The palace slept in uneasy quiet, but Kael and Isolde did not. Guided by a single lantern and a map half-faded with age, they descended into the lower halls beneath the throne room—corridors most had long forgotten existed. Dust lay thick, and cobwebs draped the arches like veils.
"This way," Kael whispered, holding the lantern aloft. "The royal archives. My brothers never cared for them, but I listened when the old steward spoke of hidden chambers below the court. Records older than Aldric's reign… older, perhaps, than the throne itself."
Isolde trailed her fingers across the stone wall, the Hollow's mark within her throbbing faintly, guiding her as much as the map. "I can feel it, Kael. The Hollow's story is here. Buried, but not gone."
At the end of the corridor, an iron door stood sealed by heavy chains, their links engraved with crescent moons. Kael pressed the lantern close, jaw tightening. "Sealed under the sigil of House Aldric. No one was meant to open this."
"Then we must," Isolde replied. Her hands glowed softly, golden light spilling into the engravings. The chains trembled, as if resisting, then shattered like brittle glass. The door groaned open, releasing a breath of stale, ancient air.
Inside lay a vast chamber carved into the bedrock, its shelves lined with scrolls, tomes, and relics that hummed faintly with forgotten power. Dust motes danced in the lantern light, and silence reigned, broken only by the echo of their footsteps.
Isolde's eyes fell on a pedestal at the center, where a cracked volume lay open. Its pages were blackened at the edges, but the ink still glowed faintly silver. She read aloud, her voice trembling:
"When the Shadow King was bound, he was not destroyed. His chains were woven from flame and moonlight, sealed by blood and vow. But all chains weaken. And when the flame returns, the bond shall waver. Should the flame falter, the crown of shadows will rise again."
Kael's hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. "Flame… that means you. Isolde, the prophecy names you."
She swallowed hard. "And it says if I fail… he rises."
As the weight of the words settled, a low hum stirred in the chamber. The lantern flickered. From the corners of the archive, shadows deepened, forming vague figures with hollow eyes.
Kael raised his sword at once. "We're not alone."
The shadows whispered in unison, their voices a chilling chorus: "The chains weaken… the flame burns… the crown awaits."
Isolde flared her magic, golden light spilling across the chamber. The figures recoiled but did not vanish, clinging to the shelves, to the walls, to the very ceiling.
Kael slashed through one, the blade dispersing it into smoke. "We need to take the records and leave. If Varrow learns we've been here—"
At the sound of his name, the shadows hissed, as if savoring the syllables.
Isolde's breath caught. "He's part of this. He always knew. Kael… Varrow isn't just whispering in the court. He's feeding the chains. Weakening them."
The realization struck like a blade. Varrow was no mere adviser weaving political plots—he was an active hand in the Shadow King's return.
Kael seized the volume from the pedestal, tucking it beneath his arm. "Then this is the proof we need. With this, Father cannot ignore us. The council cannot deny us."
But as they fled the chamber, shadows clawed at their heels, their chorus rising louder, more frenzied: "Soon… soon… the crown of shadows will rise!"
The heavy iron door slammed shut behind them, silencing the voices, but the words lingered in their bones.
Isolde pressed a trembling hand to her heart, the Hollow's mark burning like fire. "Kael… I don't know if I can carry this. If I fail—"
He caught her hand, his grip firm, his eyes unyielding. "You won't. Because you're not alone. Whatever the prophecy says, we'll fight it together."
But in the silence that followed, both knew the truth—the prophecy had marked her, and Varrow was already moving his pieces.
And above them, in the throne hall, the adviser smiled in the moonlight, whispering to himself as if to an unseen master:
"Her flame brightens. The chains weaken. Soon, my king… soon."