The chamber pulsed with aftershocks from the creature's demise, the ashes still swirling like smoke caught in a storm of memory. Every breath Kaen took felt like breathing in fragments of lives not his own.
But something was different now.
The air felt watchful.
Lira crouched by the remains, running a finger through the ash. It clung to her glove, then hissed away in a flicker of green fire. "This isn't over," she murmured. "That was just the warden."
Kaen looked ahead. The path was no longer stone—it had shifted into obsidian steps, each carved with jagged symbols that shimmered faintly under the Hollow Crown's mark on his arm.
"They're reacting to you," Lira said.
He nodded. "Then I'll follow where they lead."
Step by step, they descended deeper. The silence returned, but it was no longer empty. Whispers echoed just beyond hearing—layers of voices, arguing, weeping, begging for something long lost.
The stairs ended at a massive obsidian door—no handle, no seam.
Kaen stepped forward. As his hand neared the surface, the mark on his arm flared.
The door breathed.
It split open with a low, resonant groan, revealing a hall unlike anything before.
Pillars of fractured crystal jutted out at odd angles, and floating above them were shards—shards of armor, weapons, masks. All cracked. All ancient. All humming with suppressed will.
And at the center…
A throne.
No occupant.
No crown.
Just a sword impaled into the seat itself, its blade twisted like it had resisted fate and broken under the weight of time. Crimson light pulsed faintly from its hilt, matching Kaen's brand in rhythm.
Lira's voice was hushed. "This… this is the Heart of the Vault."
Kaen stepped closer, drawn like gravity itself was calling.
As he neared the throne, the whispers grew louder. Images surged through him:
—A tyrant king burning cities for power.
—A queen who shattered realms to undo a prophecy.
—A child, crowned too early, torn apart by legacy.
All of them had worn the Hollow Crown.
All of them had failed.
Kaen stopped just before the blade. "Why show me this?" he said aloud.
A voice—not from behind or above, but within—answered:
"Because you are the first to walk willingly."
Kaen reached out and gripped the sword.
Pain exploded through his spine.
Flames. Chains. Screams.
But then—
Calm.
He wasn't in the hall anymore. He stood in a void, facing... himself.
But older. Wiser. Eyes heavy with scars not yet earned.
The other Kaen spoke: "This is the path of kings built from ruin. If you take the blade, you take the burden. There is no crown without consequence."
Kaen clenched his jaw. "I didn't ask for this. But I'll bear it. For those who can't."
The void shattered.
Kaen gasped, back in the hall.
The sword in his hand no longer pulsed red.
It glowed.
Not like fire, but like purpose forged in blood and defiance.
Lira stepped back, stunned. "Kaen…"
He turned to her, the weight of the weapon strangely natural in his grip. "We need to leave. This place is waking up."
As if on cue, the throne cracked.
And something far beneath the Va
ult stirred.
Not shadow.
Not memory.
But something that had been waiting—for centuries.