Before the rise of empires, before the Veil was torn and the gods fell from their thrones, there was but one law:
That which is eternal shall never die.
And yet, eternity bled.
On the night of the Silent Sky, the stars did not appear. The Court took it as an omen—a whisper of ruin carried on the wind. In every province of the Eternal Empire, the people stood in silent reverence, watching the black sky above, as if awaiting a revelation. Mages locked themselves in their sanctuaries, praying for visions. The augurs cast their bones in vain. No answer came.
And in the heart of the Empire, beneath the fractured dome of Azerai, three generals stood over the Hollow King.
The Great Hall had once been a marvel, a monument of obsidian and marble, where the rulers of old dictated the fates of the world. Now, it was a shattered ruin, the very foundations groaning as the Empire unraveled. Cracks ran like veins through the once-flawless marble, and the great banners of conquest, which had once hung proud, lay torn and trampled beneath the feet of betrayers.
The Hollow King knelt at the foot of his own throne, his breath labored, his once-pristine robes soaked in the blood of both his enemies and his own.
"Hollow King," Azael intoned, his voice measured, though his grip on his blade was firm, unyielding. "Surrender your life. Die with dignity. Do not make this harder than it must be."
The Hollow King lifted his head, eyes like dying embers beneath the cracked surface of his mask. Blood dripped from the gash in his chest, staining the floor with something darker than crimson, something that shimmered like the abyss itself. The weight of the world seemed to press upon him, yet he did not fall.
"Why?" he rasped, voice thick with pain. "Why betray me now?"
"For the realm," Nyxara answered, her expression unreadable, her voice hollow. Azael and Omir stood beside her, their weapons drawn.
"We will forge a new empire," Omir declared, his lips curling into a smirk. "And your devoted followers—those who still kneel before your madness—will be erased, for the sake of the world."
The Hollow King staggered but did not break. He let out a low, rattling chuckle. "You do not understand," he murmured, shaking his head. His fingers curled, clawing at the polished stone. "You believe you are cutting out a disease… but you are merely severing the last chain that holds the abyss at bay."
"Enough," Nyxara said coldly. "Your rule ends here."
"I should have killed you all," the Hollow King whispered, a flicker of something ancient and wrathful burning in his gaze. His lips curled into a snarl. "You and your wretched mother."
Azael did not hesitate.
"Say no more."
With a single thrust, his blade plunged into the Hollow King's heart.
The moment the blade struck true, the world shattered.
The Hollow King's body convulsed, and as his life slipped away, something else was unleashed. His blood, thick and black as the void, spilled onto the marble floor, and the ground beneath them trembled.
The sky screamed.
Lightning split the heavens, though no clouds marred them. The ground cracked open, swallowing temples and towers whole. Oceans turned to mist. Rivers ran backward. The world itself recoiled.
And the stars, long absent, did not return.
The Hollow King's mask shattered as his body collapsed, revealing—nothing.
A void. A black abyss where a face should have been.
And as his heart gave its final, shuddering beat, the Veil was born.
A rift between worlds. A barrier as thin as silk, yet as vast as eternity.
In the chaos that followed, the three generals turned on one another. Their alliance had been fragile, held together only by the singular purpose of slaying the Hollow King. But with his death, ambition and greed consumed them. They fought bitterly, each seeking to claim the throne, each seeking to shape the new empire in their image.
And in their greed, they doomed the world.
The great cities of the Eternal Empire were swallowed by the mist. The lands, once fertile, became cursed. The names of the gods were burned from history. Truth became legend, and legend became myth.
But even in death ,something remained.
Something of him endured. Something that could not die. A lingering essence, bound beyond time itself, waiting.
Waiting to return.
Deep within the ruins of the Eternal Empire, hidden in a forsaken chamber beneath the shattered Temple , a lone scribe worked by candlelight.
His hands trembled as he carved the last true history into stone, knowing it would never be read. The echoes of the past filled the chamber, whispering to him, urging him to stop. But he would not.
He had a duty.
The ruined temple groaned under the weight of forgotten gods. The air was thick with dust and old magick. And yet, the scribe did not falter. His chisel struck stone, over and over, carving the words that must not be lost.
"The Hollow King shall return when the Ninth Eye opens and the Seven Pillars crumble."
He did not know what the words meant. He only knew that they must be recorded.
Then, suddenly, the candlelight flickered. The room grew colder.
A shadow stretched across the walls.
The scribe froze.
"Who goes there?" His voice was steady, though his heart pounded like a war drum.
Silence.
Then, in an instant, the figure moved—too fast to be natural. The candlelight was extinguished.
And the stone walls were painted red.
The scribe, his vision blurring, felt the warmth of his own blood seeping onto the floor. His breath came in ragged gasps.
As darkness consumed him, he forced out one final whisper:
"He will return… and the world will burn."
Then silence.
The world forgot, as worlds do.
Until the day it would need to remember.
The winds carried the prophecy away, burying it beneath centuries of dust and lies. The truth, like all things, became legend.