Alaric drew a steady breath before lifting the throne's cracked stone seat. Beneath lay a spiral of carved glyphs—etched into stone rose a hidden staircase plunging into darkness.
"Seer's words again," he muttered. Your struggle is not just with the shadow.
Lira's eyes met his, fierce and determined. "We go down together."
A shared look. Then they descended.
Stones grated beneath their boots as they spiraled downward. Torches—long since extinguished—lined the walls, their metal holders rusted. Shadows danced along the walls, mirroring their cautious movements.
Halfway down, the air turned colder, denser. Lira pulled her cloak tighter. Alaric's breath formed faint clouds. The glyphs on the walls shifted—faintly glowing as their presence neared.
He swallowed. "These symbols—some form of warding?"
She shook her head. "Or a binding."
They skirted past an urn etched with similar glyphs. A whisper drifted from the urn—a sigh, like dry leaves shaken by a wind. They paused, breath held.
Then, silence.
At the stair's end, vaulted doors awaited—cracked and warped. Lira's dagger slipped from its sheath as she pushed them open.
Inside lay aisles of stone coffers and shelves. At the center, a pedestal held a leather-bound tome, its cover embossed with a crown bound in thorns. As Alaric bent to study it, a cold wind swept the chamber.
Figures began to emerge: wraiths of former knights, their armor set in rust and years. Gaunt faces bent toward them, soulless.
The first swung a spectral sword. Alaric deflected, his own blade slashing steel against phantom. Lira darted forward, knife dancing to pick off another.
Magic roiled faintly in the air—tears of mana that strained against the chamber's grip.
"Keep them back!" Alaric shouted, face lit by torchlight.
Lira cut through one wraith, but another ghostly knight grabbed her arm. She twisted free, staggered.
Alaric pushed her aside and blocked a blow meant for her. Sparks flew from sword meeting phantom armor, but the knight recoiled.
More poured in—seven, eight wraiths. They converged with a shriek.
Alaric grabbed the tome, yanking it free. A pulse of golden light burst forth, scattering the wraiths. Their screams echoed as they dissipated into mist.
Lira caught her breath. Alaric held the book high. "That light—his magic?"
Her uncertain voice came. "A relic—his writing is within."
They backed toward the stairway.
At the foot of the stairs, a stone door barred the way. It bore the same glyphs now pulsing faintly.
Alaric placed the tome against the door. It absorbed the glow, then sank low into the stone. The glyphs flashed—and the door groaned open, revealing the citadel's heart.
A vast chamber stretched before them: cracked black marble floor, pillars that rose like broken ribs of a half-sunken temple. At its center stood a pool of shimmering silver liquid—like melted moonlight.
Lira gasped. "The pool... it's mana."
The seer's words again: learn the magic.
Alaric stepped forward, hesitantly. He knelt and pressed a hand to the pool's surface.
It rippled, and a voice—his father's—echoed:
Alaric... find the truth.
The water shimmered, and in its depths he saw a vision: the fortress intact, bustling with life, crowned by his ancestor with haloed glory. Then the vision turned dim, twisted. Wraiths emerged. The fortress decayed. His father appeared, casting glyphs over the citadel, sealing away a great evil.
Lira's hand touched his shoulder. "He tried to save it."
He withdrew his hand, gasping. "But failed."
Suddenly, the liquid recoiled, bubbling up into a column that paled the torches. In its luminescence, a shape formed—tall, crowned in ivory thorns, eyes of pure mana.
It spoke in a quiet voice: You disturbed me.
Alaric readied himself. "We come for the forest's curse."
The spectral figure laughed—sound like cracking ice. "The forest… the citadel… all one wound." It advanced.
Lira's voice trembled. "We will close it."
"Answer my question," the figure snapped. "Why should I let you?"
He looked between them: two young faces—Alaric's brow resolute, Lira's silver eyes fearless.
Alaric spoke: "Because we carry truth. Memory. Hope."
The figure's form flickered. Wraiths reemerged behind it, but lagged at its signal.
A battle ensued.
Alaric's sword cut through wraiths while he called to the figure: "Tell us how!" His weapon glowed faintly with mana from the pool.
Lira's blade found openings—each strike releasing waves of light, but the wraiths closed fast.
The figure's voice: Find the seal. It gestured at pillars further back—where glyphs framed a broken seal.
Alaric realized: this chamber was a gauntlet—not its prison. To close the curse, they needed to restore what was shattered.
He tossed the tome to Lira. "Stand by the seal!... I'll delay them."
She caught it, nodding grimly.
He charged forward, pushing through wraiths, drawing their attention away. The spectral figure advanced, eyes fixed. Alaric parried blow after blow—steel sang, phantom steel rang in response.
He faltered, body aching—but Lira's voice spurred him: "Alaric!"
He turned, and they fought back-to-back. The figure retreated toward the seal.
Lira laid a hand on the glyphs—chanting the passages written in her father's journal pages. The seal glowed, then fractured.
A violent pulse radiated outward.
The wraiths shrieked, banished by light. The chamber trembled.
A final roar from the figure as it watched the seal reknit.
The world rocked. Black water from the pool rushed forward—it filled cracks in the floor, spilling light.
The figure wailed once—then dissipated into silver mist.
Alaric slumped to his knees, breathing hard. Lira collapsed beside him, tears on her dirt-streaked cheeks.
"It's done," he whispered.
She nodded, reaching out to him. They held each other trembling.
The citadel's chamber grew still. The pool's silver surface became calm—as if nothing had happened.
They emerged, blinking in sunrise light through the broken roof above. The forest beyond looked alive—green and vibrant after years of decay.
Lira held the tome and journal pages. "We have what we came for."
Alaric looked up at the broken towers. "But this is only the beginning."
She squeezed his hand. They walked forward into the new dawn — together.
The first light of dawn broke through the trees like shards of gold piercing a veil. Siven's Hollow stirred in the distance, quiet and tentative, as if the village itself held its breath.
Alaric stood at the edge of the forest path, cloak wrapped tight against the morning chill. The wind had changed. It no longer carried the sharp scent of rot or the oppressive weight of something lurking just beyond sight. Instead, the air smelled of damp moss and pine and the faint, bitter tang of old magic.
Behind him, the ruins of the citadel still loomed—broken stone towers crowned with ivy, walls crumbling into time. But something in its shape had changed. Less menace, more silence. A peace earned through pain.
Lira stepped beside him, her boots crunching softly over frosted leaves. She held the journal they'd recovered from the lower vaults—her family's sigil pressed into the leather cover. In her other hand, she carried the charm the village elder had once touched. Its glow had faded, but a warmth still pulsed faintly within.
"They say the forest is quiet again," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "That the shadows are retreating."
Alaric nodded. "For now."
They watched the trees together. Birds moved through the canopy, tentative at first, then bolder—sparrows and thrushes and a lone hawk circling overhead. The land was breathing again.
Lira turned to him. "The curse wasn't fully broken. You know that."
"I know."
"What we did here—what we faced—it was only one door."
He looked at her, searching her expression. "And beyond that?"
She hesitated. "There are others. My father once spoke of a circle of thrones—seven strongholds that bound the old magic in place. If the citadel was one, then the balance is shifting. Something greater is waking."
Alaric's gaze drifted back toward the stone ruins. "That presence we felt down there. It wasn't just the curse—it was aware. It reached into me, Lira. It knew my name."
A silence stretched between them. The sky was turning from silver to pale blue.
Lira opened the journal and held it out. "This belonged to my grandfather. He wrote of visions—dreams of flame, shadow, and a blade that sings in sorrow. Look."
Alaric took the journal, flipping through brittle pages until he found the marked section. A sketch of a strange sigil—a ring of thorns around a sunburst. And beneath it, in a spidery hand:
"Beware the Hollow Star. When the seventh flame dies, the gate will open. And what lies beyond will unmake the world."
He closed the journal slowly. "We've only just begun."
Behind them, the path to the citadel lay quiet. No sign of the wraiths. No whisper of the thing in the dark.
Alaric glanced down at the dagger on his hip—the one the blacksmith had given him. It was dull now, the edge blackened. It had cut through more than flesh. It had carved through memory and fear.
Lira stepped closer. "We should return to the village. The elder will want to know what we found."
"And after that?"
"I go north," she said. "To find my father. If he's still alive... he'll know where the next citadel is. What about you?"
Alaric met her eyes. "Wherever that path leads... I'm not letting you walk it alone."
Her smile was faint, but it reached her eyes. "Good."
They turned, walking side by side down the forest trail. The sunlight filtered through the branches in speckled patterns, catching on their cloaks and hair like motes of gold. The village roofs glinted in the distance, smoke curling gently from hearths.
But just before the final bend, Alaric paused.
The hairs on his arms prickled again—not from fear, but recognition.
He turned back to the forest. For a moment, the trees were still.
Then he saw it.
A raven, perched high in a dying ash tree. Its feathers were deep obsidian, almost gleaming, and its eyes glowed faintly red. It cocked its head at him, watching.
And then it spoke—not in words, but in the back of his mind, a whisper he couldn't unhear.
"You are marked. The star bleeds. And the flame has only begun to flicker."
The raven launched into the air, vanishing beyond the treetops.
Alaric exhaled slowly.
"What is it?" Lira asked.
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he turned forward again and resumed walking.
"Another door," he said finally. "And someone just opened it."
They entered the village to the sound of hammers and laughter. Children chased chickens through muddy lanes. Someone sang an old song near the well.
Hope had returned to Siven's Hollow.
But the world was wider than the Hollow. And far darker.
That night, as they sat by the fire for the last time, Lira leaned her head on Alaric's shoulder, and he let it stay there. The stars overhead shimmered strangely, as if something unseen moved between them.
Far in the north, beyond black mountains and forgotten ruins, the wind began to howl. A storm was coming.
And somewhere—hidden in a tomb of stone and ash—the Hollow Star pulsed faintly to life.
End of Volume One.
To be continued in Volume Two: The Hollow Star