**Chapter 17 – The Hollow Crown**
The mark on her palm no longer burned.
Now it pulsed.
With every hour, it deepened—etched darker into her skin like ink from some living quill. It wasn't just a wound. It was a door.
And doors were meant to open.
Amaris stood in the Tower of Silence at dusk, overlooking the dead horizon where the ruined temple once stood. The sky had turned a bruised violet, and the moon, though no longer red, shimmered like tarnished silver.
The palace around her had quieted since her coronation. Too quiet.
Even the prince had stopped speaking much.
Because they all knew it wasn't over.
And something had begun scratching at the underside of the world.
---
She first felt the pull during her dreams.
If they could still be called dreams.
In one, she walked barefoot on a glass sea. Every step cracked a reflection of herself—dozens of versions breaking away. In another, she sat on a throne of bone while stars bled above her, and a voice whispered, *"You are not queen yet. Not until you rule below."*
The third time, she *answered.*
She didn't speak aloud. She didn't need to.
The mark did it for her.
A whisper shaped like a yes.
---
That night, the floor beneath her tower bed split open.
No noise. No tremor.
Just a long, vertical gash of shadow—black as coal, humming with hunger.
She stood above it in her nightdress, barefoot, no sword, no crown.
The air trembled around her. And then it spoke.
Not in words, but in *intention.*
*Come.*
Amaris stepped forward.
Not because she was brave.
But because she was *done* waiting.
She descended into the Hollow Court.
---
It wasn't a staircase or a path.
It was *falling sideways.*
As if gravity had been rewritten.
She landed, eventually, on ash-covered stone. The world was silent but thick with presence—like breathing in fog that tasted of copper and loss.
Above her, the sky was black and webbed with pale cracks of light—like someone had shattered the heavens from the other side.
And ahead of her: a castle.
Upside down.
Floating above a crater of bone and shadow.
Chains held it in place—dozens, massive, alive. They groaned like beasts.
And waiting at its gate—
A creature in a robe of whispering threads. No face. Just a void behind the hood.
"You have come," it said.
Amaris squared her shoulders. "You summoned me."
The being tilted its head. "You summoned *us* the moment you bled into the Offering circle and lived."
It lifted a hand, and the mark on her palm flared.
"You carry the Hollow brand."
"I don't serve anyone," she said.
"No," the being replied. "But you belong."
The gates creaked open behind it.
And the creature stepped aside.
"Come inside, Queen of the Above. It is time we show you the crown beneath."
---
The Hollow Court was not like her world.
It wasn't made of rooms and windows.
It was made of memory.
Each hallway she walked twisted into shapes from her past—a hallway from her childhood orphanage, the training grounds where she first held a sword, the mirror-chamber where she'd nearly died.
Each time she passed through, something whispered behind the walls.
"You should have died."
"You were meant to kneel."
"You are the mistake."
She ignored them.
Until she reached the central chamber.
It was circular.
Thirteen thrones carved into the stone—none identical. Each throne bore the remnants of a ruler long dead: a blackened crown, a skeletal hand, a necklace of eyes.
Twelve were filled with shadows.
The thirteenth was empty.
She didn't have to be told.
That one was hers.
---
A being rose from the center of the circle.
It wasn't the god she'd killed.
But it was *like* him.
A fractured shape—too many arms, not enough face, and a voice that tasted like rust.
"You broke the balance."
"I broke a curse," Amaris replied.
The being tilted toward her.
"No Offering has ever lived. Until you."
She said nothing.
"You bled into the stone of two realms. And now both call you queen."
It extended a clawed hand.
"You must choose. The Above or the Below."
Amaris narrowed her eyes. "What happens if I choose neither?"
The chamber quaked. A crack split across the floor.
"You are already choosing," it hissed. "Every step you take *not* to kneel is a step toward the Hollow."
Amaris stepped forward.
"I'll sit on that throne," she said. "But I won't do it to serve you."
The shadows stirred.
The other gods of the court hissed and murmured.
She wasn't supposed to speak to them like that.
She wasn't supposed to *exist.*
The being laughed—a sick, echoing laugh.
"We don't want your service," it said. "We want your soul."
And suddenly, they all rose.
Twelve hollow kings.
Twelve broken gods.
Twelve monsters who had once ruled different ends of forgotten empires.
Amaris did not back down.
The mark on her palm glowed brighter, spreading up her arm like a tattoo of fire.
And then the thirteenth throne ignited.
Flames black and blue.
The chamber screamed.
And the gods knelt.
All twelve.
One by one.
Before her.
She walked to the thirteenth seat.
And sat.
The fire curled around her, but did not burn.
The mark flared.
Her eyes went silver.
And then—
A vision.
Of *him.*
The second god.
Not shattered.
Not dead.
But *buried.*
Deep beneath the palace.
And waking.
---
She jolted upright in her own bed.
Morning.
The mark was gone from her palm.
But beneath her skin, she still felt it.
The Hollow Crown was hers.
But the price had only just begun to rise.