The name echoed like a scream I couldn't shut out.
The Hollow Sovereign.
Even Erathion stiffened when he heard it—his skeletal fingers curling tighter around the hilt of his sword, jaw locked like a war drum mid-beat.
"That thing is a myth," he muttered.
"Apparently not," I said, eyes on Isolde.
She was still chained to the ritual slab, though her expression had changed. Less defiance, more urgency. Fear.
Not of us.
Of it.
"What is it?" I asked her.
"A mistake," she whispered. "A god that died wrong. One that doesn't stay dead."
We moved her to the lower sanctum beneath my mansion. Wards carved from blessed bone sealed the room. Even Erathion couldn't enter without my permission.
I didn't trust her.
But I needed her alive.
That night, I dreamt of black suns and silent cities.
In the dream, I stood in a field of gravestones… all of them with my name on them.
Each stone cracked open.
And from the last one crawled a being with no face.
Just a hollow crown.
When I woke up, the spiral on my palm was burning hot. Glowing red instead of green.
Something was coming.
We needed information.
And there was only one place to find it:
The Library of Roots—an ancient archive buried beneath the city of Caldera, guarded by the immortal sentience known as Mother Index.
Problem was, Caldera was a city of Lightmages. Necromancers were executed on sight.
So we'd need to break in.
Erathion, of course, was thrilled.
"It's been centuries since I burned a library," he said, amused.
"We're not burning it," I growled. "We're infiltrating."
"Pity."
I left Isolde under heavy guard, warded with soul-chains and anti-magic glyphs.
Then I gathered my team:
Erathion, still wearing the bloodstained crown.
Virella, newly reforged with obsidian armor and a soul-tether gem.
And a new addition: Korran Graves, a living thief and black market relic hunter who owed me a life-debt.
Together, we rode south under glamoured horses, avoiding the patrol routes of the Azure Chain. Every night, I felt the Hollow Sovereign closer—like a breath behind my ear. But it never showed itself.
Yet.
We reached Caldera's outer ruins in three days.
The entrance to the Library of Roots was disguised as a well in the center of an abandoned orchard.
Korran found it first.
"That's not water," he said, peering down. "It's memory."
He was right.
Inside the well shimmered liquid memory essence—a raw pool of thought, time, and preserved spirit. One step in and we'd be walking inside the dreams of the dead who had ever touched a page in the library.
"Only one of us can go," I said. "Too much necrotic energy will trigger the wards."
Erathion looked displeased, but relented.
So I went alone.
I stepped into the well.
And the world bent.
I found myself in a forest made of books. Trees with pages for leaves, roots made of quills, birds that sang in poetry. The sky was a pale parchment color, and the sun was an inkblot.
At the center stood her.
Mother Index.
A construct made of scrolls, feathers, and forgotten voices. Her face changed constantly—sometimes a child's, sometimes an old man's, sometimes just letters rearranging into eyes.
"Necromancer Cassian Vale," she said. "You seek knowledge not meant for the living."
"The Hollow Sovereign," I said. "Tell me what it is."
She paused.
Then unfolded her arms—literal scrolls filled with trembling writing—and spoke.
"In the beginning, there were Thirteen Thrones. Each held by a death-god. But one… was betrayed. Left empty. Forgotten."
"That throne was filled by absence itself."
"The Hollow Sovereign is not death. It is what follows death. A hunger that even gods cannot stomach. It does not rule. It devours."
"It was sealed once—by the combined blood of necromancer kings."
"But now… you wear that blood again."
"And it is waking up."
My mouth went dry.
"Can it be stopped?"
"Only if you claim the Empty Throne first."
Then everything shattered.
Fire. Screams. The library tearing itself apart.
I was pulled back through the well—violently.
When I woke up, Korran was dead.
His throat cut.
Eyes hollowed out.
Erathion stood over him, sword drawn.
"We were attacked," he said. "Not by mages. Something darker."
"What happened?"
He pointed.
And I saw it.
Etched into Korran's forehead.
A crown.
A hollow one.