Beginning of Arc 2: The Hollow Empire
The morning sun barely pierced through the heavy veil of ashen mist that clung to the forest. The once-vibrant trees were now twisted skeletons of their former selves—blackened branches reaching toward the sky like skeletal fingers. The faint scent of burnt bone still lingered, remnants of the battle against the Bone Warden.
But now, the forest was silent.
No more chains rattled in the distance. No twisted revenants stirred. The Bone Warden was truly gone, his soul scattered into the void. And yet, the weight of the battle still clung heavily to the air.
Liora sat near the remnants of the fire, her cloak drawn tightly around her shoulders. She stared into the fading embers, watching as the last vestiges of violet flame flickered faintly before fading into nothing.
Her hands were still trembling.
She flexed her fingers slightly, watching as faint wisps of necromantic magic flickered softly between her fingertips—thin trails of violet light twisting weakly through the morning air. It was unsteady. Faint. A remnant of the raw power she had unleashed.
Her stomach churned faintly at the memory.
The Bone Warden's voice still echoed in her mind—a cruel, guttural rasp taunting her with the knowledge that she could never be rid of him. That the fragments of his soul—the slivers of his corruption—would remain bound to hers for as long as she drew breath.
Her jaw tightened faintly, and she clenched her hands into fists, extinguishing the magic.
She didn't notice when Alaric approached.
He crouched down beside her, his arms resting loosely over his knees. His breathing was still slightly labored from the battle, but his expression was calm. Steady.
But his eyes…
They were still haunted.
He didn't speak at first. The silence between them lingered, heavy and unspoken. Only the faint crackle of burning wood remained between them.
Finally, he broke the silence.
"Couldn't sleep?" His voice was low, barely above a murmur.
Liora didn't look at him. She simply shook her head slightly, her fingers still clenching faintly against the fabric of her cloak.
"I keep seeing him," she whispered hoarsely, her voice raw with fatigue. "Even now."
Alaric's expression hardened slightly, but he didn't speak right away.
Her voice faltered slightly, her breath catching faintly in her throat.
"I thought it would be over when we killed him," she murmured. She pressed her fingers against her temple, her voice trembling faintly. "I thought it would—"
Her voice broke off sharply. She squeezed her eyes shut.
But Alaric's hand was suddenly over hers, firm and grounding.
"It is over."
His voice was steady. Unwavering.
Her eyes flicked toward him, but she could still see the shadow of doubt in his eyes, lingering beneath the surface.
But she didn't call him on it.
She simply nodded faintly, letting herself believe it, even if just for a moment.
They broke camp soon after.
The forest was eerily still as they walked, the once-lush terrain now barren and scorched. The faint scent of smoke and decay still clung heavily to the air, though the embers had long since faded.
But something had changed.
Liora could feel it—a ripple in the air, faint but unmistakable. A distant pulse of necromantic magic lingering at the edge of her awareness, though it was faint—almost indistinguishable.
It wasn't the Warden. She was certain of that.
But it was something else. Something old.
By midday, they reached the outskirts of the ruins.
The remnants of the fallen village were still littered with broken stone and scorched earth. The forest around it was overgrown, twisted with gnarled branches and thorned vines. But at the heart of the ruins, something had changed.
The ancient stones were no longer cold.
The once-dormant sigils etched into the stone were now glowing faintly with a pale, violet light, as though some long-forgotten power had stirred from its slumber.
Alaric stiffened faintly at the sight. His hand instinctively drifted toward his sword.
But Liora's eyes were fixed on the ground.
The earth had been scorched black, but at its center was a faint, jagged scar of ashen silver—a remnant of the Warden's magic.
But something about it was wrong.
She knelt slowly, her fingers brushing over the edge of the scar, and she froze.
The soil was warm.
That's not right.
Her pulse quickened faintly. She pressed her hand against the ground again, and this time, she felt it.
A pulse.
A faint, reverberating thrum, beating weakly beneath the earth—slow, steady, but unmistakable.
Alaric's eyes narrowed sharply, and he crouched beside her, his hand gripping the hilt of his blade.
"What is it?" he asked quietly.
Liora's lips parted faintly, but she didn't answer right away. Her eyes narrowed slightly, and she let her power flicker faintly through her fingers.
And as her magic brushed against the scar, her mind was suddenly flooded with memories that were not her own.
She saw ancient battles, blurred by time but still vivid—an army of undead legions, locked in conflict against soldiers wreathed in divine fire. The sky was darkened by violet flame, and black chains coiled through the heavens like serpents of iron.
She saw ruined cities, once-vibrant and proud, reduced to crumbling husks of bone and stone.
And she saw a throne of iron and bone, rising high above the ruins—a hollow crown bound with jagged chains. Upon it sat a faceless figure, draped in shadows, his eyes burning with the same violet fire as hers.
And behind him…
An empire of darkness, built upon the ashes of the living.
Liora jerked back violently, gasping sharply as the vision tore away from her mind. Her hands were trembling violently, her fingers coated in ash.
"Liora!" Alaric's voice was sharp, his hands on her shoulders. His eyes were wide with concern.
She barely heard him.
Her pulse was thundering in her ears, her breath coming in short, ragged bursts. Her limbs shook violently, and her chest tightened as the echoes of the vision still pounded in her skull.
Alaric gripped her shoulders, forcing her eyes to his.
"Look at me," he ordered, his voice firm but steady. "Breathe."
Her eyes locked on his, and she forced herself to focus, drawing in a sharp, ragged breath. Slowly, she exhaled. Once. Twice.
And slowly, the trembling stilled.
But she knew.
She knew what she had seen.
And her voice was barely a whisper.
"It's not over," she murmured faintly. Her eyes were wide with horror, her voice trembling.
Alaric's brow furrowed sharply.
"What?"
Her fingers dug into his arms, her eyes hollow.
"They're coming," she whispered hoarsely. "The empire is rising."
Beyond the forest, far in the distance…
The skies were darkening.
On the horizon, black banners unfurled, tattered and scorched by centuries of ruin. The faint gleam of iron helms and spectral flame flickered faintly in the distance.
And the legions of the Hollow Empire marched again.
The war had only just begun.