The temple shook, the walls humming with a sound that wasn’t a sound at all.
It wasn’t a roar, wasn’t a wail—it was something older. Something deeper.
A pulse.
Korrak felt it in his teeth, in his ribs, in the space behind his eyes where memories should have been.
And the doors behind him—
Sealed.
Not shut. Not locked.
Gone.
Where there had once been an entrance, there was now only more temple—the same black-veined stone, stretching on as if he had never stepped inside at all.
Korrak exhaled slowly.
Of course.
Fjorn stood before him, his expression calm, his hands folded in the same patient way they always had been.
“I told you,” he said, as if they were merely discussing a change in the weather.
“You cannot leave.”
Korrak rolled his shoulders, testing the weight of his sword again.
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
He moved.
The blade came fast, a diagonal strike meant to split Fjorn from collarbone to hip.
It should have been a killing blow.
Instead, the moment the steel met the air around him, it was as if Korrak had swung at the world itself.
The sword stopped mid-swing, the force of the strike turning back against him, shuddering up his arms like he had just tried to cleave through a mountain.
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Korrak gritted his teeth, his knuckles white around the hilt.
Fjorn did not move.
He did not flinch.
He only smiled.
Korrak lowered the sword, rolling his wrists.
“Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll kill you another way.”
Sholvigg had not moved, either.
He stood a few steps back, his hands clasped in reverence, his eyes wide and bright.
Korrak didn’t need to look at him to know what expression was on his face.
The same infuriating one as always.
The I knew this would happen because the prophecy says so look.
Korrak turned his head slightly, glaring at him.
Sholvigg tilted his head in return, smiling.
“You see, my lord?” he breathed. “You were always meant to—”
Korrak held up a hand.
Sholvigg immediately fell silent.
Korrak turned back to Fjorn.
“Explain.”
Fjorn’s smile widened.
“The Hollow is not a god.”
Korrak said nothing.
Fjorn continued anyway.
“It is not something you worship. It is something you become.”
His black eyes burned with certainty.
“The first Hollow Kings were not born—they were made. Carved from the flesh of the world. Shaped by the things that existed before men learned to name them.”
He gestured to the temple walls, to the veins of light running through the stone, pulsing like the slow beat of a dying heart.
“The temple remembers them. And now, it will remember you.”
Korrak looked at the walls.
They shifted beneath his gaze, like something just beneath the surface was watching him back.
His fingers twitched.
He had seen many things.
But he had never seen a building breathe.
Fjorn stepped forward.
“The Hollow is not a prison.”
Korrak gripped his sword again.
“I feel trapped enough.”
Fjorn’s smile didn’t falter.
“You misunderstand. The Hollow is not a thing you are locked inside.”
He paused.
“It is a thing that is locked inside you.”
Korrak stared at him.
Then, finally—
He sighed.
And punched Fjorn in the face.
Fjorn collapsed backward, blood spurting from his nose, the first real, tangible sign that he was not untouchable.
Korrak shook out his fist, flexing his knuckles.
“Still feels real enough.”
Fjorn did not react as a man normally would.
He did not curse, did not snarl, did not scramble to his feet.
He simply lay there, bleeding, smiling.
“Yes,” he said softly, voice thick with blood. “You will make a fine King.”
Korrak stepped over him.
He was done listening.
He was done with riddles, with whispers, with temples full of things that spoke in voices not meant for men.
He moved forward, deeper into the temple, toward whatever was waiting.
Because if this was a thing locked inside him—
Then he was going to cut it out.
Sholvigg hurried after him.
“Where are we going, my lord?”
Korrak did not answer.
Because he already knew the answer.
And it was the only one that ever mattered.
Forward.
