Kaelen emerged from the Labyrinth as if rising from a long and suffocating dream.
The steps behind him dissolved into mist and silence — the mountain sealing once more as though the path had never existed. Above, the sky was different. It was still day, yet the sun felt dimmer. Shadows stretched longer than they should. Even the wind seemed quieter, listening.
Lys caught him as he stumbled. "Easy," she murmured.
He shook his head. "No. We don't have time."
They stood at the high pass of Arhyn's Crown, the world stretched out beneath them. Far to the west, Erelthane shimmered in heat and dust. North, the jagged teeth of Halvyr Keep pierced the low clouds. And beyond all of it — unseen, but deeply felt — the Hollow King stirred.
Kaelen turned to Aelric, who watched with his arms crossed, eyes narrowed. "We need to gather the Free Banners. The Sunlords of Auron. The reavers in the salt cities. Anyone who still remembers the name Ninefold Flame."
Aelric raised an eyebrow. "That's assuming any of them still breathe. Or care."
"They'll care," Kaelen said. His voice, hoarse but resolute, carried something it hadn't before: certainty.
"They'll have to."
The journey back down the mountain was swift, but harrowing.
Cymrael had altered them. They passed no beasts, saw no birds. Even the wind held its breath. The land had sensed what Kaelen now knew — that the crowns were not simply heirlooms. They were locks.
And Kaelen was gathering keys.
By the time they reached the lowlands, the sky had begun to shift.
A red aurora hung above the eastern horizon — a bleeding smear of light visible even beneath the afternoon sun. Farmers stared from their fields. Shepherds fell to their knees in prayer. Children wept without understanding why.
The Hollow King had moved.
They reached the border town of Kareth's Hollow by nightfall. It should have been bustling — a crossroad between kingdoms, thick with spice caravans and mercenary banners.
But it was empty.
Shutters banged in the wind. Smoke curled from chimneys without owners. A single horse wandered the square, riderless and gaunt-eyed.
Aelric dismounted first. "This isn't abandonment. This is fear."
Kaelen walked to the center of town, where the old cistern stood. He touched the stone rim.
Cold.
He looked up — and froze.
Painted in ash on the high church walls was a symbol he had seen only once before. A spiral of thorns, ringed with broken eyes.
Lys joined him. Her voice dropped. "The Hollowborn have passed through."
"No," Kaelen said. "They didn't pass. They came from here."
Aelric's sword was half-drawn. "Then where did they go?"
As if in answer, a low horn echoed from the east. Not warlike — warning.
Kaelen turned to the hills beyond the town.
And saw fire.
The camp was nestled beneath the ruins of an old aqueduct, its guards already in formation as Kaelen approached. The banner flying from the central post bore the blue-gold sunburst of the Free Banners — mercenaries, exiles, and idealists bound together by coin, cause, and desperation.
A lean woman in half-plate armor strode forward, flanked by archers. Her eyes were sharp and suspicious. "State your name and purpose."
Kaelen stepped into the firelight. "My name is Kaelen of Thornmere. I come bearing five of the Nine Crowns."
Silence fell like a hammer.
Lys held up a small satchel. One by one, she withdrew the crowns — silver and obsidian, gold and bone, each humming faintly with old power. The soldiers backed away instinctively.
Aelric smirked. "Told you he was a big deal."
The commander recovered. "Even if you are who you say, that doesn't mean we follow you."
Kaelen didn't raise his voice. "You don't have to follow me. Just listen."
They gave him the central fire. When he stepped forward, a hundred eyes stared. Some wary. Some hopeful. All silent.
Kaelen stood tall, his shadow long behind him. "I was born in Thornmere, a blacksmith's son. I once believed the Nine Kingdoms were dead — their crowns scattered, their legacies ash."
He touched the ember at his chest. It glowed faintly, pulsing with memory.
"I was wrong. The Nine still live — in ruin, in blood, in hope. I've walked through desert and storm. I've bled in drowned cities and fought in towers long forgotten. Each step brought me closer to a truth I never asked for."
He held up a crown — the first, from Erelthane. "The crowns are not symbols. They are seals. Forged to bind something that could not be killed."
He let his gaze sweep the crowd.
"The Hollow King is not coming. He is already here. His servants wear familiar faces. His whispers echo in your dreams. And when the final crown is unbound, he will not need to march. The world will offer itself to him."
Murmurs rippled.
Kaelen raised his voice.
"But there is still time. We are not broken yet. I don't ask for loyalty. I ask for memory. For unity. For defiance."
He removed the Ember from his chest and held it high. "The flame has not gone out. It burns in all of us. And if we stand together, then even a Hollow King must fear the light."
A long silence followed.
Then someone stepped forward.
An old soldier, missing one eye and half a hand, knelt. "For Thornmere," he said.
A younger warrior followed. "For Iskaran."
More voices joined.
"For Halvyr Keep."
"For Vaelmyr."
"For Cymrael."
Kaelen felt something rise in his chest. Not power. Not fear.
Faith.
The commander nodded. "We ride at dawn. East, to the Vale of Kings. The Hollow King marches on sacred ground."
Kaelen bowed his head. "Then so will we."
Far above, unseen behind veils of cloud and shadow, a hollow shape turned its head.
And smiled.