The Hollow had been declared sacred ground.
No one was meant to return.
Yet at dawn, a single rider descended into the valley where the world had once been torn open. Lady Elira rode wrapped in her gray Keeper's cloak, her silver hair unbound, the air around her sharp with frost. The valley stank of burnt stone and magic—centuries of power smothered under ash.
She dismounted and stood at the crater's rim. The vast pit where the Shadow King had fallen was filled with mist, but the ground still pulsed faintly with heat. Every breath she drew tasted of cinders.
She knelt, pressing her palm to the earth. Her runes—etched long ago into her skin as a Keeper's vow—flared with dull silver light.
"Show me what lingers," she whispered.
The mist thickened, swirling like smoke caught in glass. For an instant, she saw the chains that once bound the King—shattered, glowing faintly red. And deeper still, beneath layers of rock and ruin, she glimpsed it: a single flicker of black fire.
Alive.
Elira's breath caught. "By the moons…"
The ember pulsed once, and she felt the air shift around her. Something unseen moved beneath the earth, something aware.
She rose quickly, drawing a rune of warding in the air. The symbol flared bright, but the light faltered almost immediately. The ember pulsed again, and the mist whispered her name.
Elira.
Her heart lurched. The voice was deep, resonant, and far too familiar.
"No," she said aloud. "You're gone."
The whisper came again, closer. You thought chains could silence me? You thought love could burn me?
The ground trembled. A faint crack opened near her boots, glowing from within.
Elira drew her blade and backed away. "I sealed you myself."
Then why do I still dream your name?
The mist surged upward in a rush of black flame. Elira's wards shattered, and she was thrown to the ground. She scrambled to her feet, eyes wide as a figure began to rise from the smoke—shapeless, immense, and half-formed, its face flickering like molten glass.
She ran.
Her horse reared as the earth split behind her, and she mounted with desperate speed, spurring the animal up the slope. When she glanced back, the mist had stilled, the ember dim again. But she knew the truth: it was growing.
The Shadow King's fire had survived.
And it had her name.
---
By the time she returned to Aeloria, night had fallen. The citadel glowed like a beacon atop the mountains, its towers wreathed in torchlight. She rode through the gates without ceremony, the guards stepping aside at the sight of her cloak.
Kael found her in the upper hall, mud-streaked and trembling, her eyes hollow with what she had seen.
"Elira?" he said, rising from the map table. "What happened?"
She removed her gloves slowly, her voice barely steady. "The Hollow isn't dead. I felt it breathing."
Kael frowned. "Breathing?"
"There's something beneath the ruins. A piece of him. It's gathering strength again."
Kael's grip tightened on the edge of the table. "How long?"
"Days. Weeks. I don't know. But the fire that destroyed him didn't destroy his essence—it fractured it. The shadow burns black now, feeding on what remains."
Kael's gaze flicked to the Moonsilver Sword on the table. Its runes glowed faintly, a slow rhythm like a heartbeat. "He's reaching through it," he murmured.
Elira followed his gaze. "Then destroy it."
He shook his head. "You know I can't. Without it, I can't stop him if he rises."
"Without it, he can't use you either."
Her words hung in the air, heavy as iron.
---
In the courtyard below, Isolde walked alone beneath the dying moonlight. The gardens were nearly barren now, frost coating the branches where once roses bloomed. She traced her fingers across a dead vine, and faint warmth bloomed under her touch. The frost melted instantly, steam curling upward.
The mark on her wrist flared gold, then dimmed again. The light came less easily now, but it was still there—half fire, half shadow.
She whispered to the air. "You're still watching, aren't you?"
No answer came, but a faint chill brushed her neck, a breath colder than the night wind.
Her pulse quickened.
From the shadows at the edge of the courtyard, a figure stepped forward. A man cloaked in black, his face hidden, but his eyes—those eyes—burned with faint amber light.
"Who are you?" she demanded, fire flickering to her palms.
He bowed slightly. "A messenger. The Hollow remembers you."
Her heart hammered. "You should not speak of it."
He smiled faintly. "And yet, here I am. The ember lives, Lady Flame. It waits for your call."
Before she could move, he lifted his hand. In his palm, a small crystal glowed—black, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat.
The Black Ember.
Isolde's fire flared in shock. "Where did you—"
He vanished. A ripple of shadow, and he was gone.
The ember dropped to the ground, pulsing once before going still.
Isolde stared, her breath sharp in the cold. She reached for it—and stopped. The faint hum that came from it was the same she had heard in her dreams.
The same voice.
Flame remains flame.
---
When Kael found her minutes later, the ember still glowed faintly at her feet.
He seized her shoulders. "Where did this come from?"
She shook her head, her voice trembling. "A man—a shadow—he said it came from the Hollow. He said it remembers me."
Elira arrived just behind him, pale and breathless. Her gaze fell to the ember, and her face drained of color.
"That," she whispered, "is no fragment. That is the heart of his fire."
Kael drew the Moonsilver Sword. The runes on its blade pulsed violently, silver bleeding into black.
The ember's light flared in answer.
And in the stillness that followed, a faint voice rose—not from the ember, but from within the sword.
You cannot destroy what you are.
The sword shattered.
A burst of light filled the courtyard, blinding, and when it cleared, Kael stood clutching the hilt, the blade gone—only fragments of silver scattered like falling stars.
Isolde fell to her knees. The Black Ember pulsed faster, brighter, as if feeding on the sword's ruin.
And far below the citadel, the Hollow stirred.