The outskirts bled quiet.
Past Hollowstone's broken gates, the land twisted—jagged hills rising like crooked teeth, charred trees stripped bare by old fires, veins of cracked stone snaking through the dirt like scars.
This was the Spine.
Once, they said the empire's arteries ran beneath these hills—transit rails, neural conduits, supply lines threading through the earth like lifeblood. Now? Ruins. Forgotten stations swallowed by ash, rusted remnants of an empire that died screaming.
Agro's hooves crunched faintly over gravel and soot as we picked our way along the ridgeline—his gait steadier now, though the scars still pulled along his flanks. The wind cut sharp, dragging the faint scent of ozone and burnt glass through the air.
Ahead, the ground dipped—the ruins of the old station barely visible under layers of rubble and ash dunes.
"Stay close," I muttered, patting Agro's side as I dismounted.
The job was simple—salvage proof for the merchant. Bring back tech, relic fragments—anything breathing with enough glow to buy that Crown Shard.
But nothing in the Spine stayed simple.
The descent was slow—boots sliding through loose ash, every step stirring faint whispers beneath the soil. The ruins emerged—arched supports of melted alloy half-buried under collapsed transit lines, shattered platforms veined with cracks.
Shadows twisted in the broken spaces—too still to be natural.
I gripped the rusted short sword at my belt—half-worthless, edges dull—but better than fists. My pack hung heavy—the Crown pulsing faintly beneath the canvas, its hum threading through my ribs like old scars reopening.
The station's interior gaped wide—collapsed walls framing a cavern of scorched tile, scattered debris, and the skeletons of forgotten travelers. Some still clutched melted baggage—others caught mid-run, their shapes frozen in charcoal black.
I moved quiet, low—weaving through the debris, eyes scanning for salvage. Relic parts glinted beneath the ash—fractured neural glass, scorched alloy casings, coils of forgotten wiring.
Enough to satisfy a merchant—but not me.
The whispers thickened—not wind, not ghosts—but memory.
The Crown pulsed sharper—its hum climbing, faint light leaking through the pack seams.
Something else was buried here.
I pressed deeper—past collapsed platforms, melted columns warped from forgotten heat. The earth cracked beneath my boots—a hollow sound—and the floor gave way.
Ash and stone fell away—I dropped—sliding down a chute of debris, landing hard in a sub-level chamber veiled in darkness.
The glow greeted me.
Half-buried in rubble, veined with faint runes—another shard.
Not dulled—bright, alive—its edges pulsing faintly like a forgotten heartbeat.
I staggered forward—fingers brushing the debris—but the air shifted.
Movement.
Shadows peeled from the walls—tall, skeletal shapes stitched from soot and bone, their sockets glowing faint ember-red.
Ashborn.
Drawn to the shard—drawn to the Crown's hum—drawn to me.
"Perfect," I muttered, blade sliding free, legs bracing.
The first lunged—limbs cracking, fingers warped into clawed bone. I pivoted—blade flashing—steel scraping through ash and brittle remnants.
The Ashborn shrieked—a sound like cracking glass—but staggered back, body fracturing.
A second closed in—I ducked low, slicing across its knees—the impact vibrating through my rusted blade, bones rattling.
The fight bled grit and exhaustion—two, three more shapes closing in—shadows crawling from broken walls, their eyes burning faint against the dark.
Every strike echoed memory—half-formed fragments threading behind my skull—a man's voice whispering lessons not mine:
"Keep your weight low—never overextend—turn the blade, make them bleed for every step."
Old muscle memory that didn't belong to me—but burned true now.
I carved through the last of them—the Ashborn collapsing in fractured heaps—their embers fading, their whispers dying with the dust.
The chamber settled—quiet but heavy—the shard still glowing faint in the rubble.
I crossed the debris—fingers curling around the fragment—its hum sharp, familiar, pulsing through my veins.
A second shard.
The Crown's memory bled deeper—images cracking through my thoughts—faint, fragmented, but real.
Swordsmanship—not mastery—but foundation.
I staggered back to the surface—climbing through the ruins, lungs burning, hands trembling—until the horizon bled into view.
Agro waited at the ridge—eyes sharp, coat streaked with ash—his head tilting faintly as I approached.
The shard pulsed steady in my grip—another piece of the Forgotten King's curse threading beneath my ribs.
"We're not done," I muttered—voice low—steady.
The world waited—its scars deep, its secrets buried—but I'd peel them open.
One shard at a time.