The Hollow March

The skies were black with ash.

The once-golden sun was now little more than a pale smear, barely visible behind a thick veil of storm clouds. The wind was sharp and cold, biting against Liora's skin as she and Alaric moved swiftly through the forest.

Her breathing was labored, her boots kicking up loose dirt and scattered leaves as they rushed forward. The scent of fire and rot clung to the air, growing heavier with each step.

Alaric ran slightly ahead, his hand gripped tightly around the hilt of his runed sword. His eyes were sharp, scanning the horizon, his gaze flicking toward every faint rustle of the trees.

But Liora barely noticed him.

Her mind was still reeling from the vision, her hands trembling faintly at her sides. Even now, she could still feel the jagged remnants of the necromantic memory clinging to her skin, sinking into her bones.

Legions of hollow-eyed soldiers.

Cities turned to dust.

The throne of bone and iron.

She could still feel the weight of it pressing against her chest—an empire of the dead, stirring from its slumber.

And she knew it wasn't a dream.

She could feel it in the earth.

By the time they reached the forest's edge, the scent of burning wood was sharp in the air.

Alaric slowed slightly, holding out an arm to halt Liora.

She barely caught herself, her boots sliding faintly against the loose soil. She glanced toward him sharply, her lips parting faintly, but his eyes were already focused on the ridge ahead, his posture taut.

She followed his gaze.

And her breath caught in her throat.

The village below was in ruins.

From the ridge, they could see the broken remnants of stone walls, now little more than jagged wreckage. The buildings were charred husks, their wooden frames blackened and skeletal.

The streets were empty, save for faint trails of ash that drifted through the air. The only sound was the faint crackle of dying flames, hissing softly against the rain-slicked stone.

But it wasn't the ruins that made Liora's blood run cold.

It was the shadows moving through the mist.

From the far edge of the village, she could see dark figures moving between the wreckage—tall, thin silhouettes that seemed half-formed, their limbs elongated and spectral, wreathed in faint tendrils of black flame. Their eyes burned with a faint, violet glow, and their footsteps left scorched imprints against the ground.

And behind them, something far worse.

An iron war banner jutted from the wreckage, scorched black and tattered by age, but unmistakable—the mark of the Hollow Empire.

Her chest tightened sharply, and she took a half-step back.

"No…" she whispered faintly.

Alaric's hand tightened on her wrist, steadying her. His voice was low, sharp with urgency.

"We can't stay here."

But Liora didn't move.

Her eyes were fixed on the figures, watching as they scoured the village, tearing through the rubble with spectral hands. They moved with a cold, mechanical precision—no urgency, no bloodlust. Just purpose.

And then she saw them dragging the bodies from the wreckage.

Her stomach twisted violently.

"They're raising them."

Her voice was barely above a whisper, her throat thick with horror.

Alaric's jaw tightened sharply, his eyes narrowing. He followed her gaze, and his hands clenched into fists as he saw them too—the fallen villagers, their corpses limp and broken, being wrenched from the rubble.

One by one, the spectral figures pressed their hands against the chests of the dead. Necromantic fire flickered faintly between their fingers, sinking into flesh and bone.

And one by one, the corpses stirred.

Joints snapped and bones realigned as the dead rose to their feet, their eyes clouded and hollow, wreathed in violet flame.

The Hollow Empire was raising its army.

"Liora!"

Alaric's voice was sharp, snapping her from her stupor. His grip on her wrist tightened, and he yanked her back as one of the spectral figures suddenly turned sharply in their direction.

Its glowing eyes narrowed faintly, and its skeletal hand twitched.

The mist shifted violently, and suddenly, a wave of necromantic energy pulsed outward. The air itself seemed to splinter and crack, and blackened chains erupted from the ground, spiraling toward them.

"Move!" Alaric shouted.

Liora barely had time to react before Alaric pulled her into motion, their boots slamming against the rain-slicked stone as they sprinted down the ridge.

The chains tore through the ground where they had stood, sending jagged chunks of rock and earth into the air. Blackened tendrils of spectral flame followed them, carving deep furrows into the dirt.

Liora's breath was sharp and ragged, her legs burning with exertion as they raced toward the edge of the village, the spectral soldiers closing in behind them.

Her heart was thundering violently in her chest.

They were faster. Too fast.

She could hear their footsteps—heavy and deliberate, their voices a low, guttural whisper of unholy chants. The very ground beneath them shuddered faintly beneath the weight of their magic.

She could feel their hands reaching for her, spectral tendrils closing around her throat.

But before they could reach her, Alaric's sword flashed.

The steel was a blur, cutting through the necromantic tendrils in a single stroke, sending blackened wisps of spectral flame scattering into the air.

"Keep moving!" he barked sharply, his voice rough with urgency.

Liora gritted her teeth, pushing herself forward, even as her legs screamed in protest. Her chest burned with every breath, and her vision blurred faintly at the edges.

But she kept running.

They didn't stop until they reached the old iron bridge, nearly a mile from the village outskirts.

Alaric staggered against the railing, his breath ragged. He pressed a hand against his side, blood smearing faintly against his fingertips from a shallow cut along his ribs.

Liora's breath came in short, ragged bursts, her hands trembling faintly at her sides. She gripped the cold iron railing, her knuckles white with the effort to keep herself steady.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

They simply stared back at the village—the faint, violet glow still visible through the mist, shadows moving faintly in the distance.

The necromantic army was still growing.

And Liora knew it would not stop.

Alaric's voice was low, rough with exhaustion.

"How long do you think we have?"

Liora's throat tightened faintly.

She glanced back at the village—at the blackened banners and the spectral soldiers marching through the ruins.

And her voice was barely a whisper.

"Not long."

Beyond the village…

The skies blackened further, the distant peaks wreathed in cursed flame.

The banners of the Hollow Empire unfurled along the crimson horizon, their skeletal sigils etched in black iron.

And at the heart of the spectral legion, a dark figure watched from the edge of the village—the faint glow of violet flame flickering from beneath his hood.

The Warden had fallen.

But the Hollow King had risen.

And the empire marched again.