THE HALLOW VALE BECKONS
Verse of the Vale:
> "Where rhythm breaks and echoes die,
The hollow winds begin to cry.
Those who dance where songs have bled,
Will find the silence fills with dread."
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The wind was not just cold—it was empty.
It howled across the jagged plain like a memory refusing to die. Even the grass no longer whispered here. What little remained of the forest had turned skeletal—trunks stripped white, leaves like brittle ash, clinging for a moment too long before crumbling into nothing. It was as if time itself refused to beat.
Ren stood at the edge of that vast, broken land—the Hollow Vale. No birds. No chirp. No rustle. Even his own breath seemed quieter here, as though something ancient and merciless watched from beneath the soil.
Kael said nothing. His armor caught the dull gray light and refused to shine. His hand rested on the hilt of his blade, but he didn't grip it—not yet. Ren noticed the tension behind his stillness. The kind of readiness that spoke of old battles never truly survived.
Brann whispered a song under his breath. Not a tune of power or rhythm—but a warding lullaby. It was old. Older than the academy. Maybe older than the Crowns. A mother's prayer to keep the night at bay.
Sira clutched her staff, but her magic wavered. The melody in her veins fought to stay whole, yet the Vale drained even hope.
They stepped in. One by one. Like stepping into a grave.
---
The deeper they went, the worse it became.
Ren's blade—it did not sing.
It trembled.
Where once the rhythm swirled in his spine, where footwork became a dance, where the steel had whispered songs of victory—now there was silence. Like a lover turned cold.
Kael broke the silence first.
"The Hollow Vale was once a kingdom," he murmured. "They wore no crowns, but their music was beautiful. Pure. Untamed. The other Crowns envied them. So they made the first silence."
Ren looked up. "You mean this wasn't always dead?"
Kael's eyes were distant. "Nothing begins dead. Something kills it."
A rustle.
But not of leaves.
Something moved—wrong in shape, wrong in rhythm. Like a song played backward and bleeding.
They drew weapons.
And then the Corrupted Rider appeared.
---
He wore no crown. But something darker pulsed behind his helm.
Where a rhythm should be, he exhaled anti-sound. A vacuum of song. And yet, around him, the bones of forgotten warriors echoed with fractured war-chants. His mount—a beast of rotted sinew and silver threads—snorted a cloud of decay.
Kael's stance sharpened, blade forward. "You remember me, don't you?"
The Rider said nothing. But his broken lance lowered.
Ren felt something strange: not fear. Not even rage. It was like standing in the eye of a storm and realizing the sky might never move again.
Kael leapt.
The clash rang hollow. Kael's blade met the Rider's corrupted steel—and for a moment, the very ground shook. A faint hum tried to rise—but the Vale swallowed it.
Ren wanted to join. Wanted to move, dance, let the rhythm flow.
But his blade—still silent.
And then the Rider looked at him.
Kael was forced back by a brutal swing—but Ren was already in motion. Footsteps over broken soil, heartbeat pounding to a rhythm only he could feel.
No melody.
Just survival.
And then, as his foot hit a cracked stone, his blade—
—sang.
It was not the song of triumph.
It was a whisper.
A plea.
Survive.
---
They fought like echoes.
Kael struck high—Ren low. Sira bound the air with notes of shielding light, Brann's hammer roared like a drum. Still, the Rider pressed forward, each motion draining the rhythm from the world.
Ren felt his muscles slow. Not from fatigue, but from despair.
The Vale wanted them quiet.
But Ren was a dancer.
He pivoted, spun low, then kicked upward. His blade met the Rider's chest—not enough to pierce—but enough to make the Rider step back.
A pause.
Kael took the chance.
He roared, blade burning with defiance—and slashed. The Rider staggered, armor splitting. Beneath it—no flesh. Just shadow.
Then the Rider vanished into the mist.
---
Night fell without warning.
They set camp within a ring of standing stones—remnants of an old melody circle. Sira lit lanterns with dim violet fire. Brann hummed again, but it faded in his throat.
Kael cleaned his blade in silence.
Ren stared at the campfire. "You knew him."
Kael nodded.
"He was once a Guardian. Before the Crown he served cracked. Before the rhythm turned inside out. Now he dances to nothing."
"And us?" Ren asked. "What are we dancing toward?"
Kael looked up, eyes cold with memory.
"The truth."
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Verse of the Rider:
> "The blade once danced to kings and fate,
But in the hollow, songs turn to hate.
When silence screams and rhythm dies,
Only the broken learn to rise."
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