Hollowstone wasn't built for the living.
The gates yawned wide—twisted metal, rusted bone, slabs of relic glass fused with melted stone. Faint symbols burned into the framework, old empire runes dulled by ash and time. Beyond the threshold, the city sagged under its own weight—collapsed rooftops, skeletal towers leaning like drunk ghosts, streets half-swallowed by slag dunes.
The stench hit first.
Old smoke. Mold. That sour rot of forgotten things left to choke on themselves.
Agro's hooves crunched faint as we crossed the threshold, the wind curling low with the whisper of dead banners flapping against blackened walls.
This was no sanctuary.
Hollowstone looked like it lost the war twenty years ago and no one bothered burying the evidence.
But there were signs of life.
Faint campfires flickered between ruined archways, makeshift stalls sagging under patchwork canopies, scraps of cloth and scavenged relic plating hammered into shelter. The hollowed bones of the city now housed the desperate—smugglers, relic-hunters, runaways.
And predators.
Their eyes tracked me as I rode in—hooded shapes lounging near fire pits, fingers brushing knives, relic pistols glinting faint under ash-stained cloaks. Everyone here bled suspicion, thin and sharp as the cracked roads beneath us.
Perfect.
I slid from the saddle near what passed for a marketplace—half a courtyard buried in ash, broken statues leaning overhead, their faces melted beyond recognition. Stalls lined the edges, traders hawking scavenged relic parts, battered weapons, and overpriced supplies to anyone reckless enough to pass through.
I needed two things: repairs for Agro, and better steel.
The rusted sword at my hip barely qualified as a weapon—it whined under pressure, edges jagged from every clash.
A wiry vendor eyed me as I approached, his stall stacked with salvaged blades—most chipped, some warped beyond hope, but a few gleamed faint with old empire alloy.
"Coin or barter?" he rasped.
I patted the empty pouch at my belt. Thirty-two Ash Shards gone.
The vendor smirked, teeth yellowed. "You've got nothing."
"Not true," I muttered, pulling the rusted sword free. "Trade?"
He eyed the relic, sneering faint. But desperation glittered behind his scowl. Even junk fetched value in Hollowstone.
We bartered hard—haggling over rust, alloy quality, whispered curses of cheap relic glass cracking under strain. In the end, I walked away with a battered short sword—still rough, but sturdy, edges filed sharper, the faint glint of neural glass laced through the hilt.
Better than bleeding empty-handed.
Agro whinnied faint as I returned, his flanks trembling slightly, old wounds still raw beneath the makeshift bandages.
Supplies next.
A woman at a nearby stall sold feed, medical cloth, basic saddle gear—ridiculously priced, but necessary. I scraped the last fragments of metal from my pack—scraps of old relic plates, slagglass slivers. Enough to trade, barely.
She eyed the shards, brow lifting. "Not much."
"Enough," I countered.
Pity flickered across her face, gone in a blink. But she handed over the supplies—coarse feed, wire to reinforce the saddle, strips of clean cloth. I worked quick, securing Agro's wounds, tightening the gear, hands moving through familiar motions etched by years of survival.
The city groaned faint underfoot—a low, seismic hum like bones shifting beneath the stone.
The crown pulsed harder in my pack, heat threading along my spine. Its whispers sharpened near Hollowstone, memories bleeding sharper—the silhouette of a citadel cracking under fire, banners torn, ash drowning the streets.
Familiar.
Wrong.
Agro's ears pinned back, nostrils flaring as the ground shuddered faintly beneath us.
I looked up—eyes narrowing toward the inner city.
A structure loomed beyond the ruins—a tower still partially standing, relic glass shimmering weak under moonlight, scorched banners half-torn along its frame. Scavengers clustered near the base—desperate shapes hunched around a glowing pit, faint blue light spilling like liquid across the stone.
Old tech.
Powerful enough to draw every vulture from the Hollow Marches.
And stupid enough to tempt me.
I tightened my grip on the new sword, adjusting the pack, crown humming molten pressure against my ribs.
This city was rotting. But its bones still whispered.
I pressed forward.
The crowd near the pit parted uneasily as I approached—hollow eyes sizing me up, some flinching back at the faint hum bleeding from my pack.
They could feel it too.
The pit was jagged—collapsed earth revealing a buried relic chamber beneath, old empire alloy gleaming faint under the ash. Runes crackled faint along the edges, light pulsing from a fractured conduit deep underground.
And in the pit's center… a corpse.
Charred. Twisted. Mouth frozen open in a silent scream, its chest cavity hollowed, ribs curled outward like broken wings.
My stomach knotted.
It wasn't the corpse.
It was the crown fused to its skull—jagged, warped by fire, runes scorched into its edges.
Identical to the one buried in my pack.
A second crown.
Impossible.
The scavengers whispered, eyes darting, the weight of buried history coiling sharp in the air.
I clenched my jaw, hand brushing the relic hidden beneath canvas, its heat searing sharper now, memory shards threading through my vision—fractured glimpses of empire halls burning, gods bleeding gold across marble floors, a voice seething through the smoke:
"You will forget me. But the world will remember ruin."
The corpse's hollow eyes stared upward, glassy sockets reflecting the fractured moons overhead.
Agro shifted beside me, tense.
The horizon still stretched beyond Hollowstone.
But the past… the past wasn't done bleeding yet.