The days that followed their return to the capital were heavy with unease. The court, once bustling with routine matters of harvest and trade, now thrummed with whispers of shadow and flame. Kael felt it in every council meeting, every glance cast toward him and Isolde—half-curiosity, half-fear. Varrow's hand was everywhere, invisible yet undeniable, weaving doubt like a spider in its web.
Isolde tried to keep to herself, tending to the infirm who came quietly to her chamber, but her nights were far from restful. The Hollow had not released her. In sleep, she walked among mist and chains, hearing the same deep voice coil around her mind.
The flame is mine. You were born to burn.
She would wake breathless, her palms glowing faintly gold, the sheets scorched where her hands had rested. More than once, she found Kael at her side, sword within reach, his eyes storm-bright with worry.
"Isolde," he whispered one night after she jolted awake, "what does it show you?"
Her lips trembled, the truth hard to voice. "Chains. Shadows. A crown made of fire. Kael… I think the Hollow marked me. It's inside me still."
He gripped her shoulders, steady and unyielding. "Then we fight it. You're not alone in this. Whatever mark the Hollow left, it doesn't define you. I won't let it."
But even as he spoke, the fear in his eyes betrayed him.
---
In the court, Varrow played his role to perfection. Before King Aldric, he offered calm counsel, urging patience. Among the nobles, however, he whispered of danger—of a prince bewitched by a healer, of a kingdom soon to be undone by powers long forbidden.
At a gathering in the Hall of Tapestries, his words were veiled but sharp:
"Can Aeloria afford to trust a flame we do not understand? What if this healer brings not salvation, but ruin? What if the Hollow chose her… not to stop the Shadow King, but to free him?"
The murmurs spread like fire across dry grass. Old rivalries flared, suspicion sharpened. Some lords called for Isolde's exile, others for her imprisonment, and a few for her execution before her magic could betray them all.
King Aldric listened but did not decide, his silence feeding the tension. And Varrow smiled in that silence, knowing it served him best.
---
One evening, as Kael and Isolde crossed the moonlit gardens, a shadow broke from the hedges. A messenger, pale and shaking, dropped to one knee before the prince.
"My lord," he gasped, "there are reports from the southern borders. Crops blackened overnight. Livestock found twisted, their eyes… empty. The people whisper it is the curse of the Shadow King."
Isolde's blood ran cold. The Hollow's mark pulsed against her palms, burning faintly, as if responding to the messenger's words. She looked to Kael, her voice barely steady. "It's spreading."
Kael's jaw hardened. "Then we cannot wait for council debates. We ride at dawn."
But even as determination filled him, Isolde felt the Hollow's whisper coil tighter inside her mind, as if mocking her resolve.
Run where you will, flame. The chains are breaking. And when they do… you will burn first.