Korrak’s sword sang through the air, a strike meant to take the Hollow King’s head from his shoulders.
It should have been clean.
It should have been final.
Instead, the blade met nothing.
The Hollow King was not there.
And then—
He was behind Korrak.
Korrak spun, fast, brutal, striking again, but the Hollow King moved like smoke, slipping away just before steel could kiss flesh.
Not dodging.
Not teleporting.
Just moving with a precision Korrak could not match.
The Hollow King did not counterattack.
He did not rush forward with blade in hand.
He only watched.
And that was worse.
“You still fight like a beast,” the Hollow King murmured.
Korrak gritted his teeth and attacked again, a savage cut meant to cleave through ribs, through heart, through whatever passed for a soul inside that empty shell.
The Hollow King tilted his head slightly, stepping just out of reach.
Then, finally, he moved.
Not fast. Not slow.
Just right.
The tip of his blade drew a shallow line across Korrak’s chest—not deep, not even meant to kill.
Just enough to show that he could.
Korrak ignored the pain and swung for his throat.
The Hollow King wasn’t there.
Again.
His voice was calm, steady.
“You refuse to see it, even now.”
Korrak snarled, turning with another strike, shifting his weight, adapting—
And yet, every time he moved, the Hollow King was already somewhere else.
Like he knew exactly what Korrak would do before he did it.
Korrak had fought warriors, warlords, gods in all but name.
But he had never fought a ghost of himself.
“The throne is waiting,” the Hollow King said.
He wasn’t breathing hard.
Korrak was.
His chest rose and fell with the weight of exertion, sweat cooling against his skin despite the bitter cold of the temple.
But the Hollow King—
He was as still as a corpse.
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His mask reflected the flickering light of the temple’s veins, a face that was not a face, a thing that had once been a man, or something worse.
He did not breathe.
He did not waver.
He simply waited.
Korrak had fought enemies.
The Hollow King was something else.
A truth given form.
And Korrak hated him for it.
Korrak shifted his stance.
His hands tightened on the hilt of his sword.
He was done testing.
Done playing whatever game this thing was trying to force on him.
Korrak stepped in, fast, brutal, pressing the attack.
This was what he did.
This was what he had always done.
Kill.
Move.
Survive.
His blade came in low, twisting into a feint, the kind that had ended a hundred men before.
It didn’t work.
The Hollow King saw through it.
Of course he did.
Then the Hollow King moved for real.
The shift was barely noticeable at first, a simple step forward—but it brought him too close.
Korrak swung out, a short, controlled strike meant to create space—
And the Hollow King caught his wrist.
The moment their skin met, Korrak’s vision blurred.
And he was somewhere else.
Korrak was standing before a throne.
Not the one in the temple.
Not the Hollow King’s seat of stone and ruin.
A different one.
A grand seat, carved from something smooth and white.
Not bone.
Not marble.
Something older.
The figures around it were not men.
But they had once been.
They stood in silent rows, clad in dark robes, wearing masks that matched the Hollow King’s—
Smooth, blank, featureless.
But he could feel their eyes.
Watching.
Waiting.
And the throne—
It was empty.
“This was where it began,” the Hollow King’s voice whispered.
Korrak did not look.
He knew the Hollow King was standing beside him.
Watching.
Waiting.
Like all the rest.
“I don’t care,” Korrak said, voice low, hoarse.
His heartbeat was too loud in his ears.
The Hollow King did not sigh.
Did not scoff.
He only waited.
“You should.”
Korrak stepped forward, toward the throne.
He did not know why.
His hands curled into tight fists, nails digging into scarred palms.
It felt wrong.
It felt right.
It felt like coming home to a place he had never been.
He did not sit.
He would never sit.
Instead, he reached out—
Just to touch it.
To prove it wasn’t real.
His fingers brushed the smooth, white surface.
And the throne remembered him.
The memory came like fire.
Burning through his mind, his bones, his blood.
He saw battles he had never fought.
Cities he had never walked.
Lands that no longer existed.
But he knew them.
Not as stories.
Not as dreams.
As memories.
The Hollow King was beside him again.
And this time—
This time, Korrak felt the weight of his presence.
Like a second shadow.
Like something he had always known was there.
“You were the first,” the Hollow King murmured.
The words felt heavy.
Like truth, not a story.
“You will be the last.”
Korrak’s grip tightened.
His body shook.
Not from pain.
Not from anger.
From knowing.
From remembering.
And he hated it.
Then Korrak did the only thing he could do.
He tore his hand away.
The world fractured.
Korrak stumbled back, breath coming hard, the cold air burning his lungs.
He was back.
But he had never left.
The Hollow King stood before him, as still as he had been before.
Korrak’s breath curled in the frozen air.
He did not speak.
Neither did the Hollow King.
Because they both knew.
Something had changed.
Fjorn was watching.
Sholvigg, too.
Korrak could feel their eyes.
The weight of expectation.
Of devotion.
And it made his skin crawl.
The Hollow King finally moved.
Stepped back.
And, slowly, he knelt.
Before Korrak.
Not in submission.
But in recognition.
Korrak’s hands shook.
From rage.
From exhaustion.
From everything that had just been forced into his mind.
The Hollow King’s voice was softer this time.
“You are already more than you think.”
His masked head tilted slightly.
“Soon, you will understand.”
Korrak stared at him.
Then, without a word—
He turned and walked out of the temple.
Sholvigg hurried after him.
Fjorn stayed behind.
Korrak did not look back.
Because he already knew what he would see.
And he refused to let it matter.
