The tavern stank of spilled ale and the kind of laughter that came before a brawl. Riven slumped over the bar, his fifth tankard dangling from his fingers like a condemned man from a noose. The wood beneath his elbows was sticky with decades of bad decisions, and the candlelight flickered as if afraid to illuminate the faces of the patrons too clearly.

  Perfect.

  He raised his voice, slurring just enough to sell the act. “And then—hic—then the Hollow King tripped over his own damn robes and impaled himself on his sword!”

  The crowd roared. A few Sanctum Knights in the corner scowled, but even they couldn’t hide their twitching lips. Riven grinned, sharp as a blade. This was his favorite routine: The Twelve Deaths of the Hollow King. A comedy of errors starring history’s most tragic monarch.

  “Death number four,” he continued, sloshing ale onto his boots, “the king tried to drown himself in the royal wine cellar. But the bastard had such a refined palate, he spat out the cheap vintage and died of disappointment instead—”

  A high-pitched giggle cut through the laughter.

  Riven blinked. A child perched on a stool near the hearth, swinging his legs. Freckles, messy brown hair, and a grin that suggested he’d already stolen half the tavern’s silver.

  “You’re wrong,” the kid said, gleeful.

  Riven’s smile didn’t waver, but something cold slithered down his spine. “Oh?”

  “He didn’t laugh.” The child—Tolly, someone muttered—leaned forward. “He cried. And his tears were made of fire.”

  The tavern’s noise dimmed. Riven’s tankard hit the bar with a thud.

  Then the moment shattered as the door creaked open.

  Sorin stood in the doorway, golden scars half-hidden under a borrowed cloak, looking like a man who’d just lost a fight with a philosophy book. Kael slouched behind him, already eyeing the liquor.

  “Riven,” Sorin said, exhausted. “We need to talk.”

  Riven saluted with his tankard. “Talk’s cheap. Drinks are cheaper. Sit down, Your Tragedy.”

  Sorin flinched.

  Good.

  The child—Tolly—watched Sorin with unsettling focus. “You’re shiny,” he announced.

  Sorin stared at him. “I—what?”

  Riven kicked out a stool. “Ignore the gremlin. He’s got a thing for tragic figures.”

  Kael swiped Riven’s ale. “So that’s why he likes you.”

  Riven flipped him off, but his chest ached. Tragic figures. The Hollow King’s knights had been called worse.

  Sorin sat, rubbing his temples. “We can’t stay long. The Hounds—”

  “Are boring,” Riven declared. He slapped a pair of wooden practice swords onto the table. “You, me. Duel. Winner shuts up about doom for the night.”

  Sorin blinked. “I don’t know how to—”

  “Exactly.” Riven tossed him a sword. “Lesson one: stop thinking. Fighting’s like joking. If you hesitate, you die.”

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  The tavern cleared a space. Sorin fumbled the sword, but his grip adjusted—instinctively. Riven’s pulse jumped. Oh, you remember something, don’t you?

  They circled. Riven lunged first, pulling his strike at the last second. Sorin stumbled back, barely parrying.

  “Death seven,” Riven drawled, feinting left. “The Hollow King challenged his own reflection to a duel—”

  Sorin’s sword met his with a crack.

  Then gold flared.

  The wooden blade ignited, light searing through the grain like liquid sun. Sorin gasped, yanking his hand back—but the glow lingered, dancing over his scars.

  The tavern fell silent.

  Tolly giggled.

  Riven’s throat tightened. Just like the stories.

  Then a shadow moved by the door.

  The Exiled One stood there, masked, watching.

  And on the wall behind them, the candlelight twisted—stretching, warping—until the shadow of a crown loomed over them all.

  Riven forced a laugh. “See? Comedy.” He raised his sword, ignoring the way his hand shook. “The best jokes hurt. That’s why kings never learn to tell them.”

  Sorin’s face drained of color.

  Somewhere, glass shattered. The moment broke.

  The Exiled One was gone.

  But the shadow of the crown remained.

  The silence that followed was the kind that clung to the skin like damp linen. Riven watched as Sorin stared at his own hands, the golden light still flickering at his fingertips like a dying candle. The tavern's patrons had gone still—some with fear, others with the sharp, hungry curiosity of wolves scenting blood.

  Kael cleared his throat, slinging an arm around Sorin's shoulders. "Well. That's new." His grin was too wide, his voice too loud. "Anyone else thirsty? Because I'm definitely thirsty."

  The tension snapped like a frayed rope. The crowd erupted into murmurs, some edging away, others leaning in. A few Sanctum Knights exchanged glances, hands drifting toward their swords.

  Riven stepped forward, blocking their view of Sorin. "Show's over," he announced, sweeping his arm in an exaggerated bow. "Unless you lot want to hear about the time the Hollow King choked on a grape?"

  That got a laugh—nervous, but real. The moment passed.

  Tolly, still perched on his stool, clapped his hands. "Do it again!"

  Sorin exhaled sharply, flexing his fingers. The glow dimmed, then vanished. "I—I don't know how I did that."

  "Liar," Riven said cheerfully, tossing the charred remains of the practice sword into the hearth. The flames hissed as they consumed it. "But we'll table that for now. Drink?"

  Sorin shook his head. "We should go. The Hounds—"

  "Are still boring," Riven interrupted. He flagged down the bartender, slapping coins onto the counter. "Another round. And something sweet for the demon child."

  Tolly beamed.

  The ale arrived, along with a honey-drenched pastry that Tolly attacked with the fervor of a starved animal. Riven watched him, the boy's sticky fingers and too-knowing eyes, and felt that cold slither again.

  "You," he said, pointing at Tolly with his tankard, "are trouble."

  Tolly grinned, teeth smeared with honey. "You're old trouble."

  Kael choked on his drink.

  Riven's smile didn't reach his eyes. "How old are you, kid?"

  Tolly shrugged. "Dunno. Older than him." He jerked his chin at Sorin.

  Sorin stiffened. "What?"

  The boy licked his fingers, unfazed. "You don't remember, but I do. You were smaller then. And sadder." His voice dropped, suddenly solemn. "You cried fire, and the lady with silver hair wiped it away."

  The tavern's noise faded to a dull roar in Riven's ears. Silver hair. The same woman from the Echo Shrine's vision. The same one who'd given the Hollow King a dagger.

  Sorin's face paled. "What lady?"

  Tolly opened his mouth—

  The door burst open.

  A Sanctum Knight stood framed in the doorway, his armor splattered with mud, his breath ragged. "Hounds," he gasped. "In the lower district. They're—"

  The words died as his gaze landed on Sorin.

  Riven was on his feet before he realized it, his body moving on instinct. "Oops. Time to go."

  Kael grabbed Tolly's collar, hauling him off the stool. Sorin stood slowly, his hands clenched at his sides. The knight didn't move, his expression caught between awe and terror.

  "You," the knight whispered.

  Riven stepped between them. "Nope. Not him. Just a very unfortunate lookalike." He flashed a grin. "Death nine: the Hollow King died of embarrassment—"

  The knight lunged.

  Riven ducked, driving his elbow into the man's gut. The knight wheezed, crumpling. The tavern erupted into chaos—chairs screeching, tankards shattering, voices shouting.

  "Move!" Riven barked, shoving Sorin toward the back door.

  They spilled into the alley, the cold night air sharp as a blade. Somewhere in the distance, a howl rose—long, mournful, and close.

  The Hounds were coming.

  Tolly wriggled free of Kael's grip, darting ahead. "This way!"

  Riven hesitated. "Kid—"

  "Trust me!" Tolly's voice was suddenly older, heavier. "You always do."

  And then he ran, vanishing into the shadows.

  Riven met Sorin's gaze. Saw the same dread there.

  Behind them, the tavern door splintered.

  The Exiled One stood there, mask glinting in the moonlight.

  No time to think.

  They ran.