The knocking stopped.

  Silence pooled in the derelict temple, thick as the dust motes swirling in the dawn light. Kael’s fingers still hovered over his lute strings, the cursed melody hanging unfinished in the air. Aeris had her dagger drawn, her breath shallow. Even Lyria, usually a bundle of eerie calm, clutched Sorin’s sleeve with white-knuckled fists.

  Then—

  A scream tore through the city. Distant at first, then another. And another.

  Sorin was on his feet before his mind caught up, his scars prickling like live coals. “The Hounds.”

  The temple doors burst open. Not from force—from something unmaking them. The wood didn’t splinter; it dissolved, grain by grain, into swirling ash.

  And through the haze stepped the first Hound.

  It was wrong. Not a beast, not a man, but something stitched between. Its limbs were too long, its joints bending backward as it prowled forward. The armor it wore wasn’t metal—it was bone, fused to its flesh like a second skin. And its eyes…

  Sorin’s stomach lurched. No eyes. Just hollow sockets filled with ember-light.

  “Oh, hells,” Kael breathed.

  The Hound’s head snapped toward him.

  Aeris moved first. Her dagger flashed, embedding itself in the Hound’s throat. It didn’t bleed. It didn’t even stagger. The creature just tilted its head, as if amused, and pulled the blade free, letting it clatter to the ground.

  Then it lunged.

  Sorin didn’t think. He shoved Kael aside and raised his hands—

  Gold fire erupted from his scars.

  The world narrowed to heat and howling wind. Ash spiraled around him, not from the Hound this time, but from him, from the air itself splitting open at his fingertips. The Hound recoiled, its ember-eyes flaring—not in rage, Sorin realized with a jolt. In recognition.

  Then a sword cleaved through its neck.

  The Hound’s body collapsed, dissolving into smoke, but the head lingered for a heartbeat, lips peeling back in a grin. “He remembers,” it whispered—before it too turned to ash.

  Panting, Sorin turned.

  Riven stood behind him, his greatsword stained with something black and glistening. The knight’s face was grim, his gaze locked on Sorin’s still-glowing scars. “That,” he said quietly, “wasn’t a warning. It was an invitation.”

  Another scream echoed outside, closer this time.

  Kael scrambled for his lute. “We need to run.”

  Riven didn’t move. “Running won’t help. They’re here for him.” He jerked his chin at Sorin.

  Lyria tugged Sorin’s hand. “The city is burning,” she murmured, as if reciting a dream.

  Sorin looked past the ruined doors.

  Lumin Hollow was burning.

  The streets were chaos. People fled in every direction, some clutching children, others dragging wounded loved ones. The Hounds moved among them—not slaughtering, not yet, but herding, driving the crowd like wolves corralling sheep.

  And above it all, the Broken Sanctum loomed, its shattered spire cutting into the smoke-choked sky.

  “They’re corralling them toward the square,” Aeris hissed, ducking behind a collapsed cart. “Why?”

  Riven’s jaw tightened. “Sanctum’s old tactic. Trap the crowd. Pick out the ones who resist.” His eyes flicked to Sorin. “Or the ones they’re looking for.”

  A Hound lunged from an alley. Sorin reacted on instinct—his scars flared, and the ash followed his will this time, slicing through the Hound’s chest. It fell, but not before its claws grazed his arm. The pain was instant, cold, like frostbite sinking into bone.

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  Riven hauled him back. “Don’t let them touch you. Their bite’s worse.”

  Kael, pressed against a wall, let out a shaky laugh. “Any other delightful traits we should know about?”

  “They remember,” Riven said simply. “Even when the world forgets.”

  A child’s wail cut through the din. A girl, no older than Lyria, trapped under a toppled market stall. A Hound stalked toward her, head cocked, as if curious.

  Sorin didn’t hesitate.

  He didn’t know what he was doing. The power wasn’t his, not really—it was something borrowed, something waking up—but he let it loose anyway. Ash and gold light roared from his hands, slamming into the Hound with enough force to crack the cobblestones.

  The creature screamed, a sound like grinding metal, and for the first time, it bled—black ichor sizzling where the light touched it.

  Silence fell in a ten-foot radius. Even the fleeing crowd stalled, staring.

  Then a voice, raw with reverence: “Hollow King.”

  A man stepped forward—no, not a man. Another Hound, but unlike the others. His armor was intact, his face visible beneath the bone-mask: sharp-featured, young, his eyes clear and human.

  And he knelt.

  “Dain,” Riven whispered, like a curse.

  The Hound—Dain—ignored him. His gaze was fixed on Sorin. “You came back,” he said, voice cracking. “After all this time.”

  Sorin’s throat went dry. “I’m not who you think I am.”

  Dain smiled, sad and knowing. “Not yet.”

  Then the world exploded.

  A blast of fire engulfed the square, sending Hounds and humans alike scattering. Through the flames strode Virellia, Aeris’s sister, her hands wreathed in embers. “Move!” she snarled.

  Riven didn’t need telling twice. He grabbed Sorin’s arm, yanking him toward a side alley. “We need to get to the Sanctum.”

  Sorin balked. “Are you mad? That’s where they’re herding people!”

  “Exactly.” Riven’s grip tightened. “That’s where the crown is.”

  Behind them, Dain watched Sorin flee, his voice carrying on the wind:

  “All cities fall. The question is: who remembers how?”

  The alley twisted like a gut wound, narrowing until Sorin’s shoulders scraped stone. Behind them, the firelight faded, swallowed by the rising howls of the Hounds. Ahead—only darkness, and the distant, jagged outline of the Broken Sanctum.

  Lyria’s small hand found Sorin’s. “They’re singing,” she whispered.

  He strained to hear it—not the Hounds’ howls, but something beneath them. A chorus of whispers, almost melodic, threading through the chaos.

  “The crown remembers, the king forgets…”

  His scars pulsed in time.

  The Sanctum’s gates hung broken, their iron bars bent outward—as if something had burst from within. The courtyard beyond was a graveyard of statues, their faces chiseled away by time or violence. And at the center…

  A throne.

  Not whole, but not entirely ruined either. Its back was split down the middle, the hollow where a crown might rest filled with shadows.

  Riven stopped short, his breath ragged. “It wasn’t here before.”

  Aeris kicked aside a shattered skull—Sanctum Knight, by the look of it. “What, the throne?”

  “The emptiness,” Riven said.

  Sorin understood. The air around the throne wasn’t just still. It was hungry, swallowing sound, light, even the smoke drifting overhead.

  Kael edged backward. “Yeah, no. We’re not going near that.”

  A snarl cut through the dark.

  Dain emerged from the ruins, his bone-armor cracked, one eye now milky with death. The other remained fixed on Sorin. “You feel it, don’t you?” he rasped. “The crown’s call.”

  Sorin’s pulse hammered. He did. A pull in his chest, like a hook lodged between his ribs.

  Riven stepped between them, sword raised. “Stand down, Dain.”

  Dain laughed—a wet, broken sound. “Still playing loyal knight, Riven? Even after he left us to rot?” His gaze slid past him to Sorin. “Ask him what happened that night. Ask him why the Sanctum broke.”

  Sorin’s mouth went dry. “I don’t—”

  Flash.

  A memory, sharp as a blade:

  The Hollow King (him? Not him?) standing before the throne, his hands—cracked, golden—pressed to a child’s shoulders. The child’s face is blurred, but their voice is clear: “You promised.”

  Then—screaming. The throne splitting. The sky tearing open.

  Sorin staggered, the vision vanishing as quickly as it came.

  Dain’s smile was bitter. “Now you remember.”

  Riven attacked.

  Their swords clashed, steel ringing against bone, but Sorin barely registered the fight. The pull in his chest was agony now, the throne’s emptiness howling at him.

  Lyria tugged his hand. “Don’t listen,” she pleaded. “It’s not yours anymore.”

  Aeris was at his side, her dagger out. “Sorin, focus.”

  But the whispers were louder, the throne’s shadow stretching toward him—

  Then Kael started playing.

  Not the cursed melody. A new tune, raw and reckless, strings snapping under his fingers. “Hey, ash-face!” he shouted at Dain. “Bet you can’t dance to this!”

  The Hound faltered, his head snapping toward the sound.

  Riven didn’t hesitate. His sword cleaved through Dain’s neck.

  For a heartbeat, Dain stood, his good eye wide. Then, softly: “...Lira would’ve loved that song.”

  He dissolved, his ashes swirling not toward the ground, but into the throne.

  Silence.

  Then—

  The Sanctum shuddered.

  Riven grabbed Sorin’s arm. “We need to go. Now.”

  The city was in ruins.

  Not just damaged—changed. Streets Sorin had walked days before were now unrecognizable, buildings warped as if something had reached up from below and twisted them. Survivors huddled in clusters, some weeping, others staring blankly at the Broken Sanctum’s spire.

  And the whispers had begun:

  “The Hollow King’s returned.”

  “He brought the Hounds.”

  “He’ll finish what he started.”

  Aeris wiped soot from her face. “We can’t stay here.”

  Kael’s usual smirk was absent. “Where, then?”

  Riven sheathed his sword. “The Wandering Saint. If anyone knows how to break this cycle, it’s them.”

  Sorin said nothing. His scars had dulled, but the pull in his chest remained.

  Lyria pressed close. “You’re not him,” she murmured. “Not unless you choose to be.”

  A gust of wind scattered ashes across the square. Among them, a single, half-burnt page—a fragment of the Hollow King’s Last Testament:

  “Nothing lasts—not even kings.”

  Sorin tucked it into his pocket.

  The crown remembered.

  And so, now, did he.