Ashgard Hollow.
The name alone was a gravestone — one carved long ago and abandoned by even the memory of the living.
Storms clawed at the mutilated valley, their shrieks weaving rivers of mist that slithered like dying serpents. No birds sang here. No insects stirred. Even the stones themselves groaned under some unseen agony, as if the earth had grown weary of carrying its own grief.
Ahead, emerging like a wound against the dying sky, stood a forgotten titan.
Obsidian towers, broken and leaning at jagged angles, clawed the heavens with desperate fingers. Blackened roots choked the stone, wrapping the ruins like skeletal hands that refused to let go.
The Crown Prison.
I pulled my cloak tighter against the savage wind, feeling each step grow heavier. It wasn't just the terrain — it was something worse. As if unseen hands gripped my ankles, dragging at my will, whispering for me to sink into the dirt and simply vanish.
Beside me, Elira moved with a kind of stubborn grace, her lips pressed into a thin line against the howling gale. Hovering just above her palm, the fractured star-map shimmered faintly, trembling with each gust.
"This place," she said, her voice almost lost to the wind, "doesn't want us here."
I smiled without warmth. "Then we're exactly where we need to be."
The ground shuddered beneath us—not from the storm, but from something deeper. For a heartbeat, I saw two Eliras walking beside me. Then one. Then none. My vision fractured like a broken mirror, and a whisper, cold and oily, slid into my mind:
Stay. Forget. Fade.
I wrenched my head away, jaw clenched tight.
The crown's influence was thick here—gnawing at memory, at will, at the fragile thread that tethered existence to meaning.
And the closer we drew, the heavier that pull became.
We reached the ruins of the gates.
Or rather, what little remained of them.
Shards of ancient metal, fused grotesquely with stone, jutted up from the ground like the broken teeth of a giant. Beyond them, a courtyard lay littered with shattered statues, rusted chains thicker than a man's waist, and the remnants of rituals too old and terrible to name.
And in the center...
a figure waited.
At first, I couldn't tell if it was a man or a ghost.
It was cloaked in shadow and broken light, fragments of ancient armor orbiting its body like moons chained to a dying star. In skeletal hands, it held a staff crowned with jagged shards of mirror-glass, each shard reflecting a world I could not name.
The Shardkeeper.
It turned toward us without moving a muscle.
When it spoke, the words sounded like stone grinding against stone:
"Bound by oath. Severed by time. Lost are thee who seek the Crown. Answer, and be weighed."
Elira stiffened beside me.
I stepped forward, my hand dropping instinctively to my sword hilt.
"What do you want from us?"
The Shardkeeper raised its staff.
Three shards floated forward, pulsing with colors that seemed too vivid to exist: crimson, silver, and black.
"Speak. What do you serve?"
The air twisted, pressing down on my lungs like an invisible fist.
I struggled to breathe, even as memories flooded me—images of burning banners, shattered armies, and oaths whispered across dying fields.
What did I serve?
I let the answer rise from somewhere deeper than thought, something older than memory.
"I serve what I must protect," I said, voice steady. "Not kings. Not gods. Only the promise I once made."
The crimson shard pulsed once—and shattered into a cloud of glowing dust.
Without pause, the Shardkeeper continued:
"Speak. Who do you betray?"
A spear of pain lanced behind my eyes.
Images blurred past—faces I didn't recognize, voices that called out to me with names I couldn't remember.
But deep inside, I already knew the truth.
"Myself," I answered, bitter on my tongue.
The silver shard cracked apart, vanishing like breath in winter.
Only one remained.
"Speak. Who will you become when the truth breaks you?"
And this time... I hesitated.
Because I saw it.
The throne burning like a funeral pyre.
The sword, broken and cast aside.
The faces of those I loved—or should have loved—turning away in silence.
If the truth broke me... what would remain?
A weapon?
A monster?
A hollow shell?
But even then, a stubborn spark flickered in my chest.
I clenched my fists until the knuckles burned and said:
"Whatever I must. But I won't disappear again."
The black shard disintegrated into a thousand whispering motes.
The Shardkeeper bowed its head — or what was left of it — and rasped:
"Pass. Yet tread wary, forsaken one. All crowns bleed. All kings fall."
And then, like a crumbling dream, it scattered into the mist.
By the time we reached the heart of the prison, my body screamed with every step. My breath came ragged, each movement a battle against the crushing weight that filled this place.
And then, at last, we found it.
The Crowned Seal.
A massive sigil carved into the earth, ancient and terrible, its runes glowing faintly with a forbidden light. At its center floated something that defied words — neither crystal, nor metal, nor flesh, but something between, pulsing with an alien heartbeat.
Power.
Raw, terrible, unchained.
Enough to sunder kingdoms. Enough to unmake the world itself.
And inside it... I saw glimpses of myself.
Not reflections.
Fragments.
Pieces torn away long ago, waiting for me to reach out and take them back.
"Kael," Elira whispered, her voice trembling, "if you touch that... you might not come back the same."
I took a slow step forward, feeling my heart hammering against my ribs.
"Maybe I don't want to come back the same," I muttered.
She reached out, grabbing my sleeve.
"It's not just your memories," she said, urgency sharpening her voice. "There's something inside that Seal. Watching. Waiting."
I turned back, meeting her eyes.
And smiled.
A grim, knowing smile.
"Good," I said. "Let it watch."
And I placed my hand upon the Crowned Seal.
Light devoured the world.
I was hurled backward through memories not my own.
I saw battles raging across blood-soaked fields. Saw myself at the head of armies, blade flashing like a dying star.
I heard voices crying out my name — some in love, some in hate.
I saw cities burn.
I saw thrones fall.
I saw myself kneeling before a burning throne, sword shattered across my lap, blood soaking the stone.
"I failed them all," I whispered to the ruins.
And then—
Darkness.
Before me loomed a door.
No, not a door—a monolith carved by forgotten gods, its surface etched with runes that ached to look upon.
And from beyond that door, a voice called to me.
"Wake up, Kael. It's not over."
I gasped, slamming back into reality.
Fell to my knees, palms burning against the cold stone.
Elira rushed toward me but froze halfway, her eyes wide with something close to fear.
Because something had changed.
The flickering, uncertain aura that had once clung to me now burned steady and cold—a terrifying stillness, a depth that felt older than the stars.
I could feel it.
The pieces of myself, stitched back together, imperfect but alive.
Not whole.
Not yet.
But awake.
I rose slowly, my fingers tightening around the hilt of my sword.
I stared at the Crowned Seal, at the ruin that had tried to erase me.
And I whispered:
"They tried to bury me here. Now I'll bury them in return."
Behind me, I heard Elira's breath hitch.
Not in fear.
In recognition.
"You're not just Kael Solhart anymore," she breathed.
I didn't answer.
Because deep down...
I wasn't sure either.
Not yet.
But I would find out.
And gods help anyone who stood in my way.
"The ones who bury you never expect you to claw your way back up—only to bring the storm with you."