The sound of the cave still echoed in Kaelen's bones long after they had left it behind.
Even under the open sky, with the night wind curling through the trees like fingers of forgotten spirits, the memory of the First Crown remained—a heartbeat beneath his skin. A whisper just behind thought. Not commanding, but watching. Waiting.
They camped that night in silence.
A fire flickered between them—Kaelen, Elaine, and Liraine—casting long, broken shadows against the bark of twisted trees. The forest around them remained unnaturally still, as though the world itself was listening.
Elaine had tried twice to speak. Both times, the words had died on her lips.
Eventually, it was Kaelen who broke the silence.
"Did he wear it?"
Liraine looked up from her position across the flames. Her eyes reflected the firelight, but her voice remained cool.
"The Hollow King? No. He never needed to."
Elaine frowned. "But it's a crown. Isn't that the point?"
Liraine's voice darkened. "The First Crown isn't a symbol of rule. It's a seal. A last resort. It wasn't made to be worn—it was made to contain."
Kaelen's gaze drifted to the fire. "But if it calls to me…"
"It means the seal is weakening," Liraine said softly. "And it's looking for a vessel."
A silence fell again.
This time, heavier.
Elaine stood, pacing. "So what now? We've uncovered a cursed throne, a sealed crown, and a bloodline that shouldn't exist. And the current king still wants Kaelen's head. We can't stay hidden forever."
Liraine looked at Kaelen. "Then it's time to stop hiding."
Kaelen didn't respond.
His thoughts were elsewhere—drifting back through broken visions and ancient voices.
He had touched the Third Throne.
He had heard it whisper.
And in the depths of his mind, something had whispered back.
They moved at dawn.
The forest parted for them like breath through frost—silent, reluctant.
At the edge of the woods, overlooking a shattered valley, lay the remnants of a forgotten citadel: Myreth Vale. Once the stronghold of the Forgotten Heir, now a ruin swallowed by ivy and guilt.
Elaine stepped carefully over the threshold. "Is this where it began?"
"No," Kaelen said, voice distant. "This is where it ended."
He led them through fallen archways and cracked stone—walls etched with war, betrayal, and fire. And everywhere: the same sigil. A broken crown. Roots. Chains.
At the center of the ruin stood a pedestal.
Upon it, a book.
Bound in faded black leather, its surface etched with runes that shimmered faintly in the morning light.
Kaelen approached with slow steps. He did not ask permission.
He opened it.
Dust fell like ash.
And then—
Pain.
His vision blurred. His knees buckled.
He was not in Myreth Vale anymore.
He stood in a great hall of shadows.
Torches burned with blue flame. Pillars of obsidian reached skyward, where a ceiling should have been—but there was only void.
And on a throne of bone and blackwood sat a figure.
Cloaked in silence.
Crowned in memory.
The Hollow King.
Kaelen tried to move. Speak. Breathe.
But the figure only watched him.
And then, in a voice that was both his own and not his own—
"Why do you run from what you are?"
Kaelen trembled. "I'm not you."
"No. Not yet," the Hollow King said. "But the blood remembers."
Kaelen clenched his fists. "I won't become you."
"You don't understand," the Hollow King whispered. "You already have."
A scream tore through Kaelen's mind.
He fell—
And awoke to Elaine's voice calling his name.
He gasped for breath, blinking against the morning sun. The book lay open beside him, its pages now blank.
Elaine knelt over him. "Kaelen!"
"I saw him," he whispered. "He's not dead. He never died."
Liraine stepped forward. "Then the seal truly is breaking."
"What does he want?" Elaine asked.
Kaelen stood slowly. His hands trembled—but his voice was steady.
"He wants to be remembered."
---
That night, as they rested at the edge of Myreth Vale, Kaelen could not sleep.
He stood alone beneath the stars, staring into the horizon—where the capital city of Valeris shimmered like a dream on fire.
"The king knows," Liraine said behind him.
He didn't turn. "How much?"
"Enough to fear you."
Kaelen closed his eyes. "Good."
She stepped beside him. "There's no turning back now."
"No," he said. "But maybe… just maybe, I can turn it forward."
He reached into his cloak and drew out the crest he had kept hidden since the rebellion began—the sign of the true bloodline, burned into silver and shadow.
And beneath it, the words carved by a forgotten hand:
"Let the crown break, so that truth may rise."
He looked to the city.
And the fire inside him burned brighter than ever before.