The figure that stepped from the Womb was not Darius.
And yet it was.
Same face. Same eyes.
But there was no hunger in them.
Only sorrow.
The battlefield fell silent.
Even the dying dared not scream.
The Womb pulsed one last time, and then went still—as if exhausted by the effort of birthing memory into flesh.
Kaela's lips parted in disbelief. "What is that?"
Nyx stood still, daggers lowered. "It's him."
"No," Kaela hissed. "That thing isn't our king."
Darius—the Hollow King, the Void-Crowned Sovereign—stepped forward, golden veins crackling across his armor. His face twisted in quiet disbelief as he gazed at the being before him.
"I buried you," he said. "You're not real."
The other Darius—cloaked in plain white, barefoot, eyes calm—tilted his head.
"You buried a child," he said softly. "But you never killed me. I waited."
The Hollow King clenched his fists. "For what?"
"For you to remember."
