The estate breathed.
Lucien stumbled through corridors that pulsed like veins, his injured knee dragging behind him in a streak of blackened blood. The walls whispered in his father's voice—or what remained of it.
You should have worn the crown you should have you should—
He clamped hands over his ears. The words slithered between his fingers anyway.
Ahead, the steward's quarters. The last place untouched by… whatever was happening. The door stood slightly ajar, candlelight bleeding through the crack.
Lucien lunged for it.
A mistake.
The Steward's Revelation
Orlan knelt at the center of a perfect circle of melted wax, his back to the door. His usual crisp doublet hung open, revealing a chest carved with sigils that moved.
Before him floated Kael's crown—or its echo.
It's beautiful, the steward whispered, fingers tracing the air around the spectral artifact.
Lucien's breath hitched.
Orlan turned. His eyes were gone. In their sockets swirled miniature versions of the Inquisitor's singing masks.
Ah. The spare.
The First Lesson
Lucien's sword was halfway drawn when the floor swallowed him whole.
He fell through layers of the estate like a stone through rotten fruit:
• The nursery where his mother died (the crib now filled with black thorns)
• The wine cellar (barrels weeping blood)
• The foundations (where something vast and faceless turned in its sleep)
He landed in the chapel again.
Kael waited at the altar, idly plucking the singing threads from their father's gaping mouth.
You can't kill revelation, brother.
The Second Pulse
Lucien's ribs ached. That damnable second heartbeat beneath his own grew louder.
Kael smiled.
You feel it now, don't you?
The crown on his head dripped ichor onto the altar. Where each drop fell, the stone birthed:
• A screaming face
• A forgotten name
• A fragment of the Hollow King's first death
Lucien's vision doubled. Tripled.
He saw:
• Himself kneeling before a throne of mirrors
• Kael placing the crown on his head
• The moment before it ate him alive
No—
Kael caught his wrist. The touch burned.
Too late.
Final Line:
Some bloodlines aren't meant to continue.
They're meant to consume.