The path to the shrine was buried beneath centuries of ice, a trail carved only by the dead and the fools who followed them.

  Korrak walked at the front, boots crunching against the frozen ground, his sword resting against his back like a weight he had never truly put down. The cultists followed, whispering to one another in soft, reverent tones, their voices swallowed by the wind.

  He ignored them.

  But he could not ignore Sholvigg.

  Sholvigg had not stopped talking since they left the village.

  “The Third Canticle describes this journey exactly,” Sholvigg said, nearly tripping over his own feet as he tried to keep pace. “The Hollow King walks the cold path, the wind biting, the sky broken. His enemies—”

  “Keep talking,” Korrak muttered, not looking at him, “and you’ll be walking back with a broken jaw.”

  Sholvigg nodded solemnly.

  “Yes, my lord. As foretold.”

  Korrak closed his eyes for half a second, breathed in deep, then kept walking.

  The shrine loomed ahead, carved into the side of the mountain’s ribs, black stone veins running deep into the rock like the bones of something ancient.

  The entrance was open, a massive archway lined with more symbols, etched into the rock in jagged, twisting spirals. They burned ever so faintly, pulsing like dying embers.

  Fjorn stepped ahead of Korrak and turned toward him, hands folded.

  “This is the moment,” he said. “The Hollowing must begin.”

  Korrak cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders.

  “Good,” he said. “Been meaning to kill something.”

  Fjorn’s smile did not fade.

  “I do not speak of battle,” he said. “I speak of your awakening.”

  Korrak frowned.

  “You will kneel,” Fjorn continued. “You will drink deep of the Hollow. And you will remember.”

  Korrak stared at him.

  “No.”

  Fjorn sighed, as if he had been expecting that.

  Sholvigg, standing to the side, beamed.

  “The Third Denial,” he whispered excitedly.

  Korrak turned toward him.

  “Sholvigg.”

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “Shut up.”

  Sholvigg bowed deeply, pressing a hand to his chest.

  Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Korrak hated him.

  The Hollowborn moved first.

  They came from the sides of the shrine’s entrance, figures wrapped in black cloth, their eyes too wide, their teeth too bared. They did not carry weapons.

  They did not need them.

  Their hands were already stained with blood.

  Korrak exhaled through his nose.

  The first one lunged—too fast, faster than a starving man should be able to move. Korrak stepped aside, grabbing the man’s arm and snapping it at the elbow in one motion.

  The Hollowborn shrieked, but did not stop.

  He tried to grab Korrak with his other hand, fingers twisting, nails elongating, something inhuman writhing beneath his flesh.

  Korrak drove his fist into his throat.

  The man collapsed, choking on his own blood.

  The others rushed forward.

  Korrak drew his sword.

  The next Hollowborn died instantly.

  Steel carved through flesh and bone, and they did not scream. Not in pain. Not in anger.

  They laughed.

  Korrak had seen many things die, but never like this.

  They embraced the killing blow, hands reaching for him even as their bodies were split apart, as if they wanted to drag him down with them.

  One of them grabbed his wrist, holding on even as Korrak’s sword split his ribs open.

  His fingers did not loosen.

  They tightened.

  And then—the whispering began.

  It crawled beneath Korrak’s skin, curling into his ears, his chest, his bones.

  “Do you hear it?”

  Korrak ripped his arm free, breaking the cultist’s grip, shoving him to the ground and driving his sword through his chest.

  The whispering did not stop.

  His head ached.

  The shrine was calling.

  Korrak gritted his teeth, stepping over the bodies, into the dark entrance of the shrine.

  Inside, the walls pulsed with something alive, stone carved with veins of something deeper, something older than the land itself.

  And at the center—

  A pit.

  Black. Bottomless.

  And waiting.

  Fjorn followed behind, unbothered by the carnage, hands still folded behind his back.

  “This is what we are,” he said softly. “What you are.”

  Korrak did not move.

  The pit pulled at him.

  His breath was too slow, his heart too loud.

  He had seen things that should not have been seen.

  And yet—

  This was familiar.

  A shuffling noise behind him.

  Sholvigg.

  Still alive, still standing among the dead, his face frozen in awe.

  “This…” he whispered, his voice shaking with something too joyful. “This is the moment.”

  Korrak closed his eyes.

  He had cut through monsters, warlords, beasts beyond reckoning. He had stood at the edge of the abyss and spat into it.

  But this?

  This was something else.

  This was something he had always been walking toward.

  He looked down at the pit.

  Then at Fjorn.

  Then at Sholvigg, who was practically vibrating.

  “No,” Korrak muttered, stepping back.

  Fjorn sighed.

  “The Fourth Denial,” Sholvigg whispered in awe.

  Korrak turned toward the entrance.

  He had heard enough.

  Fjorn moved to block his path.

  “The Hollow cannot be refused.”

  Korrak grabbed him by the front of his robes and threw him into the pit.

  Fjorn did not scream.

  The pit swallowed him.

  Korrak did not look down.

  He turned toward the doorway, stepping through the blood-soaked corpses of the cultists, the cold wind biting against his face.

  Sholvigg followed him.

  Korrak stopped.

  Turned.

  “You’re not coming.”

  Sholvigg tilted his head.

  “But I must.”

  “No, you must not.”

  “This is how it happens.”

  Korrak stared at him.

  Then he grabbed Sholvigg by the shoulder, turned him around, and pushed him toward the village.

  “Go home.”

  “But the prophecy—”

  Korrak kept walking.

  Sholvigg watched him disappear into the snow.

  And smiled.

  The Hollow had stirred.

  Korrak had refused its call.

  But Sholvigg knew better.

  Because the path remained open.

  And his Hollow King would return.