Hollowstone came alive after dark.
Not in the way cities used to—with crowded taverns, music bleeding into the streets, or the hum of relic-lights strung across rooftops—no, this was different.
This was the kind of alive that reeked of quiet desperation.
I drifted through the lower quarter—a web of crooked alleys twisting between leaning buildings, smoke curling from rusted chimneys, rainwater pooling in cracked stone gutters. The walls were layered in old posters—wanted signs, missing persons, recruitment calls from warlords I've never heard of. Most were faded beyond recognition, the paper curling like dead skin.
Agro was stabled outside the tanner's shop—better than the ruins, but not by much. I checked his bandages before slipping into the streets—still holding, still breathing, still watching me like he expected me to screw this up.
I would.
But not yet.
The markets pulsed faintly under shattered archways—merchants huddled behind tables, selling relic shards, rusted weapons, and supplies that looked one breath away from molding. The air was heavy with burnt oil and old smoke, the faint hum of distant generators threading beneath the noise.
"Looking to trade?" one barked—a wiry man with skin like cracked parchment, eyes flicking to my belt, spotting the chipped sword.
"Not tonight," I muttered.
I wasn't here for steel—not yet.
The whispers started near the Hollowstone crossroads—a faded stone plaza where an old fountain choked with vines still trickled faint water. Scavengers clustered there, traders, the occasional mercenary—all low voices, sharp glances.
"Dead Zones are stirring," someone muttered—a woman wrapped in scavenger leathers, voice hushed. "Ashborn sightings, west of the Spine."
"They always say that," her companion spat. "Every season, it's shadows and lost gods."
"Not shadows," another voice—older, rough—cut in. "Relic-runners found a body—burned black, eyes hollow. Said the ground whispered before they died."
My grip tightened on my belt.
The Crown pulsed faintly in my pack—its hum barely audible, but threading under my ribs, prickling down my spine.
Ashborn—constructs of soot and bone, wraiths stitched from Draal's dead history. I'd seen them—in the ruins, when I pulled the Crown free. If they're wandering beyond the Dead Zones…
The Burnfall's scars weren't as dead as they looked.
I slipped away, boots quiet on the uneven stone—deeper into Hollowstone's veins, tracing narrow passages that wound between leaning houses and forgotten relic stalls. Rusted sigils marked the doors—symbols of old factions, forgotten guilds.
A tavern crouched at the alley's end—its door cracked, faint yellow light spilling onto the ash-streaked street. The sign above swung weakly—The Black Hollow—letters barely legible under soot stains.
Inside, the air buzzed with quiet tension—tables clustered close, low fires crackling in the hearth. Patrons hunched over mugs, voices low, eyes sharper than their rusted blades.
A merchant occupied the corner—older, sharp-featured, coat patched with trader sigils. His table gleamed faintly with laid-out relic fragments—neural glass slivers, alloy chips, half-broken components of old tech.
But it was the shard on his table that made my pulse hitch.
Small.
Dulled edges.
A Crown Shard.
Not whole—fragmented—and to the untrained eye, barely more than decorative salvage. But the hum beneath my ribs confirmed it. Another piece—a shard—resonating with the King's curse.
The merchant's eyes lifted—sharp, assessing—and I could see it plain. He didn't recognize what he had—not truly. To him, it was a relic fragment—rare, valuable, but stripped of history.
"You have the look," he rasped. "Like someone the world hasn't finished ruining."
"You're not wrong," I muttered, stepping closer.
His fingers hovered over the shard—not touching, just near. "Scavenged this near the Veins—border ruins. Paid in blood to drag it back. Fools think it's cursed—but curses don't glow."
"Price?"
His smile was thin—humorless, dismissive. "You couldn't pay coin worth its glow. But… maybe you're not here to haggle."
I said nothing—just waited.
"Favor," he said simply. "Simple run—outskirts job. Fetch me something from the edge of the Spine—old transit station. You manage that, shard's yours."
I studied him—the casual way he waved off a relic of the Forgotten King. The fool had no idea.
But the job—dangerous, guaranteed. Ashborn sightings, scavenger deaths… likely worse.
The Crown pulsed faintly in my pack—the hum beneath my ribs steady, inevitable.
I had…
Eleven Ash Shards.
Not nearly enough to barter for relics—especially one this old. Survival money—bread, repairs—not history.
"You bring back proof—relic, tech, or signs of what's waking out there," the merchant added, "and the shard's yours."
The shard's glow pulsed—soft, steady, forgotten by the world—but not by me.
"Deal," I said quietly.
The merchant's smile sharpened—feral, amused. "Careful, stranger—some relics remember more than we want."
My jaw tensed.
The Crown remembers everything.
Tomorrow—we hunt history.