Sorin’s hands were on fire.

  Not literally—though that had happened once, and the blisters had been hilarious—but close enough. Three flickering embers danced between his fingers, weaving figure-eights in the dusky air of Lumin Hollow’s market square. The crowd oohed and aahed, coins clinking into the overturned hat at his feet. A child giggled, clapping so hard her cheeks turned apple-red. Sorin winked at her and sent the flames spiraling higher, their glow painting his scarred knuckles gold.

  The scars always caught the light. Thin, branching cracks, like gilded lightning across his skin. He’d had them as long as he could remember.

  Which wasn’t very long.

  A gust of wind threatened to steal his flames. Sorin spun, laughing, and let the fire dissolve into smoke. The crowd groaned. “Ah, but the best tricks are the ones that vanish!” he declared, sweeping his tattered cloak into a bow. “Like your purses, if you stand too close!”

  The laughter turned nervous. A merchant patted his pockets. Sorin grinned and tossed an apple into the air—one he’d definitely not had a moment ago—before taking a loud, crunching bite.

  That was when he saw her.

  Aeris.

  The archivist moved like a blade through silk—smooth, inevitable. Her dark braid swung behind her, and her eyes, sharp as broken glass, locked onto him. Sorin’s grin froze mid-bite.

  Oh, rotting hells.

  He’d stolen from the Grand Archive three days ago. A little book. A tiny book. Barely counted.

  (It counted. He’d just really wanted it.)

  “Sorin.” Aeris’s voice could flay skin. “You maggot.”

  The crowd, sensing bloodsport, edged back. Sorin swallowed the apple lump in his throat and spread his arms. “Aeris! Love the new cloak. Is that velvet? You’re practically nobility.”

  She didn’t blink. “Where is it?”

  “Where’s what?”

  “The book.”

  Sorin clutched his chest. “You think I’d steal from the Archive? The sacred temple of knowledge? The—”

  “I checked the ledger.” Aeris stepped closer. “The Hollow King’s Last Testament. You signed it out.”

  “Ah.” He scratched his nose. “...Did I?”

  “In blood.”

  Sorin glanced at his thumb. The cut had mostly healed. “Look, I was inspired—”

  Aeris lunged. Sorin yelped and ducked, twisting away as her fingers grazed his collar. He bolted, weaving through stalls, knocking over a basket of pomegranates. The fruit exploded like tiny, juicy bombs. Aeris swore vividly behind him.

  Then—music.

  A lute’s bright chords cut through the chaos, followed by a voice like honeyed thunder. “Oh, gather ‘round, ye weary souls, and hear the king’s lament—”

  Sorin skidded to a halt. Kael, the bard, perched on a barrel, grinning like a fox. His fingers flew across the strings, and the crowd, ever fickle, forgot Sorin entirely. Even Aeris hesitated, her scowl deepening.

  Kael winked at Sorin and sang louder. “For crowns are made of hollow gold, and thrones of brittle bone!”

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  A hush fell. The song was forbidden. The Hollow King was forbidden.

  Aeris hissed, “Kael, you idiot—”

  But the damage was done. The market’s noise had dimmed. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. Sorin’s skin prickled.

  That was when he felt it—the weight of eyes.

  He turned.

  Across the square, half-hidden in the shadow of an alley, stood a figure in a pale mask. The Exiled One. Watching. Waiting.

  Sorin’s breath hitched.

  Then—a whisper in his mind, faint as a half-remembered dream:

  You were never meant to endure.

  The world tilted. Sorin’s vision swam with gold. For a heartbeat, he wasn’t in the market at all. He was falling, tumbling through darkness, a throne of shattered stone rushing up to meet him—

  A hand clapped his shoulder. Sorin gasped, blinking back to reality. Kael leaned in, lute slung carelessly behind him. “You alive, thief?”

  Sorin forced a laugh. “Mostly.”

  Aeris folded her arms. “Give. Me. The. Book.”

  Sorin sighed. He reached into his cloak—then froze.

  The book was warm.

  The book burned against Sorin’s ribs.

  Not like fire. Like a heartbeat.

  Aeris’s fingers twitched toward the dagger at her belt. “Don’t make me gut you in front of children, Sorin.”

  Kael strummed a dramatic chord. “‘The king once walked in golden light, till shadows ate his name—’”

  “Stop singing that,” Aeris and Sorin snapped in unison.

  Sorin swallowed. The warmth of the book seeped into his skin, threading up his veins like liquid sunlight. His scars itched.

  He’d taken the book on a whim—just another shiny thing to pocket. But the moment he’d cracked its spine, the illustrations had stolen his breath: a figure wreathed in storm, their hands split by the same gold cracks as his.

  The Hollow King.

  No one spoke of them. Not really. Just in tavern whispers and the kind of songs that got bards disappeared.

  And now the damned thing was hot.

  “Fine.” Sorin yanked the book from his cloak. The leather cover shimmered, its gilded edges pulsing faintly. “But it’s boring. Just old poetry. ‘O, my kingdom of dust, blah blah—’”

  Aeris snatched it. The second her fingers touched the cover, her breath hitched. Her eyes flicked to Sorin’s hands—to his scars.

  A silent beat passed.

  Then—

  “You idiot,” she breathed. “Do you have any idea what this is?”

  Kael leaned in. “Is it cursed? Please say it’s cursed.”

  Sorin’s pulse thundered in his ears. The market’s noise—the haggling, the clatter of carts—felt muffled, distant. Even the air tasted strange, metallic, like before a storm.

  Aeris opened her mouth—

  CRASH.

  A stall overturned. The crowd screamed.

  Sorin spun.

  The Exiled One stood at the edge of the square, their bone-white mask gleaming. A vendor’s cart lay splintered at their feet, apples rolling into the gutter.

  No one moved. No one breathed.

  Then—

  The Exiled One pointed.

  Straight at Sorin.

  “Oh, rot,” Kael said.

  Sorin’s legs moved before his brain could catch up. He grabbed Aeris’s wrist. “Run.”

  They bolted.

  The Exiled One gave chase.

  Sorin’s lungs burned.

  They’d lost the Exiled One in the tangled alleys of the Rat’s Nest, where the buildings leaned so close they nearly kissed, and the streets smelled of piss and old bread. Aeris had yanked him into a crumbling tenement, its door hanging by one hinge. Now they crouched in the dark, listening.

  Kael, ever the idiot, had followed them.

  “So,” the bard whispered, plucking a single lute string. Twang. “We’re all going to die.”

  Aeris elbowed him. Hard.

  Sorin pressed his ear to the wall. Footsteps echoed outside—slow, deliberate. The Exiled One wasn’t running. They knew their prey was cornered.

  The book lay between them, its glow faint but unmistakable. Aeris traced the cover’s embossed crown. “This isn’t just a history,” she murmured. “It’s a key.”

  “To what?” Sorin asked.

  Her gaze flicked to his hands again. “To you.”

  A memory stabbed through him—falling, always falling, the throne’s shadow swallowing him whole—

  Kael’s lute string snapped.

  The footsteps stopped.

  Right outside the door.

  Sorin’s mouth went dry. The Exiled One’s mask filled the cracked doorway, its empty eyeholes drinking the dim light.

  Aeris grabbed the book. Sorin grabbed Aeris. Kael, because he had the survival instincts of a concussed pigeon, stood up.

  “Evening!” he chirped. “Fancy meeting—”

  The Exiled One moved.

  One second, they were in the doorway. The next, Kael was pinned to the wall, a gloved hand around his throat. The bard’s feet dangled.

  Aeris lunged with her dagger. The Exiled One caught her wrist without looking.

  Sorin’s pulse roared. His scars burned.

  Then—the voice from his dreams, but now outside his skull, whispering through the mask:

  “You remember, don’t you?”

  The world split.

  Gold light erupted from Sorin’s hands. The tenement’s walls trembled. Dust rained from the ceiling.

  The Exiled One flinched.

  For the first time, they stepped back.

  Kael dropped, gasping. Aeris staggered. Sorin stared at his hands—at the cracks now glowing, molten bright.

  The Exiled One tilted their head. Then, softly:

  “He’s waiting for you.”

  They vanished.

  Silence.

  Then Kael coughed. “So. That happened.”

  Aeris rounded on Sorin. “What. The Hell. Was that?”

  Sorin opened his mouth.

  Closed it.

  The book lay between them, its pages fluttering open to an illustration of a broken throne—and a figure with gold-cracked hands, reaching.

  Just like his.