The fire burned low in the center of the village, casting flickering light against the hollow-eyed followers who had gathered around Korrak.

  He sat on a rough wooden bench, hands folded over his sword’s hilt, the blade resting between his boots. The wood creaked under his weight, as if it knew he didn’t belong here.

  The Hollowborn stood watching him, their faces expectant, reverent—and worst of all, certain.

  Korrak hated that.

  Across from him, the old man—their so-called leader—was still smiling.

  “You are the Hollow King,” he said again, voice smooth as polished bone. “We have waited for you.”

  Korrak exhaled slowly.

  He had spent his life walking into traps, ambushes, and bad ideas, but this was the first time someone had welcomed him into one.

  “Explain.” His voice was rough, the single word edged like steel.

  The old man gestured to the village around them, to the people standing too still in the firelight.

  “All of this,” he said, “is for you.”

  Korrak sighed. “Of course it is.”

  The old man’s name was Fjorn, though Korrak wasn’t sure it mattered.

  Fjorn talked like a man who had memorized every word he had ever said—slow, deliberate, full of meanings that only made sense to him.

  Korrak listened just enough to understand that he was apparently the reincarnation of some ancient king, destined to return and fulfill a prophecy older than the ice itself.

  He tuned out the rest.

  Fjorn went on anyway.

  "You have walked the path unknowingly,” he said, “but you were always meant to come here.”

  “No,” Korrak said flatly. “I wasn’t.”

  Fjorn ignored him.

  “The symbols call to you. The temple recognized you. And the Hollow One has already begun to whisper in your dreams.”

  Korrak tensed slightly.

  He did not like that.

  He had not spoken of the voice in the dark, of the way the thing beneath the temple had seemed to know him.

  And yet Fjorn knew anyway.

  Korrak’s grip on his sword tightened.

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  “Who told you that?”

  Fjorn smiled, pleased, as if Korrak had just confirmed something for him.

  “The Hollow knows its own.”

  The real problem wasn’t Fjorn.

  It was the younger one.

  A thin, wiry man with wild eyes and an unwavering smile, wrapped in patchwork furs and strips of cloth with symbols stitched into them.

  He had not stopped staring since Korrak had arrived.

  Every time Korrak looked away, the man inched closer.

  And now, suddenly, he stepped forward, falling to his knees with a speed that suggested he had been waiting for the opportunity.

  “You have returned,” he breathed.

  Korrak stared at him.

  The man grabbed the hem of Korrak’s cloak, bowing his head as if in prayer.

  Fjorn sighed, rubbing his temples. “Sholvigg, control yourself.”

  Sholvigg.

  Korrak had met many men in his life. Killers, bandits, warlords. He had looked into the eyes of mercenaries with no souls, raiders with no purpose beyond blood, and madmen who should have died long before they did.

  But Sholvigg was different.

  There was no doubt in his eyes, no hesitation, no calculation.

  There was only belief.

  Which made him the most dangerous kind of fool.

  Korrak tugged his cloak out of Sholvigg’s grip.

  “Get up.”

  Sholvigg immediately obeyed, standing in one swift, fluid motion, like he was eager to follow orders.

  “This is the sign,” Sholvigg said, turning to Fjorn. “This is how it begins.”

  “No,” Korrak said, rubbing his face. “This is how my patience ends.”

  Sholvigg nodded solemnly, as if Korrak’s refusal was just another step in the prophecy.

  “Ah, yes,” he murmured. “The first denial.”

  Korrak blinked slowly.

  “What?”

  Sholvigg clasped his hands together. “In the oldest texts, the Hollow King first denies himself. It is written—‘He shall refuse, but the path shall remain open.’”

  Korrak looked at Fjorn.

  Fjorn looked away.

  “This isn’t written anywhere, is it?” Korrak muttered.

  Fjorn exhaled. “He’s… enthusiastic.”

  Sholvigg beamed.

  Korrak resisted the urge to throw him into the fire.

  The conversation continued, but Korrak wasn’t listening anymore.

  He was studying the village, the people, the way they all looked at him like they had already decided what he was.

  It bothered him.

  He had spent his whole life being many things—a warrior, a hunter, a survivor. He had earned every scar, spilled enough blood to flood the valleys, and walked across the ruins of dead empires without once thinking that fate had anything to do with it.

  And yet, these people were convinced.

  Not because he had told them.

  But because something else had.

  And that was worse.

  “You’re wasting your breath,” Korrak said, cutting Fjorn off mid-sentence.

  Fjorn raised a brow.

  “I am not your king,” Korrak continued. “I do not follow gods. And I do not follow men.”

  Sholvigg sighed deeply, shaking his head.

  “The second denial,” he whispered.

  Korrak stabbed a finger in his direction. “Shut up.”

  Sholvigg nodded reverently.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Korrak exhaled through his teeth.

  He stood, adjusting the sword at his hip.

  “I don’t care what’s buried out there,” he said. “You’ll tell me where this shrine is, and I’ll decide what to do when I get there.”

  Fjorn’s smile returned, but there was something knowing in it this time.

  “As it was foretold,” he murmured.

  Sholvigg squeaked excitedly.

  Korrak turned on his heel.

  “Walk. Before I change my mind.”

  Sholvigg practically skipped ahead.

  Fjorn followed, hands folded behind his back like a teacher guiding a student toward some great lesson.

  Korrak ignored them both.

  He had killed men who thought they were gods before.

  If this one was real, he’d do it again.

  And if the Hollowborn thought they were getting a king?

  They were going to be very disappointed.