The Spine curled behind us—jagged hills folding into the ash-stained sky, ruins bleeding back into the mist—but I couldn't shake the shard's weight pressing against my ribs.
Two now.
One pulsing quiet in my pack. The other buried in the Crown's frame, stitched into molten glass and ancient alloy.
Each fragment pulled deeper—fracturing my thoughts—threading borrowed memories through marrow. Whispers of battles I'd never fought. Scars I didn't earn.
It terrified me more than the Ashborn ever could.
Agro's hooves crushed brittle weeds as we followed the ridge—the road to Hollowstone stretching thin beneath the bruised glow of the horizon. The faint outline of the town's broken walls clawed at the sky—a smear of rusted metal, scavenged brick, and tangled scaffolding straining against the wilderness.
But smoke rose beyond it.
Not campfires. Not trade smoke.
Thick. Black. Curling into the clouds like an old vein of sin bleeding into the air.
"That's not good," I muttered, tightening my grip on Agro's reins.
The merchant was waiting—the shard deal hanging in the balance—but instinct screamed louder. Hollowstone's edges burned faint—flashes of orange rippling beyond the gates—shouts cracking on the wind.
I pressed Agro faster—his gait still stiff from old wounds but steady enough—ash kicking beneath hooves as we descended toward the outskirts.
The first bodies appeared near the checkpoint. Scavengers sprawled in the dirt—limbs twisted, weapons snapped—throats cut with surgical precision.
Too clean for bandits.
Too neat for Ashborn.
Worse.
Inside the gates, Hollowstone smoldered—structures gutted by fire, smoke bleeding from shattered windows, market stalls overturned and looted—but no scavengers lingered.
Only them.
Figures cloaked in ash-grey. Helmets veiled with cracked visors. Armor stitched with neural alloy, threading like spiderwebs across their frames.
Zealots.
Burnfaith.
Relic hunters, zeal-bound to the gods who torched the empire—purging forbidden tech, silencing heresy, ensuring no scavenger walked away with memories better left buried.
They were here. Moving in squads. Boots crunching ash. Weapons pulsing faint glow. Systematic. Ruthless.
They weren't just passing through. They were erasing evidence.
The merchant's shop was gone—scorched beams, shattered relic casings strewn like bones—but amid the wreckage, I caught the faintest glint.
The Crown Shard. Untouched. Glowing faint beneath rubble.
"Brilliant," I hissed under my breath.
The zealots hadn't found it. Yet. But staying meant bleeding.
Agro shifted behind me—ears pinned, muscles tense—reading the same inevitable descent.
I dismounted, slipping through fractured alleys—boots crunching glass, pulse hammering in rhythm with the Crown's hum in my pack.
The zealots moved with discipline—search patterns fanning outward, relentless.
I wove between crumbling walls, tracing scavenger routes I knew—side paths choked with debris, collapsed balconies overlooking ruins.
The shard gleamed near the wrecked market—half-buried in ash—but three zealots flanked it, stationed in the plaza. Weapons crackling faint blue. Visors scanning for survivors.
I gripped my rusted blade—knuckles whitening—mind racing.
Too many. Too exposed.
But losing that shard meant losing the only leverage I had left.
The Crown pulsed sharper—memories fracturing—the Forgotten King's voice bleeding through fire and ruin:
"Cover. Angles. Strike clean. Don't die for arrogance."
I circled wide—ash kicking beneath my boots—using collapsed scaffolding to weave closer. Breath tight. Movements low.
The first zealot turned—visor catching faint light—and I moved.
Blade sliding. Rust scraping alloy. I plunged the weapon upward, finding the weak seam beneath his chin. His armor sparked faint ozone as his body sagged into the debris.
The other two spun—energy weapons raised—but I didn't wait.
I slammed the second into broken beams—blade carving a line across his visor—splintering alloy, sparks bleeding from cracked tech.
The third fired—plasma bolt searing the air—but I ducked low, closing the gap. Blade driving hard beneath his ribs.
The plaza stilled.
Bodies sprawled. Heart pounding. The Crown's hum sharp in my skull.
My hands moved with a fluidity that wasn't entirely mine. The King's grip on my blade. And for one fleeting, unsettling second—
I didn't hate it.
I snatched the shard—warm to the touch—edges etched with forgotten runes. Another piece of ruin bound to me now.
Agro waited near the outskirts—head high, eyes fixed on the burning horizon.
More zealots prowled. Too many to fight. But the shard deal was done. Price paid. Only one thing left—
Disappear.
This wasn't a raid. It was a purge. Hollowstone was gone.
We slipped into the smoke—the town bleeding behind us—the world unwinding beyond—roads stretching like scars. Secrets older than empire waiting to be peeled open.
I pressed the shard into my pack—its hum threading steady—the weight of legacy and fire curling behind my ribs.
The Crown whispered—not words—just pressure—a call threading through marrow, pulling me toward the next fracture in the world.
Agro's hooves crushed brittle grass—the ruins fading behind—the Spine bleeding into distant haze—the horizon cracking wide with storms and forgotten sins.
"Keep moving," I muttered—voice low, steady—pulse synced to the hum of ruin.
We weren't done.
Not even close.