Thorns and Silence
The air near the Hollow Palace tasted like rust and memory.
Liora stepped down from the carriage, boots sinking into the black gravel. Her legs trembled, not from fear, but from the ache of motionless hours in chains. Fog slithered across the ground, winding around her ankles and fingers like smoke that had forgotten how to rise. It clung to her skin, soaked her hair, slid down her throat. She should've been shivering.
But the closer she walked to the gates, the warmer it became.
Not a comforting warmth. Not the kind that chases cold from your bones. This was something else—thick, humid, close. Womb-warm. Tomb-warm. The heat of something ancient, alive, breathing just beneath the stone.
The palace waited.
No one spoke. The knights stood motionless, steel and silence bound into human form. The gates were already open, gaping like a mouth. Wren had vanished before they arrived, slipping away without a word. Liora told herself it was cowardice, but a quieter part of her wondered if it was wisdom.
And above—at the top of the staircase carved into the cliff's edge—stood him.
The Hollow King.
He didn't move. Didn't breathe. Wind bent around him like it, too, knew not to touch him. His cloak trailed across the stone like shadow made physical, and his armor—bone-pale and veined with silver—gleamed faintly in the mist. It didn't look forged. It looked grown, like it had sprouted from him the way bark grows around a tree's wound.
His face was hidden behind a helm, smooth and cold, carved with runes like thorns. There was no crown. No scepter. No eyes visible behind the slits. Only presence. Weight. The undeniable sense that every inch of the world now belonged to him.
Liora didn't kneel.
Didn't bow.
She met his gaze—if he had one—and held it. If she was going to die, she'd die standing.
Gravel shifted behind her. One of the knights stepped forward and offered her a cloak. Red velvet. Heavy. Impossibly soft. It smelled of old magic and crushed roses.
She didn't reach for it. "I'm not here to play dress-up," she muttered, her voice dry and cracked, but steady.
The knight said nothing.
She glanced past him, eyes locked on the figure above. "You sent men to burn my mother," she called, sharp and bitter. "And now you want me wrapped in silk?"
Still nothing. The King didn't so much as tilt his head.
Another knight moved forward, this one without hesitation. He reached to drape the cloak over her shoulders, and Liora spun to stop him—"Don't—" Her chain snagged on the edge of her wrist restraints. Steel kissed skin. A shallow cut bloomed beneath the pressure.
She hissed.
Blood welled up.
One drop spilled to the ground.
It hit the black gravel with a hiss, like water on flame. The air bent. The fog recoiled. The stone groaned beneath her feet.
Every knight in the circle stepped back—not from her, but from what rose behind her.
The Hollow King shifted.
Not a large motion. A tilt of the head. A breath taken by a statue. And then, without sound, he moved. One step down the stairs. Another. And another.
Each movement was fluid, deliberate, slow as falling dusk. His boots made no sound on the stone, but the ground vibrated faintly with each descent. When he reached the base of the stairs, he stood directly before her, towering and silent.
Liora's heart pounded against her ribs. Her palms were slick with sweat. But she didn't retreat.
"Is this it?" she asked, her voice quieter now, caught between challenge and resignation. "Is this where you devour me?"
The King didn't answer. But he lifted a gloved hand.
She flinched. He paused.
Then, gently—carefully—he extended a single finger and touched the blood glistening on her wrist. Not her skin. Just the drop.
The wound vanished.
No pain. No scar. Just… gone.
Liora's breath hitched. Something inside her shifted, something that wasn't hers. It sparked behind her ribs like a second heartbeat. Magic. Not the soft kind she'd once used to calm fevers or close paper cuts. This was old. Wild. Awake.
She took a step back, but the magic stayed. It had nested. A spark planted in her chest that refused to leave.
The King turned without a word and began ascending the stairs again. One of the knights gestured for her to follow.
She didn't move.
"What does he want with me?" she asked.
The knight glanced sideways, as if deciding whether she deserved the truth. "To marry you."
Liora laughed, short and bitter. "Why not kill me?"
"Because he needs you alive."
That word stuck. Need. Not want. Not love. Need.
She said nothing more, only adjusted the red velvet cloak around her shoulders. She raised her chin, ignored the way her legs still trembled, and followed the King. Not with grace, but with fire in her step. If she was going to walk into hell, she'd memorize the burn of every stone beneath her feet.
The palace opened to receive her.
Inside, there was no stone. No wood. The walls were smooth and veined, faintly warm beneath her fingertips. They pulsed once, slow and thick. Alive. The corridor stretched endlessly forward, lined with mirrors tall as doors. But none of them showed her reflection.
Candles flickered without flame. Doors shifted when she blinked. The floor tilted as though the entire palace breathed beneath her steps.
Finally, they stopped.
An archway loomed, carved from woven thorns. Beyond it, a chamber glowed red, heartbeat red.
"This is your wing," a knight said behind her. "The Bride's Wing."
Liora's eyes scanned the space. "And the mirrors?"
"They remember."
"Remember what?"
A pause. "The others."
The word settled in her bones.
She stepped forward.
The room was lavish to the point of absurdity—silk-draped walls, velvet cushions, a canopy bed large enough for several bodies, and a marble floor so polished it reflected like glass. There were no windows. Only mirrors. Dozens of them. Floor to ceiling. Framed in silver. Some cracked. Some fogged.
Liora approached the closest one.
At first, there was nothing.
Then, something flickered.
A face that wasn't hers.
Eyes too wide. Skin too pale. A mouth twisted in a silent scream.
She staggered back. Another mirror. Another face. A girl with her throat slit. Lips moving. Whispering.
"He'll love you. That's how he eats you."
A knock at the door.
Wren slipped inside, carrying a tray of food and wearing a grin far too pleased with itself.
"Well," they said cheerfully. "You're
braver than most."
"I haven't done anything yet."
"No," Wren said, setting the tray down with care. "But you bled. And he answered."