The shrine was behind him.

  The dead cultists left in the snow, their blood steaming in the cold air, their bodies arranged by Korrak’s sword into something far more permanent than prophecy.

  He should have felt better.

  But he didn’t.

  He felt watched.

  Not by Sholvigg—who, despite all logic, had finally stopped following him.

  Not by the dead—he had seen enough corpses to know they did not care for vengeance.

  No.

  Something else.

  Something beneath the skin of the world.

  And he did not like that.

  The northern sky stretched endless above him, clear, pale, and sharp as shattered glass. The cold had grown worse, as if the air itself was trying to push him back toward the shrine.

  He ignored it.

  He walked, slow, deliberate, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, the weight of it grounding him.

  He had learned long ago that when something felt wrong, it was not paranoia.

  It was a warning.

  And the feeling hadn’t stopped since he left the shrine.

  The snow shifted beneath his boots.

  Not softly. Not like the drifts had moved with the wind.

  Like something beneath the surface had stirred.

  Korrak froze.

  His breath misted in the still air.

  He waited.

  Nothing.

  Then, just as he was about to move—

  It happened again.

  A shudder, slow, almost lazy, as if something deep beneath the ice had turned in its sleep.

  Korrak did not move.

  Then—

  Crack.

  The ice split beneath him.

  He lunged back, boots digging into the snow as the ground ruptured open, black stone and frozen water groaning as something rose.

  Not a creature.

  Not a beast.

  A structure.

  Buried beneath centuries of ice, carved from obsidian veins and towering impossibly high, even though he knew it had not been there moments before.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  A temple.

  Another one.

  No, not another one.

  The real one.

  The shrine he had destroyed? The one where Fjorn had vanished into the pit?

  That had been nothing.

  A marker.

  This?

  This was the truth.

  Korrak’s grip tightened around his sword.

  The doors creaked open.

  The air that poured from inside was not air at all.

  It was memory.

  It scraped against his skin, curling into his ears, pressing against the inside of his skull like a thing with too many hands.

  And beneath it all—

  The whisper.

  Soft.

  Patient.

  Welcoming.

  “You were supposed to remember.”

  Korrak exhaled.

  He did not move.

  Then—

  Footsteps behind him.

  He already knew who it was.

  Sholvigg.

  The fool had followed him after all.

  Korrak did not turn.

  “Didn’t I tell you to go home?”

  Sholvigg stepped forward, eyes wide with reverence, mouth slightly open, as if he could barely breathe.

  “This is it,” he whispered. “The true Hollowing.”

  Korrak finally looked at him.

  Sholvigg was shaking.

  Not with fear.

  With delight.

  Korrak clenched his jaw.

  “I’m going to say this once,” he muttered. “Stop smiling.”

  Sholvigg did not stop smiling.

  Instead, he stepped closer to the temple doors, his breath hitching in awe.

  “This was always meant to be, my lord. You found the first shrine so that you would know the path to the second.”

  Korrak exhaled through his nose.

  “That’s not how I remember it.”

  Sholvigg barely heard him.

  “The Hollow has called,” he murmured. “And you are the only one who can answer.”

  Korrak tilted his head slightly.

  Then—he grabbed Sholvigg by the collar and shoved him toward the doors.

  “Then you go first.”

  Sholvigg yelped, stumbling forward, but did not fall.

  Instead, he caught himself, straightened, and smiled again.

  “I would be honored,” he said.

  Korrak sighed.

  “Of course you would.”

  The inside of the temple was impossibly vast.

  What should have been stone corridors were expanses of darkness, cut through with veins of pale blue light, like frozen lightning streaking through the walls.

  The ground was solid, but did not feel like it should be.

  And the air—

  The air was alive.

  Korrak stepped deeper inside, sword drawn, his heartbeat steady, slow, patient.

  Sholvigg walked beside him, fearless.

  Of course he was.

  Because he thought this was his destiny.

  Korrak hated him.

  Then—

  A figure in the distance.

  Standing still.

  Waiting.

  Korrak did not pause.

  He did not hesitate.

  He kept walking, the weight of his blade comforting in his grip, the world around him too quiet, too expectant.

  And as he got closer—

  The figure lifted its head.

  The hood fell back.

  And Korrak stopped.

  Because the figure—

  The man standing at the center of the temple—

  Was Fjorn.

  He should have been dead.

  But he wasn’t.

  He was whole, unchanged, untouched by time, his expression placid, patient, as if he had been standing there since before Korrak was born.

  Korrak did not blink.

  “You should be dead.”

  Fjorn smiled.

  “I was.”

  Korrak was already moving.

  The blade cut through the air, steel aimed for Fjorn’s throat—

  And stopped.

  Not because Fjorn blocked it.

  Not because he moved.

  Because the temple stopped it for him.

  The moment the blade touched the air before him, reality itself hardened, as if Korrak had just struck the side of a mountain.

  The force of it rippled up his arms, shaking his bones, sending a pulse of something too cold, too old, too real through his body.

  And Fjorn just smiled.

  “You cannot kill what the Hollow has already taken.”

  Korrak’s jaw tensed.

  “I can try.”

  Fjorn tilted his head.

  “Then by all means, Hollow King—”

  He spread his arms.

  “Try.”

  The temple shook.

  The whispers rose.

  And the doors closed behind them.

  Sholvigg sighed happily.

  Korrak gritted his teeth.

  It was going to be one of those days.