twisted into impossible angles. It was a place that should not exist—drenched in a perpetual twilight, untouched by time or change.
Around him, the whispers of his broken empire stirred.
From the scattered ruins of forgotten realms, from the ashes of fallen cities, and from the tortured minds of those who had been swept up by his dreams, the Hollow King drew his strength. Every echo of fear, every spark of hate, every tremor of sorrow—he consumed them all, his form solidifying with each passing moment. He no longer floated between shadow and substance. Now, he was becoming whole again.
And the world would know his name.
The Hollow King's fingers stretched, his long, black claws scraping against the jagged bone of his throne. He breathed in deeply, savoring the cold air of his long-forgotten domain. For too long, he had waited. For too long, his power had been locked away, scattered across realms that no longer knew his true name.
But the time had come.
The Ember had been taken.
He could feel its awakening.
In a distant part of his realm, the Hollow King's minions—creatures of ash, smoke, and shadow—ripped apart the landscape with ravenous fervor. They gathered remnants of the world that had once stood at his feet, pulling from the void forgotten relics of power, broken pieces of magic that would fuel his return.
The first of his followers, the Hollowborn, stalked through the ruins. Tall and twisted, their bodies no longer held the shapes of men, but the shapes of nightmares. Eyes that could burn through flesh, teeth that could devour hope itself. They carried his will in their every movement, bent to his cause like marionettes on invisible strings.
They were his hands and his eyes, searching for those who still clung to the old magic, seeking the remnants of the Ember's power. Each whisper they delivered was like a drop of poison to the waking world, spreading the infection of his return.
In the heart of the Gloamspire, a place far beyond even Kaelen's reckoning, the Hollow King's influence had already begun to spread. Trees withering at his command. Rivers draining of life. The very air thickening with the weight of his malice.
Deep within the Hollow King's citadel, he stood—his tall, spectral form now more solid than it had been in centuries. The weight of his armor, dark as night itself, settled against his shoulders, each piece forged from the bones of fallen gods. His crown, jagged and cruel, sat atop his skull, as ancient and cursed as the lands that birthed him.
The Hollow King spoke without words, his voice an echo that reverberated through the bones of the citadel, through the very air itself. It was the language of forgotten things. The language that created worlds—and destroyed them.
"It begins. I can feel the Ember's warmth again. The fire that was stolen from me."
The air around him twisted, the shadows growing darker, the temperature plummeting. The Hollow King raised his hands, his fingers curling as if reaching for the stars that had once been his to command.
"The bloodline that carries my name stirs. The child will come. And when he does, I will shape the world again—on my terms."
His gaze pierced the very fabric of time, and the world around him trembled.
The Hollow King's gaze moved to the empty throne beside him—the throne he had once shared with his queen. She, too, had fallen—betrayed by the very power he now sought to reclaim. The bitter taste of her betrayal lingered, but it was not vengeance he sought from her death.
No. The Hollow King desired something more: completion. Dominion.
He had spent lifetimes in the dark, watching worlds rise and fall, kingdoms burn, and empires scatter. He had been bound by chains of his own making, trapped in the realm of dreams, reduced to little more than a wisp of a memory in the minds of those who had once feared him.
But now, as the Ember grew, so did his strength. The bloodline was awakening. The heir of flame had come—and his arrival would mark the beginning of the end for all who dared oppose him.
Far beneath the Hollow King's citadel, in the deepest chamber of the Underrealm, something stirred. A creature whose name was long forgotten, whose form was woven from nightmares and forgotten dreams. It was not a god, but something older—something born of the dark between stars, of nothingness made flesh.
It slithered from the cracks of the earth, its tendrils trailing behind it like the remnants of lost time. The Hollow King had not called it, but it had come, sensing the shift in the cosmic balance. It was drawn to the Hollow King's hunger—the hunger for power, for dominion over the world that had once been his.
The creature knelt before the Hollow King, its voice a hiss that filled the chamber.
"My lord," it whispered, "the world is ripe for the taking. The bloodline moves as you commanded. The Ember burns once more. The pieces are in place. It is time."
The Hollow King's eyes burned with cold fire. "It is time indeed. The world will bow before me, as it was meant to."
He rose from his throne, his steps heavy and deliberate, echoing through the citadel. His presence was a weight that bent the air, crushing any resistance before it could form.
"Send the Hollowborn to the Gloamspire. The Ember must be extinguished, and its heir claimed. If he refuses... then we shall burn the world."
Back in the Gloamspire, Kaelen could feel the world shift again.
The air grew heavier, thick with an unnatural cold. The whispers returned, louder now, as if the very trees were speaking to him. The Ember on his chest pulsed in time with the distant thrum of dark power.
Kaelen's hand tightened around his sword. His journey had been a pursuit of answers—but now he understood the terrible truth. The Hollow King was not just waking. He was coming for him.
And the world would burn in his wake.