The crown pressed against Nerin's skull like a vice made of fire and shattered bone. Its jagged thorns burrowed deeper than flesh, sinking into the dark recesses of his mind—twisting memories, warping sanity. Every heartbeat echoed like a drum of war, each pulse a cold hammer forging him anew in the abyss's unforgiving furnace.
Around him, the labyrinth fractured, the very air convulsing with the screams of the Hollowed—those who had failed to bear their marks and had been consumed by their own darkness. Shadows writhed and screamed, their faces twisted in eternal torment, clawing at the edges of reality.
Nerin's vision blurred; the world bled and warped beneath the second moon's sickly light. A thousand voices echoed—mocking, begging, condemning. But beneath the chaos, a singular truth roared louder than all else: Survive. Consume. Ascend.
The Hollow Queen's laughter slid through the void, a cruel symphony of broken promises and merciless demands."The crown is not just power, Hollowed. It is the abyss's judgment. It strips you bare, reveals your core—your hunger, your cruelty, your darkest truth."
Nerin gritted his teeth, feeling the crown's poison seep through his veins, dragging fragments of his humanity into a bottomless pit. But with each piece lost, a new, sharper edge formed—a ruthless clarity carved by suffering.
His voice was a razor-edge slicing through the madness:"I do not fear the abyss. I will become its master."
Chains of shadow erupted from the labyrinth's cracked floor, coiling around his limbs, binding and testing his will. Pain flared, raw and relentless, but Nerin's spirit blazed brighter, fueled by the Mark's cold fire. He tore through the bonds—not with brute strength, but with the cruel logic of a predator who knew pain was a tool, not a prison.
The labyrinth itself seemed to recoil, a beast sensing its challenger. Walls bled ink-black tears, and the ground convulsed with rage. The Hollow Queen stepped forward, her eyes gleaming like stars drowned in poison.
"Your trial ends here, or it ends in oblivion."
Nerin's shadow stretched long and twisted, a monstrous silhouette crowned with the burning Mark—a living nightmare carved from his own will.
"Then let the reckoning begin."
With a roar that shattered the silence, Nerin surged forward into the abyssal storm—a tempest born of pain, hunger, and merciless ambition.
The storm raged around Nerin like a living wound—wind howling with the cries of the forsaken, rain slicing like shards of glass tearing at flesh and spirit. The labyrinth had become a crucible, boiling away any last trace of mercy, hope, or softness. The Hollow Mark flared violently, an unholy beacon in the storm, casting twisted shadows that danced like specters of death.
Each step forward was a defiance of oblivion itself, a brutal testament to the shattered will that refused to break. The air thickened, heavy with the weight of broken dreams and shattered oaths. Around him, the remnants of lost souls flickered—ghostly silhouettes trapped in the endless twilight of the Hollow.
The Hollow Queen's voice slithered through the chaos, a poisonous whisper curling around his mind:"Every dream you've ever dared to hold is a blade aimed at your own heart. To survive, you must shed them all—become nothing but the hunger."
Nerin's eyes burned with a cold fire, staring into the abyss within and beyond. Memories clawed at him—the laughter of a childhood long dead, the warmth of a family erased by cruelty, the flicker of kindness that had once dared to touch his soul.
He crushed those memories like brittle bones, letting them fall into the swirling darkness. The pain was a knife, sharp and immediate, but necessary."I am no longer the boy who wished for light," he growled."I am the shadow that devours it."
From the storm emerged a figure, fragmented and shifting—an echo of his own lost self, a shattered mirror reflecting all he had sacrificed. It smiled, a cruel grin that twisted the edges of his sanity.
"You've become a goddamn monster," it hissed."But the question is… is the monster what you wanted, or what you had to become?"
Nerin's laugh was a dry, broken thing—less a sound and more a release of raw, bitter rage."Monsters survive. The innocent die."
With that, the Veil of Broken Dreams tore open—a gateway to a deeper darkness, where true trials awaited. Beyond it lay not salvation, but the raw, brutal truth of the Hollow Mark.
He stepped through.
And the labyrinth whispered behind him, alive with hunger and blood.
The world beyond the Veil was a hollow echo, a cavernous void where time bled like a slow wound and silence twisted into screams only the damned could hear. Nerin's boots struck cold stone, slick with an unseen moisture that reeked of decay and despair. Above, the fractured moon bled its pale light through a sky that seemed torn—ripped by claws unseen, leaving ragged holes into the endless black.
The hunger inside him pulsed, a savage beast clawing at the cage of his ribs, its teeth sharpened on memories and blood. The Hollow Mark glowed a cruel azure, lighting his path like a twisted lighthouse on a sea of shadows. Each breath was a battle against the weight pressing down on his chest—the suffocating dread of a place where forgotten souls whispered secrets that could unravel the strongest minds.
From the depths, the whispers rose—soft and insidious, slipping beneath his skin like ice-coated snakes. They spoke in fractured riddles, twisting truths until lies wore the guise of salvation.
"You are the key… The hunger's heir… The end and the beginning."
Nerin's hand clenched into a fist, the bone knife biting into his palm through soaked rags. He knew better than to trust the voices. The labyrinth bred madness like a parasite feeds on flesh.
Then, the darkness convulsed.
A maw tore open in the void—a gaping abyss rimmed with jagged teeth that dripped shadow and venom. From its depths spilled a tide of phantasmal figures, half-remembered faces of those who'd been swallowed whole by the Hollow Mark's curse.
They surged forward, wailing in a chorus of loss and rage, a tide of anguish intent on dragging Nerin beneath their endless tide.
His mind screamed.
But his body moved—fluid, precise, ruthless. The bone knife sang through the air, cutting through wailing shadows that clawed like broken spirits desperate for release.
With every strike, Nerin fed the hunger—each soul he severed from the Maw's grasp was fuel for the dark fire burning in his chest. The price was his humanity, piece by bloody piece, but the reward was survival—and a step closer to dominion.
Amidst the chaos, a figure emerged from the abyss—tall, cloaked in tattered black, eyes like voids that swallowed all light. The Hollow Queen's shadow stretched before Nerin, her voice a cold promise etched in ice:"You've survived the Maw, Hollowed. But the true reckoning is yet to come. Are you ready to become the nightmare you fear?"
Nerin's gaze was steel, burning with ruthless intent."I'm not afraid of nightmares. I am the nightmare."
The abyss roared, the labyrinth shuddered, and Nerin stepped deeper into the maw of forgotten whispers—ready to carve his legacy from shadow and bone.
The darkness didn't just surround Nerin — it seeped into him, clawing through veins like a plague of obsidian fire, threading through his blood with poisonous precision. Each heartbeat echoed like the toll of a death bell in a cathedral of despair, reverberating in the hollow chambers of his chest. The labyrinth was no longer just a place — it was a living, breathing entity, its very essence entwined with his own.
The Hollow Mark burned hotter, veins beneath his skin pulsing with an unnatural rhythm, as if something ancient stirred beneath the surface. The air was thick with the scent of rust and decay, and the walls themselves seemed to pulse — veins black and twisted, throbbing beneath cracked stone, like the heart of some colossal, slumbering beast.
Nerin moved cautiously, senses razor-sharp, every shadow a potential predator, every whisper a venomous threat. The second moon bled dimmer, casting sickly pools of light that barely pushed back the creeping abyss. His breath came in shallow bursts, fog swirling in the chill air — a fragile barrier between him and the consuming dark.
From the shadows emerged figures — gaunt, hollow-eyed specters draped in tattered rags, their veins blackened like his own, eyes hollow mirrors reflecting the void. They moved without sound, a creeping tide of lost souls drawn to the corruption bleeding from the Mark.
One stepped forward, voice a cracked whisper laced with venom:"The Mark consumes not just flesh but will. Each step you take, your soul fractures further — a web of blackened veins weaving through your being."
Nerin's gaze hardened, the cold fire of the Mark igniting beneath his skin."Then let those veins carry my wrath."
Steel met shadow as he drew the bone knife, its edge catching the faint, unnatural light. The specters lunged, claws like shattered glass tearing at his flesh. Pain blossomed, sharp and immediate, but Nerin welcomed it—each cut a reminder that he was still alive, still fighting.
The battle was a blur of motion — bone knife flashing, the Mark's fire flaring as Nerin tore through the encroaching darkness. With every fallen specter, a fragment of the blackened veins dissolved, burning away under the relentless hunger within him.
But victory came with a price. The deeper the veins spread, the more distant his thoughts grew — a cold fog creeping over memories, blurring the line between man and monster.
The Hollow Queen's voice slithered through the dark like a poison-coated promise:"Embrace the corruption, Hollowed. Only through it will you ascend."
Nerin's voice was a growl, steel and fire intertwined:"I will forge my own path through this abyss — no crown, no queen, only the echo of my own wrath."
The labyrinth groaned beneath his feet, the blackened veins pulsing in time with his heart—an unholy symbiosis born of blood, shadow, and unyielding will.
The labyrinth's walls groaned, ancient stone cracking like brittle bones beneath an unseen weight. Every breath Nerin drew tasted of iron and ash, the air thick with the scent of burned promises and lost souls. The blackened veins throbbed beneath his skin—a sinister map of corruption carving deeper into his flesh with every heartbeat, twisting flesh and spirit alike.
Before him, a vast chamber sprawled like a mausoleum of broken hopes, its floor littered with shattered sigils and scorched remnants of forgotten pacts. The ceiling disappeared into choking shadows, where countless eyes—watchful, merciless—glimmered like stars born from despair.
At the center stood a massive altar carved from obsidian and bone, its surface stained with the blood of those who had dared make bargains here—and failed. The air hummed with a dreadful power, a living curse waiting to claim the next soul foolish enough to reach for it.
Nerin approached, each step a brutal negotiation with his own will. The hunger clawed louder now, a ravenous beast sharpening its claws on the fragile threads of his resolve. The Mark burned hotter, veins pulsating, the cold fire inside him spreading like wildfire.
A voice shattered the silence—smooth, cruel, and soaked in ancient malice."You seek power, Hollowed. But power demands sacrifice. Are you willing to pay the price?"
From the shadows, the Hollow Queen emerged—no longer distant, but a presence that pressed against Nerin's mind like the weight of a funeral shroud. Her eyes burned with cruel delight as she extended a skeletal hand, wrapped in chains that seemed to writhe with dark life.
"The covenant must be reforged. Blood for blood. Pain for power."
Nerin's hand hovered over the altar, fingertips grazing the cold obsidian. The memories surged—a torrent of screams, betrayals, and shattered dreams. He felt the pull, the temptation of the old ways, the easy path paved with ruin.
But his voice was steel—ruthless, unyielding:"No more bargains. No more chains."
With a guttural roar, he slammed his fist into the altar. The blood beneath the surface bubbled and hissed, black veins erupting like wildfire. Shadows exploded outward, swallowing the chamber in a tempest of fury and fire.
The Hollow Queen recoiled, eyes blazing with fury and respect."Then you choose your own damnation."
Nerin's laugh was a cold blade, cutting through the darkness:"Damnation is just another word for freedom."
The covenant shattered—an ancient pact undone by the will of a Hollowed who refused to bow.
But in the echoes of the breaking, a new darkness whispered—a promise that the true battle was only just beginning.
The air around Nerin crackled with a primal tension—like the world itself was holding its breath, waiting to see if he would shatter or rise. The shattered altar lay in ruins beneath his fists, its blackened veins pulsing erratically like a wounded beast. The labyrinth's heartbeat matched his own—chaotic, raw, relentless.
The Hollow Queen vanished into the shadows with a hiss, leaving behind a silence so thick it pressed against his eardrums. But the hunger inside him didn't rest; it roared louder, a beast clawing to be unleashed. The Mark burned like a brand forged in agony and fire, threading through his veins, rewriting his flesh and will.
Nerin knew the trial wasn't over—it had only sharpened its claws.
Before him rose a gate wrought from bone and shadow, adorned with glyphs that twisted and writhed as if alive. The gateway pulsed with a terrible promise—beyond it lay the Crucible, the place where Hollowed were either reforged into gods or ground into dust.
A whisper curled in his mind, soft as a serpent's kiss and cold as death:"Step through, and become what the Hollow Mark demands. Fail, and be consumed by the very hunger you sought to control."
Nerin's eyes burned with a savage light, lips curled in a grim smile that tasted of blood and defiance."I don't intend to fail."
He stepped forward, the bone gate swallowing him in shadows and flame. The world twisted, time splintered, and reality fractured like glass beneath the weight of his will.
Inside the Crucible, the air was thick with fire and ash, the ground cracked and bleeding dark ichor. The sky above was a swirling tempest of black clouds, lightning arcing like the fingers of a vengeful god. Here, the hunger was alive—writhing tendrils of shadow that sought to tear him apart from the inside out.
Each breath was a battle, each heartbeat a war.
Nerin's mind sharpened—calculating, adapting, becoming the echo of every pain and scream that had forged him. The Mark flared—a beacon of power and curse intertwined. Flesh twisted, bones stretched, the hunger's fire consuming and creating in the same breath.
The Crucible demanded a sacrifice, a shedding of the last threads of weakness. And Nerin was ready to burn it all away.
A voice thundered from the storm—an ancient god, a forgotten nightmare, the voice of the Hollow itself:"Will you rise, Hollowed? Or be devoured?"
Nerin's answer was a roar, raw and unforgiving:"I will rise. I am the hunger."
And with that, the Crucible cracked open—a violent birth of shadow and flame, of pain and power. Nerin stepped through, no longer a lost boy with a cursed mark, but a storm forged in darkness, ready to carve his name into the bones of this broken world.