The vast, blackened hall of Ebon Keep stretched into the abyss, where light dared not trespass. Towering pillars stood like silent sentinels, their presence swallowed by shadows that pulsed with unseen life. At the hall’s farthest end sat the Black Throne, a construct of writhing darkness, shifting and eternal.

  Upon it, the Hollow Lord loomed.

  His form was draped in the abyss, his very existence an extension of it. Shadows coiled and twisted around him, whispering in a voice only the void could comprehend. The darkness in the chamber did not settle—it waited.

  Before him, Vaelros knelt, his silver-lined armor catching the faintest glimmers of the spectral light above. His gaze remained low, his posture unwavering, yet the weight of the air around him was different tonight.

  “My Lord,” Vaelros began, his voice measured. “I have returned.”

  The Hollow Lord’s unseen eyes bore into him, the silence stretching, suffocating.

  “…Explain yourself.”

  Vaelros did not flinch. "I halted my pursuit."

  A single breath passed—then, the shadows seethed.

  Without warning, a pressure unlike any before descended upon him.

  It was subtle at first, a ripple in the abyss, then it struck with merciless precision—a tidal force of pure malice pressing down on his very essence. The air twisted, thick and suffocating, warping space itself.

  Vaelros’ muscles tensed involuntarily. His breath hitched, his body urging him to bow lower, to submit.

  But he did not.

  From the throne, the Hollow Lord’s voice was cold and absolute.

  “Are you contesting my orders, Vaelros?”

  The weight pressed harder, as if the abyss itself sought to crush him.

  “What gives you the right?”

  Vaelros clenched his jaw. He had expected this. He had prepared for this.

  His fingers curled into his palm as he forced himself to endure the pressure, his head never fully bowing.

  "I would never dare contest you, my Lord," he spoke, his voice restrained yet steady. "I merely ask for patience."

  The suffocating aura lingered for a moment longer—one heartbeat, then two.

  Then, the pressure ceased.

  The abyss recoiled, curling back toward the Hollow Lord like a tide returning to its master.

  Vaelros exhaled slowly. He did not speak further.

  For a time, there was only silence. Then, from the darkness, a deep, mocking chuckle slithered through the air.

  A figure unseen, vast and watching, stirred in the depths of the hall.

  "The twelfth bows, yet does not break," the voice mused, its tone thick with amusement. "Perhaps he still remembers what it means to be one of us."

  Vaelros turned his head slightly toward the shadows. His silver eyes gleamed.

  “I did not realize the Seventh was present,” he said evenly. "My apologies."

  The unseen presence merely rumbled with dark laughter, shifting once more within its seat.

  The Hollow Lord, however, remained unmoving. Watching. Calculating.

  Then, he spoke again.

  “…Very well, Vaelros.”

  The words were not approval—but permission.

  Vaelros inclined his head slightly.

  The Hollow Lord leaned back, his clawed fingers tapping against the armrest of his throne, each sound ringing hollow against the vast silence.

  “Perhaps I, too, am curious,” he murmured. "To halt the hunt… to allow him to breathe… you believe Lucian will become something, don’t you?"

  His abyssal eyes flickered.

  “Will he rise to face us?”

  A slow, knowing smile curled through his voice.

  “Or will he be consumed by what lies within?”

  Vaelros remained silent. He knew better than to answer a question not meant for him.

  But the Hollow Lord was not finished. His voice dropped lower, a whisper against the very fabric of the void.

  “…Something stirs inside of him.”

  For the first time since Vaelros entered the chamber, the Hollow Lord’s tone carried something else.

  Not concern.

  Not fear.

  Interest.

  “Something ancient. Something… forgotten.”** His voice turned almost thoughtful.** “If he dare to stand against us, first he must learn to tame it.”**

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  The Seventh Scion’s laughter ceased.

  A lingering silence passed between the three.

  Then, with a wave of his hand, the Hollow Lord dismissed him.

  "Go. Watch him. And when the time comes—see if he breaks."

  Vaelros rose, casting a final glance at the abyssal presence beside the throne before turning on his heel.

  As he walked away, the Hollow Lord remained unmoving, his gaze fixed on something unseen, something distant.

  Lucian was no longer just a rogue knight, nor a failed hunt.

  He was a question.

  One that only time could answer.

  -----------------------------------------

  Lucian stood at the shattered threshold of the church, his gaze lingering on what little remained of the only home he had ever known. The grand stained-glass windows, once vibrant with the stories of saints and martyrs, lay in jagged ruin. The altar, where Father Aldric had once offered wisdom and solace, was now little more than charred stone and broken wood. The battle had taken everything. The man who had raised him, the sanctuary that had sheltered him—gone, like embers scattered to the wind.

  Yet, despite the weight in his chest, he did not falter.

  Solbrand had given him Aldric’s final will before shattering into embers, its light fading into the void. The sword, once a symbol of Aldric’s power, was no more. But its message remained. Clenching his fists, Lucian exhaled, steadying himself. He had no time to grieve. No time to hesitate. Aldric’s sacrifice would not be in vain.

  Turning away from the ruins, he took his first step forward. Into the unknown. Into the vast, uncharted world that now lay before him. He had no destination, no clear path to follow—only the name Orin Kael and the will to see this journey through.

  The road stretched on, and so did the silence of his solitude.

  For days, he traveled, each mile bringing only more questions. What kind of man was Orin Kael? Why had Aldric trusted him? And more pressingly, where was he to even begin looking? The world beyond the church’s walls was far greater than he had imagined, and without guidance, he was little more than a wandering knight with no kingdom to serve.

  The air was crisp in the early mornings, biting at his exposed skin, while the afternoons burned under an unrelenting sun. His feet ached from the uneven dirt path, his stomach hollow from the meager scraps he had managed to find along the way. Sleep came in short, restless stretches, the open road offering no real sense of safety. And still, he walked.

  Then, one evening, as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, painting the sky in hues of burning gold and violet, he heard the creak of wooden wheels on the road ahead.

  A merchant’s cart.

  The man at its helm was dressed in a long, tattered coat, its many pockets lined with trinkets and wares that jingled with every movement. His face was weathered, framed by a scruffy beard streaked with silver, but his hazel eyes gleamed with something sharp—something knowing.

  “Well now,” the merchant mused, bringing his cart to a slow halt as he looked Lucian over. “You’ve got the look of a man who’s either running from something or chasing it.”

  Lucian stopped, measuring the man’s words. He had met few strangers in his life, and even fewer who spoke so freely. Still, there was no malice in his tone, only curiosity.

  “I’m looking for someone,” Lucian said simply.

  The merchant chuckled, tapping the reins lightly. “Aren’t we all?” He tilted his head, studying Lucian for a moment before nodding toward the road ahead. “I’m headed toward a village not far from here. Big tavern, lotta folks who know things. Might be you’ll find what you’re looking for there. Or, at the very least, a warm meal and a bed that doesn’t smell like horse.”

  Lucian hesitated. He had been prepared to walk alone, but the idea of a destination—of people who might hold answers—was enough to sway him.

  The merchant smirked. “Come on, lad. You look like you could use a bit of company. Name’s Garrin, by the way. Garrin Voss.”

  Lucian took a breath, then nodded. “Lucian.”

  As they travel, Garrin gave him a sideways glance. “If you don’t mind me asking, how old are you, lad?”

  Lucian hesitated. His age felt like a strange thing to admit after everything.

  “Thirteen,” he said at last.

  Garrin whistled low. “Thirteen and already carrying the weight of a man twice your years.” He shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck. For a moment, his gaze lingered on Lucian, as if debating whether to say something more. Then, with a sigh, he shrugged off the thought. “Well, you’ve got guts, I’ll give you that.”

  Lucian said nothing. He wasn’t sure if it was guts or just the only path left to him.

  “Well met, Lucian.” Garrin tugged the reins, setting the cart in motion once more. “Come along, then. The road’s a lot less miserable when you’ve got someone to talk to.”

  With one last glance at the fading horizon, Lucian fell into step beside the cart, his journey truly beginning at last.

  ------------------------------------------

  Lucian sat in the back of Garrin’s cart, the rhythmic creak of wooden wheels filling the quiet between them. The merchant had offered him a ride without hesitation, and though Lucian was unused to relying on the kindness of strangers, exhaustion made the choice for him. The road stretched on ahead, winding through endless fields and sparse woodland, bathed in the soft glow of twilight.

  Garrin flicked the reins lightly, guiding his sturdy old mare along the dirt path. “So, Lucian,” he said, breaking the silence, “you’re a quiet one. That means you’re either thinking too much or you just don’t like talking.”

  Lucian glanced at him from beneath the hood of his cloak. “Maybe both.”

  The merchant chuckled. “Fair enough. Not many your age would be out wandering alone. Guessing you’re not just looking for this Orin Kael out of curiosity.”

  Lucian hesitated. He didn’t know how much to tell Garrin—or if he should at all. But something about the man’s easy demeanor, the way he spoke without pressing, made him lower his guard.

  “My home was destroyed,” Lucian admitted, his voice steady despite the weight of his words. “I lost… everything.”

  Garrin was quiet for a moment. When he finally spoke, there was no pity in his tone, only understanding. “War?”

  Lucian shook his head. “A monster.”

  The merchant let out a long breath. “Ah. That kind of trouble.”

  Lucian studied him. “You believe me?”

  Garrin smirked. “Lad, I’ve been on the road longer than you’ve been alive. I’ve heard stories that’d chill a grown man to the bone. The kind most folk like to pretend aren’t real. But you…” He cast a sidelong glance at Lucian. “You don’t look like a liar.”

  Lucian nodded slowly, feeling an odd sense of relief. He shifted his weight, glancing at the goods piled around him—bolts of cloth, bundles of dried herbs, a few wooden crates that smelled faintly of spices. A well-worn crossbow rested against one of the barrels.

  “You travel alone?” Lucian asked.

  “Most of the time,” Garrin replied. “Safer that way. Fewer people to slow me down. Fewer people to bury if things go south.”

  Lucian considered that. He had only ever known the security of the church, the warmth of Aldric’s presence. Being alone had never been a choice—until now.

  A cool breeze swept through the trees as they moved deeper into the woodland, the last traces of daylight fading. Shadows stretched across the road, and the chirping of insects filled the air.

  Garrin adjusted his grip on the reins. “We’ll reach the village by midday tomorrow, if the roads stay clear.”

  Lucian frowned. “And if they don’t?”

  The merchant’s lips curled into a knowing grin. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small dagger, its worn leather grip fitting snugly into his palm. “Then you’d best take this, lad. No sense traveling the road with empty hands.”

  Lucian hesitated before accepting it. He had never wielded anything smaller than a sword, but the weight of the dagger in his grasp was oddly reassuring. He nodded his thanks.

  As if on cue, a rustling sounded from the undergrowth. Lucian tensed, his fingers tightening around the dagger’s hilt. Garrin, however, barely reacted, his eyes scanning the darkened roadside with practiced ease.

  A few heartbeats passed before a lone figure stepped onto the path ahead—haggard, hunched, and wrapped in ragged furs. The man’s face was gaunt, eyes sunken with hunger. He raised a hand, not in greeting, but in demand.

  “Spare some food, traveler?” the stranger rasped.

  Garrin’s grip on the reins tightened ever so slightly. “Bit late to be wandering the roads alone, isn’t it?”

  The man’s lips curled into a faint, humorless smile. “Not alone.”

  A twig snapped behind them.

  Lucian twisted in his seat, catching movement in the trees—more figures, creeping closer.

  Garrin sighed. “Well, lad,” he muttered, reaching for his crossbow, “looks like we won’t be getting much rest tonight after all.”

  Lucian exhaled slowly, steadying himself. He had no choice but to fight. The road to the village had just gotten a lot longer.