"All ruins remember. They just wait for someone foolish enough to listen."
— Lira Sunward, field notes, Year 844 KHL
The temple breathed.
Every stone sighed as if exhaling centuries of dust. The entrance yawned open before the party, revealing a descent carved into obsidian and lined with forgotten sigils. Their torchlight danced across the walls, and the air grew colder with each step.
Vallen walked last, his eyes adjusting to the dark faster than any of them. The deeper they went, the louder his heartbeat seemed to echo — or perhaps it was not his at all.
"Don't lag behind, shadow-boy," Lira muttered.
"I don't lag," he replied, voice even. "I listen."
"Then what do you hear?"
He tilted his head. "The dead. And they're restless."
A nervous laugh rippled through the group.
They reached the central chamber — a vast hollow space where the ceiling had collapsed, revealing the night sky above. Rain dripped through the cracks, pattering against stone coffins arranged in perfect rings. At the center stood a statue of a robed figure, its face hidden, its hands clutching an orb that had long turned black.
"That's the source," Lira said, pointing. "Our mage—before he disappeared—reported unstable resonance from that relic. We collect it, bring proof, get paid."
Vallen said nothing. His gaze lingered on the orb. It pulsed faintly, like a dying heart.
"Wait," he murmured.
Too late. One of the mercenaries, a tall man in bronze armor, strode forward. "I'll grab it. Looks harmless enough."
The instant his fingers brushed the orb, the chamber screamed.
The sound was not made by air or throat — it came from the stone itself, vibrating through their bones. Torches flared, then died. Darkness swallowed them whole.
"Hold formation!" Lira barked, drawing her blade.
Something moved in the dark.
A shape — fluid, flickering, like smoke caught in wind. Then another. Then dozens.
Vallen's breath hitched. He knew those silhouettes. The hollow eyes, the flowing forms — Eclipsed Phantoms. Fragments of Umbra bound to a place too long.
The mercenaries swung their blades, their strikes passing through the figures as if cutting water. One man screamed as a shadow pierced his chest; another fell, eyes wide and empty.
Lira turned to Vallen. "Do something, damn you!"
He hesitated. His pulse roared in his ears. To reveal his power here would be to invite suspicion — maybe even death.
But if he didn't, they'd all die anyway.
He let out a slow breath. "Fine."
Vallen lifted his hand.
The shadows around him froze, as if recognizing their master. His pupils thinned, and the faint ember-light in his irises flared. The darkness trembled, then bent — collapsing inward toward his palm like waves obeying the moon.
Whispers filled the chamber.
> "Heir of Hollow…"
"You have returned…"
"Be still," he commanded softly.
The phantoms stopped mid-motion, drifting like torn cloth. The mercenaries stared in horror as the creatures knelt — not to them, but to him.
Lira's voice broke the silence. "What… what are you?"
Vallen didn't answer. He stepped forward, placing his hand on the orb. It was cold, pulsing faintly under his touch. The black surface cracked — and within, he saw the reflection of his own face, overlaid with a crown of mist.
He clenched his jaw. "Sleep."
The orb shattered.
A surge of energy rippled outward, extinguishing every torch, every glimmer of light — then silence.
When the darkness receded, the phantoms were gone. The air felt thin, emptied.
Vallen lowered his hand. The orb was dust.
He turned back to the survivors. Two of the mercenaries still stood, pale and shaking. Lira's blade was half-raised, eyes fixed on him.
"That wasn't Lightcraft," she said. "That wasn't any craft I know."
"No," he said quietly. "It wasn't."
"You lied."
"I never said what I was."
She tightened her grip. "Then say it now."
Vallen looked past her — to the rain falling through the broken ceiling, to the faint glimmer of the stars beyond. He almost smiled.
"I'm what your kind buried," he said. "And what your gods feared would wake again."
Lira hesitated. "Umbra."
The word was a curse in this realm.
He met her gaze. "Not quite. Umbra serves me — not the other way around."
Something flickered behind her eyes — fear, or perhaps awe. She lowered her blade.
"We finish the job," she said finally, voice rough. "We bring proof the relic's gone. Then you disappear, got it?"
"As you wish."
They left the temple before dawn. The survivors spoke little. The rain had stopped, and mist rolled through the forest in ghostly waves.
When they reached the crossroads to Atherion, Lira stopped.
"You saved us," she said flatly. "That doesn't mean I trust you."
"I don't need your trust," Vallen replied. "Only silence."
She studied him for a long moment. "The world hates your kind, you know. If the High Arcanum finds out what you are…"
He turned his gaze toward the horizon, where sunlight began to break through the clouds. "They'll add another ghost to their history. Nothing new."
A faint smirk tugged at her lips. "You talk like you've lived too many lifetimes."
"Maybe I have."
He started walking.
"Hey," she called. He paused, half-turned.
"What's your real name?"
Vallen met her eyes, the faint light of dawn glinting against his pale skin. "Names have weight," he said. "I've carried mine long enough."
Then he was gone — swallowed by mist and morning light.
*"From the Hollow he came, pale and unbound. Wherever his shadow touched, truth withered — and yet the stars bent lower, as if to listen."*
— The Eighth Chronicle of Mystinia
Vallen walked alone through the forest. Each step left faint traces of dark mist that faded behind him. The birds fell silent as he passed. The Umbra within him was quiet now, sleeping — but not gone.
He stopped at a small clearing where an ancient shrine leaned half-buried in moss. The statue's face was broken, but he recognized it: the old god of thresholds.
He knelt, brushing away dirt. Beneath the moss, an inscription glimmered faintly — To cross is to change.
He traced the words with his finger, and something inside him stirred — not the Umbra, but the memory of what he once wanted.
A world beyond curses. Beyond debts.
He looked toward the distant light of Atherion's towers and whispered, "So this is what's left of the sun."
The wind answered with a whisper that might've been laughter — or mourning.
He rose and kept walking.
The road stretched on, endless and waiting. Somewhere beyond, secrets still lingered — the truth of Black Hollow's fall, the source of its curse, and the reason the Umbra called to him even now.
He would find them all.
Because a king may leave his throne,
but his crown — even one made of mist — never leaves him.