The survivors called it the Hollow.
A sunken ruin half-swallowed by the fen, its crumbling arches blackened by old fires. The perfect place for ghosts to gather.
Alric stood at the edge of the water, watching the reflection of the moon shiver in the murk. Behind him, the thirty-two moved like shadows—bandaging wounds, sharpening stolen blades, whispering plans that tasted of blood and vengeance.
Taren limped to his side, the boy's small fingers clutching a rusted dagger. "They're scared," he murmured.
Alric didn't answer. He could smell it on them—the sour tang of fear beneath the anger. Good. Fear kept you alive.
Elyra's voice cut through the dark. "You can't be serious."
She stood with her arms crossed, her splinted wrist jutting at an awkward angle. The others had gathered around her, their faces gaunt in the torchlight.
Alric turned. "About?"
"Storming the Obsidian Spire. Killing the False King." She barked a laugh. "We're barely standing. He has an army."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the survivors.
Alric reached into his cloak. The ring pulsed in his palm, warm as a living thing. "We don't need an army," he said. "We need him."
He opened his hand.
The Will of the Kings glowed, its golden light spilling across the water. The survivors gasped. Even Elyra took a step back.
Taren's eyes widened. "What does it do?"
Alric's smile was thin. "It remembers."
**The plan was simple.
And suicidal.**
They would slip into the city as refugees—filthy, hollow-eyed, indistinguishable from the thousands already begging at the Spire's gates. Alric would wear the ring. Elyra would lead the distraction. Taren—
The boy had insisted.
"I know the servant tunnels," he'd said, his chin jutting in stubborn defiance. "My father showed me."
Alric had wanted to refuse. But the truth was, they needed every blade. Even one so small.
Now, crouched in the reeds as dawn bled across the sky, Alric watched the Spire's silhouette pierce the horizon. The False King's banner flapped in the wind—that damned serpent, coiled around its broken crown.
Elyra shifted beside him. "This is madness."
Alric adjusted the ring on his finger. It burned now, a constant, gnawing heat. "Then let's be quick about it."
They moved through the streets like rats, heads down, shoulders hunched. No one looked twice at another group of starving wretches.
At the Spire's outer gate, Elyra broke away with half the survivors. Her job was simple: cause enough chaos to draw the guards.
It didn't take long.
A scream. A crash. The sudden roar of flames.
Alric didn't look back. He grabbed Taren's shoulder and shoved forward, slipping through the chaos like a knife through ribs.
The servant tunnel was where Taren had promised—a narrow crack in the Spire's foundation, half-hidden by weeds.
The boy hesitated at the entrance. "What if—"
Alric pushed past him. "Don't think."
The darkness swallowed them whole.
Alric could feel it now—the whispers of the dead kings, their voices slithering through his mind like smoke.
"Kill him."
"Burn it all."
"You know you want to."
He gritted his teeth. Not yet.
The tunnel spat them out into a cellar, its walls lined with wine casks. Somewhere above, footsteps pounded—guards rushing to the false fire.
Taren's breath came in quick, panicked bursts. Alric clamped a hand over the boy's mouth. "Breathe. Or you'll get us killed."
The boy nodded, his eyes too wide.
Alric released him. "The throne room?"
Taren pointed up.
Alric drew his sword. The shadows coiled around him, eager.
"Stay close."
The air in the Obsidian Spire tasted of incense and iron.
Alric moved like a shadow through the servant corridors, Taren's ragged breaths the only sound behind him. The boy's small hand clutched the back of Alric's tunic, fingers trembling but determined. Above them, through layers of black stone, the sounds of chaos echoed—Elyra's distraction was working.
They reached the final stairwell when the ring suddenly flared white-hot.
Alric staggered, catching himself against the wall as visions assaulted him—
A golden throne drenched in blood. A crown shattered against marble. Lira's smile as the spear pierced her chest—
"Alric?" Taren's whisper yanked him back. The boy's face was pale. "Your eyes… they're black."
Alric blinked rapidly. The ring's whispers grew louder, more insistent. He's close. The usurper is close.
At the top of the stairs, two guards stood before an ornate door inlaid with onyx serpents. The throne room.
Alric didn't hesitate.
The shadows answered before his sword even cleared its sheath—tendrils of darkness lashed out, wrapping around the guards' throats before they could scream. They collapsed, their armor clattering against stone.
Taren made a small, choked sound.
"Don't look," Alric growled, kicking open the doors.
No glittering courtiers. No armored sentinels. Just a single figure slumped on the obsidian throne—a gaunt man in ruined silks, his greasy hair hanging limp around a face puckered with old burns.
The False King looked up as they entered, his bloodshot eyes widening.
"Ah." His voice was a rasp, like rusted hinges. "The Shadow King finally comes."
Alric's sword didn't waver. "Where's your army? Your defenses?"
A wheezing laugh. "Gone. All gone. They left when the food ran out." The False King gestured weakly to the hollow hall. "Do you like my empire? Built on lies and starving rats."
Taren edged forward. "He's… just a man."
The ring pulsed violently in Alric's grip. This isn't right. This isn't how vengeance should taste.
The False King coughed, a wet, rattling sound. "You want to kill me? Do it. But know this—" He leaned forward, spittle on his lips. "I never wanted this throne. She forced it upon me."
Alric froze. "She?"
The doors exploded inward.
"This isn't him."
The False King whimpered. "The real one… the Lady of the Regime… she's in the crypts—"
Alric's blood turned to ice. Lira's last words echoed: 'The banners are wrong. Look at the sigil—the serpent eats its own tail—'
The ring SCREAMED.
The walls shook. The torches snuffed out. And from the depths of the Spire, something answered.