In the Tower of Hollowglass, time did not pass.It fractured.
Moonlight spilled through the crystal dome overhead, casting fractured colors across the marble floor. The tower—perched at the edge of the Shattered Vale—had been abandoned since the last Eclipse. But tonight, it pulsed with life once more.
Because he had awakened.
The Hollow Prince knelt before the obsidian basin, his hands submerged in the still water. Images flickered beneath the surface—faces, flames, fragments of prophecy stitched by madness. His eyes were wide, unblinking.
His attendants waited in silence. None dared speak while he read the waters.
Then, softly, he exhaled. "Seven."
His voice was cold and brittle. Like something that had forgotten how to feel.
"There were never meant to be seven."
One of the robed attendants finally dared to ask, "Do you see them, my prince?"
"I see him."
A ripple danced across the basin, and for a moment, Caelan's face emerged in the reflection—eyes burning, jaw clenched, the Veil behind him flickering like a storm about to break.
The Hollow Prince smiled. It did not reach his eyes.
"He's broken," he murmured, fingers brushing the reflection. "But not shattered. That makes him dangerous."
He rose to his feet, his black robes falling like liquid glass around him. "The Court thinks itself wise, watching from behind its walls. But it cannot see what comes. Not truly. Not as I do."
He turned to the wall behind him. On it, seven glyphs burned faintly—arcane runes etched in blood and crystal.
Six glowed dim. One pulsed like a heartbeat.
Caelan's.
"The Ashborne walks the path of ruin," the prince said. "If he completes the Pact, the fire will awaken beneath us all. The Throne will burn before it's ever taken."
He looked to his most trusted shadow: a masked woman draped in bone-white silk.
"Send word to the Severed Choir. Tell them to accelerate the plan. If Caelan reaches Duskvale, he cannot be allowed to leave."
The woman bowed and vanished into the black corridor.
The prince stood alone again.
He looked back at the water—now stilled—and whispered, "I was born of silence. Raised by the gap between oaths. The others speak of fate and power. But I… I remember what the Throne really cost last time."
He pressed his palm against the glyph bearing his name.It did not glow.Not yet.
Meanwhile — en route to Duskvale
Elira was the first to sense it.
They'd traveled three nights through the wind-swept grasslands beyond Vereth Kal, where the only sound was the rustle of wind and the quiet murmur of the Weave through the earth. Caelan walked at her side, quiet, watchful. The night was cold, the sky clear—and the air wrong.
She stopped mid-step. "We're being followed."
Caelan didn't ask how she knew. He drew his blade.
Then the sky turned black.
It didn't darken—it bled. Veins of shadow slithered across the stars, coiling like ink spilled across a painting. The ground pulsed. The grass shriveled.
Elira drew her curved dagger. "This isn't normal magic."
"No," Caelan muttered, already activating the Veil.
‹ Thread Control +2 ›‹ Anomaly Detected: Songborne Invocation ›‹ Warning: Interference with Ashborne Pact (1/3) ›
A shriek tore through the night—neither beast nor man, but something in between. The trees at the edge of the clearing bent, and from the shadow came singers—dozens of them, pale-masked, robed in bonewhite, humming a harmony that frayed the air.
The Severed Choir.
"Target the mouthpieces," Elira snapped, already launching into a flurry of strikes.
Caelan raised his free hand. The air burned. The Weave ignited.
"Ashweave — Ember Pulse."
Flame detonated in a spiraling wave, tearing through the first row of cultists. But they didn't scream. They didn't flinch.
They sang.
Every note stabbed through Caelan's mind like a needle—discordant, maddening. His Veil flickered. Something inside him pulsed in reply.
‹ Soul Fracture: Reaction Spike ›‹ Initiating Ashborne Response… ›
A figure appeared behind him—barefoot, purple-eyed. The echo of his mother's voice, but twisted by memory. She smiled.
"Don't forget who you are, Caelan."
His eyes snapped open, glowing molten gold.
"Enough."
The fire exploded outward—not from his hands, but from his spine, his ribs, his soul. The Ashweave answered the Choir's song with an inferno of defiance. Burned notes spiraled into ash.
The survivors fled, wailing in silence. The grasslands smoked.
Caelan dropped to one knee, his hands smoking, eyes hollow.
Elira knelt beside him. "They knew where we were going. Someone told them."
He didn't reply. He already knew.
Someone in Vereth Kal had leaked their path.A traitor still lingered near.
Elsewhere — In the Glass Sanctum
The Hollow Prince stood once more at his basin.
He did not look surprised.
"Ah. You awakened a second thread. Impressive."
His shadow whispered, "He's growing faster than the others."
"He has to. The prophecy burns brighter through him."
He stepped closer to the glyphs again. One of them—a fifth, dormant one—had begun to glow faintly.
Not Caelan's.
Another Heir had stirred.