They found the city buried beneath a forest of thorns.
Velaryn.
Once the capital of a lost kingdom, it now lay in ruin—its towers crumbled, streets strangled by ivy and time. The trees grew right through the bones of palaces. Statues leaned forward like they were whispering secrets to the roots.
In the center stood a dais of white stone, cracked and veined with moss. Upon it rested a crown—made not of gold, but bone. Its shape was elegant and terrible, each tine carved with runes that pulsed faintly.
Briar was drawn to it like a moth to flame.
Corva stepped in her path. "Don't."
"I remember this place," Briar whispered.
"You ruled it. And you buried it."
She moved past her. The moment her fingers brushed the crown, her mind lit with blinding heat.
A throne room, drowned in screams.
A queen in white, standing alone as walls crumbled.
Legions bowing in blood-soaked armor.
Her voice commanding death itself.
And then... silence.
The crown rose from its pedestal without her help and hovered before her brow.
She didn't stop it.
It settled onto her head.
Wind howled. The trees bent. Every thorn in the city turned toward her.
The Hollow Queen had returned.