Deep beneath the jagged obsidian foundations of the Hollow, the air did not move. It sat heavy and cold, smelling of ancient copper and the ozone of trapped lightning. This was the Obsidian Root, the King’s private sanctum, where the "working-class" magic of the streets above was replaced by something far older and much more hungry.
The Hollow King, sat upon a throne that appeared to be made of frozen smoke. He was a tall, skeletal figure, his skin the color of a bruised plum, etched with glowing violet veins that pulsed like a failing heartbeat. On his brow sat the Crown of Iron-Thorns, the metal spikes pressing so deeply into his skin that thin trails of black blood stained his temples.
Before him, suspended in chains of "night-iron," was a Fae noble a Captain of the Guard who had dare
