The chamber still pulsed with the aftermath of the warden's death. Ash drifted like smoke caught in a storm—memories scattered, clawing for shape. Every breath Kaen took felt like inhaling lives that weren't his.
But something had changed.
The air watched them now.
Lira knelt by the remains, fingers brushing the ash. It clung to her glove, then sizzled away in a flicker of green fire. "This isn't over," she murmured. "That was just the warden."
Kaen stared ahead. The path had shifted. No longer rough stone, it had become obsidian steps—each etched with jagged, flickering glyphs that shimmered in sync with the Hollow Crown's brand on his arm.
"They're responding to you," Lira said.
Kaen nodded. "Then I follow."
They descended. Step by step, silence returned—not empty, but layered. Beneath it, voices stirred: whispers of rage, of regret, of ruin.
The stairs ended at a monolithic obsidian door—seamless, handleless.
Kaen stepped forward. The mark on his arm blazed as his hand neared the surface.
The door breathed.
It opened with a groan deep enough to rattle bone, revealing a hall unlike anything above.
Pillars of fractured crystal jutted at unnatural angles. Shards hovered midair—armor, weapons, masks—all cracked, all ancient. All humming with dormant will.
And at the center...
A throne.
No crown.
No occupant.
Only a sword, impaled into the seat. Its blade twisted, as though it had fought destiny—and lost. A dim crimson pulse bled from its hilt, beating with Kaen's brand.
Lira's voice barely carried. "This… is the Heart of the Vault."
Kaen stepped forward, drawn by gravity that wasn't gravity at all.
The whispers grew louder.
Visions surged:
—A tyrant king who burned cities for immortality.
—A queen who shattered realms to rewrite fate.
—A child-king, crowned too young, consumed by legacy.
All wore the Hollow Crown.
All fell beneath it.
Kaen halted before the blade. "Why show me this?"
A voice answered—not heard, but felt:
"Because you are the first to walk willingly."
Kaen reached out.
And gripped the sword.
Pain tore through him. Fire. Chains. Screams not his.
Then—stillness.
He stood in a void, facing himself.
Older. Hardened. Eyes full of scars not yet earned.
The older Kaen spoke:
"This is the path of kings born from ruin. Take the blade, and you take the burden. There is no crown without consequence."
Kaen's jaw tightened. "I didn't ask for any of this. But I'll carry it—for those who can't."
The void shattered.
Kaen gasped.
Back in the hall. The sword in his grip no longer pulsed red.
It glowed.
Not with fire—but with resolve.
Lira stared, speechless.
He turned, the weapon feeling like it belonged. "We need to go. This place is waking."
As if in answer, the throne cracked—
—and deep below the Vault,
something stirred.
Not shadow.
Not memory.
But something that had waited.
Centuries.