The throne room was nothing but bones and dust now.
We stood in what was once the heart of power, beneath a collapsed dome that let the morning light spill in like judgment from the heavens. Wind swept ash in slow spirals across the marble floor. The scent of ruin still clung to the walls, but beneath it was something new—hope.
And something ancient.
Mira knelt beside what remained of the Hollow King’s twisted crown. Its obsidian spikes were cracked, but the core still pulsed faintly, a dying heartbeat of magic that hadn’t yet realized its master was dead.
“He tied his essence to this,” she whispered, touching it with two fingers. “A phylactery… of sorts. Primitive, but powerful.”
“Can it be destroyed?” I asked.
She hesitated.
“Yes,” came the answer, but too slowly.
I frowned. “But
