The world stilled in that breath after the Hollow Sovereign spoke.
“Rowan Vale-Thorn... or should I say, Arkael.”
The name—alien and ancient—rippled through the Veil like a bell tolling beneath the surface of a black ocean. Every syllable vibrated in the marrow of Quinn’s bones. His heart seized. His knees threatened to give out.
Rowan didn’t move.
He just stared forward—eyes wide, lips parted, glowing faintly like the moon behind a stormcloud. The name had done something to him. Not harmed him, not possessed him. But awakened something.
Quinn took a step forward. “Don’t say that again.”
The Hollow Sovereign tilted his head. The Veil around him swirled with echoes and memories not their own.
“You don’t know what he carries,” the Sovereign said, voice both truth and riddle. “You don’
