The tower smelled of burnt sugar and old blood.

  Kael kicked open the door with his usual flair, though his hands shook. The Exiled One stood by the window, their back turned, the edges of their tattered cloak stirring in the wind like a dying breath.

  "You know," Kael said, tossing a stolen apple between his hands, "most people grow into their faces. You just stole mine and let it rot."

  The Exiled One didn’t turn. "You’re late."

  "Fashionably." Kael took a bite of the apple, the crunch too loud in the silence. "Also, I was busy not becoming you. It’s a full-time job."

  A pause. Then the Exiled One laughed—a sound like glass scraping bone. "You think this is your face?"

  They turned.

  Kael’s grin froze.

  The mask was off.

  It wasn’t just age that had carved the lines into the Exiled One’s features—it was something worse. The scars weren’t scars at all, but cracks, thin and golden, splitting skin like over-fired porcelain. The left eye was gone, replaced by a hollow where shadows pooled and dripped like ink. The right was Kael’s own, bright and mocking, but the voice that came out wasn’t his.

  It was older. Weary.

  "You’re right," the Exiled One said. "I did steal it. But not from you."

  Kael’s apple hit the floor.

  The night the Hollow King fell, Kael had been singing.

  A tavern, warm and loud, the air thick with smoke and spilled ale. Sorin—just Sorin then, not yet a king, not yet broken—sat slumped in the corner, his scars still new, still bleeding gold when he drank too much.

  Kael climbed onto the table, lute in hand. "This one’s for the man who’ll forget it by dawn!"

  The crowd roared. Sorin smiled, just a flicker.

  The song was a lie, of course. All the best ones were. A ballad about a king who’d rather burn his crown than wear it. The crowd sang along, stomping their feet, but Kael only watched Sorin. Watched the way his fingers tightened around his cup, the way his reflection in the ale didn’t blink.

  After, when the tavern was embers and the sky was screaming, Sorin grabbed Kael’s arm.

  "You’ll remember this, won’t you?"

  Kael had laughed. "I remember all the best lies."

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  Back in the tower, the Exiled One pressed a hand to their ruined face. The cracks pulsed, gold seeping between their fingers.

  "You still don’t understand," they said. "The mask isn’t hiding me. It’s holding me together."

  Kael’s chest ached. He’d spent years running from silence, filling it with jokes and stolen trinkets. Now, the quiet between them was a living thing, gnawing at his ribs.

  "So what?" He forced a smirk. "I’m just a bad future you’re trying to avoid?"

  The Exiled One’s voice dropped to a whisper. "No. You’re the reason I exist at all."

  A gust of wind. The mask, discarded on the floor, trembled—then split.

  Inside, nestled in the lining, was a single line of sheet music.

  Kael recognized it.

  The first note of the Hollow King’s lullaby.

  Kael’s fingers hovered over the sheet music. The parchment was brittle, the ink faded but unmistakable—his own handwriting, though he didn’t remember writing it.

  "You’re lying," he said, but the words tasted hollow.

  The Exiled One knelt, their movements stiff, as if their joints were held together by rust and regret. "You always say that when you’re afraid."

  "I’m not afraid. I’m bored." Kael flicked the paper away. It fluttered to the ground like a dying moth. "If you’re going to monologue, at least make it entertaining."

  A wheezing laugh. The Exiled One’s breath rattled like dice in a cup. "Entertain you? Fine." They leaned in, their single eye reflecting Kael’s face—younger, smoother, unbroken. "Let me tell you about the day Sorin remembers everything."

  The throne room was cold. Not the crisp chill of winter, but the damp, creeping cold of a tomb.

  Kael stood at the foot of the dais, his lute silent for once. Sorin—no, the Hollow King now—slumped on the throne, his crown askew, his scars glowing faintly in the dim light. The cracks had started spreading that morning. Tiny fissures, like spiderwebs, creeping up his neck.

  "Sing something," the Hollow King muttered.

  Kael plucked a string. "What do you want to hear?"

  "The lullaby. The one you wrote for me."

  Kael’s fingers stilled. "That’s not a happy song."

  The Hollow King’s smile was a knife wound. "Neither is this."

  When Kael sang, the crown shattered.

  Back in the present, Kael’s throat burned. "That’s not how it happened."

  "Isn’t it?" The Exiled One tapped their temple, where the golden cracks deepened. "Funny how memory works. You’ll chase the truth your whole life, only to realize the lie was kinder."

  Kael’s chest tightened. He’d spent years spinning stories, but this one—this story—was his masterpiece. A lie so good, even he’d started believing it.

  "That song…" He swallowed. "It wasn’t just a lullaby, was it?"

  The Exiled One’s voice dropped to a whisper. "It was a key. And you turned it in the lock."

  A gust of wind sent the sheet music skittering across the floor. Kael lunged for it, but the Exiled One was faster. Their fingers closed around his wrist, their grip like a shackle.

  "You want to know the Hollow King’s favorite lie?" they hissed. "That any of us had a choice."

  Kael wrenched free. "Bullshit. Sorin’s not some puppet, and neither am I."

  The Exiled One sighed. "No. You’re worse. You’re the audience." They gestured to the window, where the ruins of Lumin Hollow smoldered in the distance. "You watched the fire, wrote a song about it, and called it art. But you never asked why the king let it burn."

  Kael’s pulse roared in his ears. He thought of Sorin’s face in the tavern, the way his reflection hadn’t matched his smile. The way he’d begged Kael, just once, to remember.

  "I didn’t know," Kael whispered.

  "Of course you didn’t." The Exiled One’s voice softened. "That’s the point."

  They reached into their cloak and pulled out a small, silver bell—the one Lyria had stolen from the Market of Might-Have-Beens. It chimed, once, and the sound echoed like a sob.

  "Time to wake up, bard."

  The tower dissolved around them.

  Kael gasped, his hands flying to his face—whole, unbroken—but the Exiled One was gone. Only the bell remained, rolling to a stop at his feet.

  When he picked it up, the engraving burned his fingers:

  Sorin, Age 12.

  Somewhere, far away, a child was screaming.