Chapter 28: The Hollow Below
The first step into the darkness was like crossing a threshold into another world. As the group descended the spiral staircase beneath Ember Cathedral, the walls began to change. Gone were the polished stones and flame-carved reliefs of the upper temple—here, the stone turned ancient and damp, veins of glowing crimson ore webbing through the walls like dried blood. Every footfall echoed like a war drum, every breath drawn tasted faintly of ash and iron.
Ralvarin held the hovering sphere of firelight aloft, casting long shadows that danced wildly as the stairwell curved ever deeper. The runes etched into the stone were older than Velcrest itself—script predating even the Flame Concord. Glyphs of dominion, chains, and exile.
Velena moved just behind Elias, sword half-drawn, her eyes scanning every angle. "These were binding runes," she murmured. "This wasn't just a throne chamber… it was a prison."
Cambric muttered behind them. "A prison for what?"
"Or who," added Seris, checking her crossbow bolts for the third time.
The air grew heavier. Warmer. Not with heat, but a presence. Something unseen, pulsing with an ancient rhythm, like a heartbeat buried under miles of stone.
At the base of the steps, a massive door of volcanic obsidian awaited. Twenty feet tall and covered in arcane grooves, it stood half-open—cracked inward as if forced by something desperate to get out. The edges were scorched, and the smell of burnt sigils still hung in the air.
Elias approached slowly, palm raised. "No recent footprints. Either the cultists moved quickly… or something else walked in after them."
Velena stepped beside him. "You don't think—"
"I don't know what to think," Elias said. "Only that it's open now. And we have to go through."
The chamber beyond was vast.
They entered what must once have been a royal court, now reduced to ruin and shadow. Massive stone pillars lined the walls, each carved in the shape of cloaked kings—some headless, others missing limbs, their thrones long since crumbled. Between them, braziers of blue flame still burned, unlit by any mortal hand.
At the far end stood the Hollow Throne.
Or what remained of it.
A dais of cracked marble, a throne fused from bone and emberstone, its seat hollowed as if something had once grown out of it—organically, grotesquely. Runes beneath it thrummed with an unholy cadence, fed by ley-threads glowing dimly beneath the floor.
And in front of it—bodies.
Dozens.
Cultists, all twisted in death, their skin cracked and blackened, eyes still open in horror. Some had burst from within, like they'd been filled with something too vast to contain. Others had clawed at their own faces, as if trying to gouge out visions unseen.
Ralvarin crouched beside one. "No bloodletting. No stab wounds. They didn't fight anything. They witnessed something. And it killed them."
Elias stepped closer to the throne. He could feel the pull again—that same silent whisper that had plagued his dreams for weeks. A call in a language older than language. He clenched his fists.
Velena placed a hand on his shoulder. "What is it?"
"…It wants a vessel," Elias murmured.
Then, without warning, the torches in the chamber extinguished.
Darkness swallowed them.
But not silence.
From the walls came a sound like chains being dragged. Footsteps—slow, deliberate. And then, a voice.
Not loud. Not shouting. Just… present.
"The flame dies. The vessel opens."
Seris turned, knives drawn. "We're not alone."
"No," Elias said grimly. "We're in its home."
From the shadows emerged a figure cloaked in layers of scorched silk and burning scripture. Its face was hidden by a mask of cracked gold, its fingers long and skeletal, tipped in runed iron. It hovered inches above the ground, robes trailing behind like smoke.
Ralvarin whispered, "A Scorched Apostle."
Cambric swallowed. "I thought those were myths."
"Clearly not," Velena snapped, drawing her sabre.
The Apostle raised a hand. The air trembled. And every dead cultist in the room jerked upright.
They didn't breathe. They didn't speak. But their eyes burned now with a dim red light.
Reanimated.
Corrupted.
The battle began in chaos.
Seris vanished into the shadows, striking fast and brutal. Cambric held the front, his blade singing against bone and flame. Ralvarin unleashed arcane sigils that shattered twisted limbs. Elias moved with precision, cleaving corrupted flesh with every strike of his glaive, eyes fixed on the Apostle.
The Apostle moved like smoke—phasing through attacks, striking with whispers that caused pain deeper than bone. It targeted Elias, sensing something ancient within him. A kinship, perhaps. Or a threat.
"You are marked," it hissed. "The Hollow knows you. The Bastion remembers."
Velena leapt between them, her blade singing a counter to its voice. "He's not yours!"
The Apostle shrieked, lashing out with tendrils of burning scripture. One caught Elias across the chest, searing a line through cloth and skin. He staggered, the throne pulsing behind him.
Suddenly, the rune under his feet activated.
The entire chamber trembled.
And visions slammed into Elias's mind.
A child on a burning bridge. A crown forged in screams. A woman with silver eyes weeping over a broken sword. And beneath it all—the Hollow Throne, empty, forever waiting.
His eyes flashed with light. He felt his veins heat.
But then—he made a choice.
He grabbed Velena's hand and grounded himself in the now.
He was not the past. Not a vessel. Not a tool.
He was Elias.
He lifted his glaive, now glowing with his own power—tempered, chosen.
With one final strike, he severed the Apostle's mask.
The creature screamed as light poured from within it, cracking its body until it exploded in a halo of ash and silence.
The cultists fell again, this time truly dead.
The chamber went still.
But the Hollow Throne still pulsed.
Waiting.
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End of chapter 28