The sewers of Lumin Hollow smelled like regret and old soup.

  Sorin pressed his back against the damp brick wall, listening to the distant shouts of Sanctum Knights echoing through the grates above. His throat still stung where the knight’s blade had kissed him. "You’re supposed to be dead." The words clung like a bad joke.

  Kael, ever the optimist, was humming.

  “You realize we’re hiding from holy executioners in a tunnel full of actual rats, yes?” Sorin whispered.

  “And yet,” Kael said, plucking a rusted coin from the muck, “still better than last week’s tavern.” He tossed the coin—it vanished into the dark with a plink. “Also, you’re welcome.”

  Sorin scowled. “For what? Leading me into a literal pit of despair?”

  “For not letting you get skewered by a man who thinks armor counts as personality.” Kael’s grin faltered as he studied Sorin’s scars. The golden cracks pulsed faintly, reacting to something unseen. “You’re doing the thing again.”

  “What thing?”

  “The ‘I’m-smirking-but-actually-I’m-one-breath-away-from-screaming’ thing.”

  Sorin opened his mouth—

  A small voice cut through the dark. “You’re him.”

  They spun.

  A child stood in the tunnel’s mouth, backlit by a stolen lantern. She couldn’t have been more than ten, her tunic patched with mismatched fabric, her dark eyes wide. She pointed at Sorin. “You’re the Hollow King.”

  The air left Sorin’s lungs.

  Kael coughed. “Uh. No. He’s just extremely disappointing.”

  The girl—Lyria, as she’d later introduce herself—shook her head. “I remember you. From before.” She tapped her temple. “In the dreams.”

  Sorin’s scars flared, hot as branding irons.

  A memory flickered—falling, always falling—then vanished.

  Kael, ever the diplomat, crouched to her height. “Listen, tiny prophet. We’re currently avoiding stab-happy knights. Any chance you know a way out?”

  Lyria beamed. “I know everything down here.”

  Sorin exhaled. “Fantastic. Lead on, oh oracle of garbage.”

  As they followed her into the labyrinth, Sorin caught his reflection in a stagnant puddle—golden scars, hollow eyes. Hollow King. The words slithered under his skin.

  Above them, the festival’s distant laughter twisted into screams.

  The "Rat’s Opera" wasn’t much to look at—just a crumbling cellar beneath a boarded-up tannery—but it smelled better than the sewers. Mostly.

  Kael rapped a rhythm against the door: shave-and-a-haircut, two bits. A pause. Then, from inside, a voice growled, "You’re late."

  The door creaked open, revealing a cavern of candlelight and stolen tapestries. A dozen faces turned toward them—actors, musicians, thieves. All members of the Canticle of the Unforgotten.

  Lyria darted past Kael, hopping onto a barrel. “I found him!”

  The room went still.

  Sorin raised a brow. “Charmed. Are we doing cult things, or—?”

  “Kael.” The voice belonged to Garret, the troupe’s leader, a barrel-chested man with a voice like gravel and honey. He crossed his arms. “You brought him here?”

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  Kael shrugged. “He was about to be murdered. Seemed rude not to.”

  Garret’s gaze flicked to Sorin’s scars. The golden cracks pulsed, casting faint light on the troupe’s wary faces. Someone muttered, "Hollow’s shadow."

  Sorin blinked. “Do I owe you people money?”

  Lyria giggled.

  Kael sighed. “They’re historians. Sort of.” He nodded to the walls, where scraps of parchment and painted lyrics coiled like ivy—fragments of banned ballads, lost treaties, dead kings’ last words. “The Sanctum burns records. They remember.”

  Garret stepped forward, his voice dropping. “And you? What do you remember?”

  Sorin’s smirk faltered.

  A beat. Then—

  THUD.

  The door shuddered.

  THUD.

  Wood splintered.

  Lyria’s smile vanished.

  The Sanctum Knight stood in the doorway, his armor streaked with sewer filth, his sword already drawn. His voice was a blade. “Traitors.”

  Kael’s hand flew to his dagger—but before he could move, something shifted in the shadows behind the knight.

  A whisper. A flicker of heat.

  Then—

  The Exiled One stepped into the light.

  The world narrowed to three things:

  The knight's sword, trembling in the firelight.

  The Exiled One's mask—smooth, white, and wrong, like a bone plucked clean.

  His own pulse, loud as war drums in his ears.

  Nobody moved.

  Then the Exiled One tilted their head—just slightly—and the knight screamed.

  It wasn't a battle. It wasn't even a slaughter. It was...unmaking.

  The knight's armor didn't crack. It peeled, like overcooked meat from bone, ribbons of steel curling away to reveal the man beneath. His flesh blackened at the edges, crumbling like paper held too close to flame. His mouth stretched wide, but no sound came out now—just smoke, thick and sweet, pouring between his teeth.

  Sorin's stomach lurched. Burning sugar and regret. The festival's scent, twisted into nightmare.

  Lyria made a small, wet noise beside him. Kael's hand clamped over her eyes.

  The knight collapsed to his knees. His gauntlets hit the ground first, empty now, fingers dissolved to ash. His last words came out in a whisper:

  "Hollow King..."

  Then he was gone. Just like that. No body. No blood. Only a scorch mark on the stones and the lingering smell of something that might have been cloves.

  The Exiled One turned toward them.

  Sorin's scars burned—not the usual dull throb, but a white-hot agony that dropped him to one knee. Visions flashed behind his eyes:

  A crown, shattered on marble steps.

  A hand, reaching for his throat.

  A voice, hissing: "You were never supposed to wake up."

  Then—

  A thunk.

  Kael's dagger stuck in the wall where the Exiled One's head had been. But they were already...fading, edges blurring like ink in water.

  For half a heartbeat, their mask seemed to smile.

  Then they were gone.

  Silence.

  Garret was the first to speak, his voice hoarse: "Well. That happened."

  Lyria sniffled. Kael's hands shook. Sorin realized he was hyperventilating.

  And on the floor, the knight's ashes shifted, forming words before the draft scattered them:

  FIND THE CROWN

  The room smelled like a funeral pyre.

  Kael stared at the scorch mark on the floor where the knight had been. His fingers still tingled from where he’d covered Lyria’s eyes—like his skin remembered the heat, even though the fire had never touched him.

  Garret broke the silence first. “We need to move.” His voice was steady, but his hands weren’t. He was already rolling up the troupe’s most precious scrolls, stuffing them into oilskin sacks. “That thing knew where to find you. It’ll be back.”

  Sorin hadn’t moved from where he’d fallen. He sat slumped against the wall, his head in his hands, golden scars flickering like dying embers. Kael had seen Sorin scared before—annoyed, frustrated, even desperate—but never like this. Never broken.

  Lyria crept forward and poked Sorin’s shoulder. “You’re not dead,” she announced, as if she’d been checking.

  Sorin let out a shaky laugh. “Disappointed?”

  “A little.” She hesitated, then added, “You look like him. In my dreams.”

  Sorin’s breath hitched.

  Kael stepped in before the kid could dig that knife deeper. “Lyria, go help Garret pack the Song of the Last Queen.” He waited until she scampered off before crouching in front of Sorin. “Hey. Look at me.”

  Sorin’s eyes were hollow. “That knight recognized me, Kael. The Exiled One recognized me. And I don’t—” His voice cracked. “I don’t remember.”

  Kael gripped his shoulder. “Then we find someone who does.”

  Garret handed Kael a satchel heavy with scrolls. “Take these. The Canticle can’t protect you now.”

  Kael frowned. “You’re not coming?”

  “Someone has to stay. Keep the songs alive.” Garret’s gaze flicked to Lyria, who was pretending not to eavesdrop. “Take her, though. She’s got the Sight.”

  “The what?” Sorin croaked.

  Lyria beamed. “I see dead people.”

  Kael groaned. “Great. Just what we needed.”

  Garret ignored them, pressing a small silver locket into Kael’s palm. “Find the Crow’s Eye Tavern in the Weeping District. Ask for the Wandering Saint.”

  Kael’s pulse jumped. The Wandering Saint was a myth—a scholar who’d supposedly walked into the Broken Sanctum and returned with all his memories intact. “He’s real?”

  “Real enough to help.” Garret hesitated. “Or get you killed.”

  The streets of Lumin Hollow were too quiet.

  They stuck to the rooftops, Lyria leading the way with rat-like certainty. Below, Sanctum Knights marched through the streets, their torches casting long shadows.

  Sorin’s voice was barely audible over the wind: “What if I’m not the person you think I am?”

  Kael didn’t look back. “Then we’ll improvise.”

  Behind them, the festival’s bonfire burned on, devouring effigies of the past.

  Ahead, the city gates loomed—and beyond them, the dark shape of the Broken Sanctum, waiting.