The temple stretched before them—an impossible space, shifting with the pulse of something unseen.

  The walls did not hold still.

  They breathed.

  Not in a way Korrak could see, but in a way he felt—a slow, pulsing sensation beneath his ribs, as if the very stone was waiting for him to take another step.

  He did not like that.

  But he kept walking.

  Because there was only forward.

  Fjorn walked ahead, untouched, his hands clasped, his back straight and unhurried.

  Korrak had broken his nose, had left him in the snow, had seen him fall into the pit of the first shrine.

  And yet here he was.

  Whole.

  Unchanged.

  Except for the eyes.

  The black in them was deeper now, stretching too far, as if they no longer saw the world the same way.

  “Something wrong, Hollow King?” Fjorn murmured.

  Korrak exhaled slowly.

  He gripped his sword tighter.

  “Still not my name.”

  Fjorn smiled.

  Sholvigg, as expected, was fascinated by everything.

  “This is incredible,” he whispered, his breath fogging in the unnatural cold of the temple’s air. “The prophecies spoke of a temple beneath the ice, but they did not describe this.”

  Because no one had ever come back to describe it.

  The thought lingered between them, unspoken but heavy.

  Fjorn’s hands remained folded, patient.

  Sholvigg’s eyes gleamed with reverence.

  Korrak said nothing.

  He was used to walking into places that would never let him leave.

  Didn’t mean he liked it.

  They reached a door.

  Massive. Carved from a single slab of black stone, smooth as glass, untouched by time.

  If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  There were no handles. No hinges.

  And yet it wanted to be opened.

  Fjorn turned to Korrak.

  “You will open it.”

  Korrak’s jaw tightened.

  He could feel it already—the way the door reached for him, the way his blood hummed in response.

  He did not know how to open it.

  But he knew he could.

  And that was worse.

  Sholvigg inhaled sharply, his voice low and hushed.

  “The Hollow remembers its own.”

  Korrak scowled.

  “You say that every time something eerie happens.”

  Sholvigg nodded sagely.

  “And every time, I am correct.”

  Korrak gritted his teeth and placed a hand on the door.

  And it knew him.

  The stone shuddered beneath his fingers, not cold, not warm, but something else entirely.

  A sensation like turning the pages of a book you had never read but somehow knew by heart.

  The door split apart like bone cracking in frost.

  Not swinging open.

  Not moving.

  Just breaking apart, shifting into dust, unraveling into the air like it had never existed at all.

  Sholvigg sighed in awe.

  Fjorn nodded.

  “As it was foretold.”

  Korrak stepped inside.

  The chamber beyond was not a chamber.

  It was a throne room.

  Or what had once been one.

  The walls were covered in inscriptions, deep grooves that had once held gold and lapis, now stripped bare. The ceiling was high, too high, disappearing into shadow.

  At the far end, where a king should sit—

  There was a figure.

  Seated. Still.

  Not dead.

  Not alive.

  Not human.

  It wore robes of deep black, woven from some material that shimmered faintly, as if the fabric had been cut from the night sky itself.

  Its hands rested on the arms of the throne, fingers long and thin, tipped with nails that had grown too long.

  Its face was covered by a mask.

  Carved from bone-white stone, smooth, featureless except for two hollow eye sockets.

  A crown sat upon its head, a twisted circlet of iron and gold, rusted from time, but still holding the shape of something that once mattered.

  It did not move.

  But Korrak knew it was aware.

  And that was worse.

  Fjorn knelt.

  Sholvigg followed instantly, dropping to his knees, head bowed in total reverence.

  Korrak did not kneel.

  His grip tightened on his sword.

  The figure in the throne did not move.

  And then—

  It spoke.

  Not in a voice.

  Not in sound.

  But in his bones.

  “You are late.”

  Korrak’s jaw tensed.

  His breath curled in the cold air.

  He did not answer.

  The figure’s head tilted.

  Slow.

  Almost curious.

  “Do you not recognize me?”

  Korrak’s fingers twitched.

  “Should I?”

  The figure did not respond immediately.

  And then, after a long silence—

  It stood.

  The movement was wrong.

  Too slow.

  Not stiff. Not the awkward, stuttering motion of a corpse pulled from its grave.

  It was too fluid—like a man standing in a dream.

  It stepped forward.

  One step.

  Then another.

  And with each step, the mask shifted.

  Not physically.

  But in his mind.

  At first, it was blank.

  Then—

  A face.

  A face Korrak had seen before.

  But not in this life.

  Sholvigg spoke, his voice trembling with devotion.

  “The last Hollow King.”

  Fjorn nodded, his voice soft, reverent.

  “The first, and the last.”

  Korrak exhaled.

  He didn’t know what this was.

  But he knew one thing.

  He wasn’t going to kneel.

  And he wasn’t going to listen.

  He raised his sword.

  Fjorn smiled.

  The Hollow King tilted its head.

  And lunged.