Chapter 22: Echoes of the Hollow

The deep night air was smothered in mist.

A light wind rustled the rotting trees as Lyra and the remnants of her warband traveled through the cursed part of the world called the Deadway. In times past, these woods were fertile and bright, alive with small villages and trinkets of old gods long abandoned. Now there were only gnarled branches and the stale smell of burnt offerings.

It was Voren who spoke first.

"I don't like this, Lyra," he mumbled, pulling his pale destrier closer. "No birds. No beasts. Even the Veil feels thinner here."

Lyra tightened her grip on the hilt of her sword. "Good. That means we are close." 

Avelar, behind them, rode along in heavy silence, his pale skin almost glowing under the sickly moonlight. He wore no crown, but his face was lined, and he looked more worn than she remembered. The weight of ancient blood sat on him like a curse.

Varrow's Hollow lay before them. 

It would take hard riding for three nights to reach the crumbling settlement, and not one spoke about what lay ahead. They had all heard the tales; villages swallowed in mists, people flayed by invisible claws, black hand marks left on walls and earth.

Signs of the Awakening of the Hollow Throne.

When the Hollow eventually revealed itself, Lyra felt her gut tighten.

The town lay before them reduced to charred timber and melted stone. The ground seemed to bleed fog, which clung to their boots and hooves as if it were ravenous fingers reaching for them. No voices. No survivors.

Until they heard a faint, shattered wail.

A Child's Warning

In the middle of the ruined square knelt one girl.

She could not have been more than seven winters, and her eyelids were still ringed with burnt black ash and swollen into half-moons by tears and smoke. In her little hands was something- a ragged piece of silk stained red.

Lyra cautiously approached her as she dismounted.

"What is your name, little one?" she said in soft tones.

The girl did not answer, but instead lifted her hand.

Carved into her palm, fresh and bleeding, was a mark- a broken circle.

Lyra's blood froze.

Before she could say anything further, the child whispered:

"The Hollow King is coming."

Then her body went rigid, her eyes rolled up, and she fell without a sound at Lyra's feet.

The silence that followed was smothering.

"Oh gods," Voren swore, a white shade of fear filling his features.

"A raid is no longer a raid," Avelar said quietly. "It is just a message." 

The Truth in Blood

In camp, Lyra faced Avelar. 

"You knew," her voice low and violent. "This was not an unprovoked slaughter so much as a ritual." 

Avelar did not deny it. 

"I had my suspicions," he said. "The Hollow Throne does not digest the same way that other horrors do. The Hollow Throne leaves signs. Marks. It prepares its vessel before claiming the world." 

"And who is the vessel?" Voren demanded. 

Avelar hesitated. 

Then he looked at Lya. 

"You." 

The word pierced. 

"You are the last ember of the old line, Avelar said. "You carry the blood of Lyric, the only living soul able to carry the power of the Hollow Throne. They're not destroying these villages to weaken your men. They are thinning the Veil, preparing your soul." 

Lyra stared at him, heart pounding. 

"I refuse to be a marionette," she hissed. 

The look on Avelar's face was adverse. "Neither did Kaelen. Neither did I. But fate has a habit of eating those who think they can be free."

The Crimson Moon

That night, the night changed.

Where there was once pale stars and cloudy mist, a great crimson moon blazed, fat and low on the horizon. The Veil shimmered as if it were an opening in the air, with edges pulsating.

Then the creatures came.

Figures of ash and bone with their hollow sockets weeping smoke. They poured out of the rift in a soundless tide. Clawed hands. Empty eyes. Never ending.

Defenders scrambled to greet them.

Voren swung and charged, letting out a primal roar as he cleaved through the front lines. Lyra fought with him, gloves around her grip of the Sword of Lyric, slipping away streaks of pale fire as it sang in her hands.

But for every horror they felt, a new horror joined.

And then the ground opened.

An enormous figure arose from the wandering crack.

A dark cloak hung over a frame that was too large, and too old to be. The face was sullen and lost in a cloak of void, with a sleeve that extended with a skeletal white arm.

It pointed at Lyra.

"The Hollow King awakens," it said with a darkness of null.

It wasn't a voice, but rather a thousand whispers at once.

Avelar paled.

"It beggars," he whined to himself.

What happened to the sky, but wept ash, and the gash grew larger.

Battle for the world's final breath.