The tower loomed over them, casting long shadows even as dawn approached. The stars had begun to vanish, one by one, their light swallowed by a darkness that pulsed from the spire's heart. At its summit, the veil between worlds thinned, and in that rift, something ancient stirred.
Sylas stood at the threshold of the Tower of Broken Stars, his breath catching as a ripple of cold magic licked across his skin. Alira was beside him, her eyes narrowed, one hand hovering over her sword's hilt. Behind them, their small company waited—tired, worn, but resolute. No one spoke. No one needed to.
A low rumble echoed from within the tower.
"He's waking," whispered Alira.
Sylas gave a sharp nod. "Then we go now."
They entered.
Inside, the tower was a maze of shifting stairs and fading murals. The walls whispered with ancient voices, speaking in languages long dead. Shadows danced across the stones, moving independently of the torchlight they carried. The further they ascended, the heavier the air became. It felt like walking through forgotten time.
Halfway up, they found signs of battle: scorched walls, splintered weapons, dried blood. Sylas knelt by a broken blade, its edges still humming with residual magic. "These were wardens," he muttered. "They tried to contain him. And failed."
"We won't," Alira said firmly.
They continued upward.
At the final landing, a great door stood sealed with glyphs of light and shadow intertwined. Sylas stepped forward and raised the Heartstone—the last remnant of the rebalanced Heart. It shimmered, resonating with the door, and the seals began to unravel.
A burst of energy flared outward, throwing them all back.
From the center of the room beyond, a figure rose.
He was tall, draped in robes stitched from void-thread and starlight. A crown of broken halos hovered above his head, each spinning slowly, bleeding dark light. His eyes opened, revealing twin abysses that sucked in all color and warmth.
"You dare wake me?" The voice was not one, but many, echoing from deep within the stone and sky.
Sylas struggled to his feet, gripping his blade. "We didn't wake you. We came to end you."
The Hollow King tilted his head. "End me? You misunderstand. I am not your enemy. Not yet. But if you persist in meddling with the balance, I will become the end of all."
"You're already too late," Alira snapped. "Your influence corrupts. Your return brings ruin."
"My return," the Hollow King said slowly, "was inevitable. The cycle demands balance. For every act of light, there must be dark. For every restoration, a hollowing."
He raised a hand, and the chamber warped. Reality twisted around his will. Their feet lifted from the floor, the laws of gravity undone. Sylas screamed, slashing through the enchantment with the blade of mirrored flame gifted by the Primarchs.
Alira dove low, avoiding a spear of pure entropy that shattered the stairwell.
Their allies charged forward, spells flying, blades singing.
The Hollow King caught a spell midair and crushed it in his palm.
"You are ants at the edge of a storm."
Sylas leapt.
Their blades met.
And the battle for the world's soul began.