The first real settlement outside Draal looked like it was losing an argument with the wilderness.
Hollowstone sprawled across the hills like a forgotten scar—walls of old brickwork and scavenged metal half-swallowed by creeping vines, rooftops sagging under decades of ash and rain. The outer gates were cracked—jagged iron teeth rusted through, one hanging off its hinges like a drunk trying to stand. Beyond, the settlement huddled together, leaning on itself like it expected to collapse at any moment.
It felt alive.
Not safe, not clean—but alive.
The stench of smoke, oil, and sweat rolled from the streets, blending with faint market sounds—hammering, shouting, distant laughter warped by paranoia. People moved with their heads low and hands close to belts or hidden blades. Scavengers, traders, mercenaries—all with the same exhausted look in their eyes.
Agro's hooves clacked over the uneven stone as we entered, his gait steadier now. I'd scavenged a rough saddle from an abandoned wagon on the outskirts, patched together with wire and canvas, barely functional—but it kept him steady, and that was enough.
My pack sagged at my side—the Crown buried inside, pulsing faint as ever, the weight of its whispers threading through the back of my skull.
"Quiet," I muttered under my breath, palm resting on the canvas as we passed a cluster of market stalls. "We're just another scavenger and a half-dead horse. No one looks twice."
They didn't.
Mostly.
The merchants lining the main street hawked worn gear, relic fragments, food that barely resembled food—bread tough as bone, meat smoked to leather. Small braziers hissed with faint flame where traders warmed their hands, the air heavy with smoke and old fear.
I drifted toward a relic stand—slabs of cracked neural glass laid out on stained canvas, faint lines of old circuitry gleaming under grime. Useless scrap mostly. But relic-salvage pulled coin, and coin meant survival.
The merchant—thin, sharp-eyed, with burn scars twisting down his throat—watched me approach, arms crossed.
"Looking to sell or buy?" His voice rasped like broken glass.
"Neither," I muttered, eyes scanning the shards—none pulsing, none familiar. Just dead glass.
The merchant snorted. "Wasting my time, then."
I moved on.
We wove deeper into Hollowstone—past cracked alleyways, faded banners from lost kingdoms, walls marked with rusted sigils I half-recognized from old empire maps. The place reeked of desperation, but it stood—and after Draal's grave, that felt like defiance.
Agro's ears flicked as we passed a smithy—sparks hissing into the air, hammer ringing against warped metal. Blades lined the walls—most rusted, chipped, relic-crafted trash. But one caught my eye—half-buried under scrap, blade cracked down the spine, edges dulled, but still holding faint weight.
A sword—barely.
It wasn't much—but I hadn't carried steel since the ruins.
The smith—a broad-shouldered woman with ash-streaked skin—noticed my stare. "Twenty Ash Shards," she grunted, tapping the blade with her hammer. "You won't find cheaper."
I checked my pouch—thirty Ash Shards, the last scraps from my salvage runs.
"Fifteen," I bargained.
Her eyes narrowed—then drifted to Agro, his ribs still showing, coat streaked with soot.
"Nineteen," she countered. "For the horse's sake."
I grunted—but paid.
The blade's weight felt wrong in my grip—unbalanced, chipped—but better than nothing. I strapped it to my belt, the unfamiliar weight brushing my hip as we moved on.
The sun sagged low by the time we found a place to rest—a boarded room above a tanner's shop, stinking of leather and smoke, but sheltered.
Agro curled near the bed—legs trembling, but standing. His breathing came easier now, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion.
I slumped to the floor—back pressed to the wall, fingers trailing over the sword hilt.
Outside, Hollowstone pulsed with fractured life—market calls fading, the distant crack of boots on stone, whispers of relic traders and mercenaries shifting in the dark.
The Crown pulsed faintly under my pack—its whispers curling against my skull, memory fragments stirring just out of reach.
Tomorrow—the search began.
Shards.
Answers.
The road west—beyond Hollowstone's broken gates, into the bones of the world the gods failed to burn.
But not tonight.
Tonight—we breathe.
We survive.
And the horizon waits.