The tower stood in the dark. It was a black tooth against the sky. Rain fell. It hissed on the stone.

Commander Elias Thorne sat on the cold floor. His armor clinked. He was still. His hands were bound.

The door opened. Light spilled in. It was red. It tasted of iron and rot.

Lord Malcovich stepped forward. He wore silk. It was white. It was stained.

"You are here," Malcovich said.

"I am," Thorne replied.

His voice was a low rumble. Like stones grinding.

"Did you come to save us?" Malcovich asked.

"I came to end it."

Malcovich laughed. It was a dry sound. Like leaves cracking.

"End it?" He moved closer. The red light caught his eyes. They were black. They had no white. They were voids.

"The Hollow," Malcovich whispered. "It is hungry."

Thorne looked at the man. He saw the fear. He saw the madness.

"Who is it?" Thorne asked.

"You know," Malcovich said. "You have always known."

He gestured. Two guards stepped in. They wore masks. The masks were bone. They held spears. The spears glowed with a blue fire.

"Strike," Malcovich commanded.

Thorne did not move. He breathed. In. Out.

The first guard lunged. The spear sang. It was fast.

Thorne caught the shaft. His hand was a vice. The blue fire licked his glove. It did not burn. It froze.

He twisted. The guard screamed. The spear snapped. Thorne headbutted him. The sound was wet. The guard fell. He did not rise.

The second guard attacked. Thorne kicked. His boot connected with the knee. The bone broke. The guard howled. Thorne grabbed him by the throat. He lifted him. The man dangled. His eyes bulged.

"Who sent you?" Thorne growled.

Malcovich.

Thorne dropped him. The man lay gasping.

Malcovich stepped over the bodies. He smiled. It was a cruel thing.

"You are strong," he said. "But strength is not enough. The Hollow does not care about strength. It cares about will. And your will is a chain. You are bound to the oath. You are bound to the crown. You cannot break the circle."

"I can break anything," Thorne said.

"Can you?" Malcovich tapped the wall. The stone hummed. A low vibration. It went into Thorne’s teeth. It went into his bones. "The tower is alive. It feeds on fear. It feeds on doubt. And you are full of both."

Thorne looked up. The ceiling was high. It was lost in shadow. But there was something there. A shape. It moved. It was large. It had no face.

The air grew cold. The red light flickered.

"What is that?" Thorne asked.

"It is the truth," Malcovich said. "The thing that lives in the deep. The thing that made this kingdom. And the thing that will unmake it."

The shape descended. It was a column of smoke. It was blacker than night. It smelled of old blood. It smelled of earth.

Thorne felt his heart slow. His mind went blank. The fear came. It was a tide. It pulled at his chest. It wanted to stop his breath.

He thought of the village. He thought of the children. He thought of the promise. He had promised the King. He had promised the people. He would keep the gate closed.

But the gate was open.

Malcovich watched. He waited for the break. He waited for Thorne to fall. He waited for the surrender.

Thorne looked at the smoke. He did not blink. He did not breathe.

He let the fear in. He let it fill him. He let it scream.

And then he let it go.

He stood.

Malcovich frowned. "No."

Thorne walked toward the door. The guards were down. They were groaning.

"Where are you going?" Malcovich hissed.

"To the center," Thorne said.

"You cannot. The Hollow will consume you. You will cease to exist. You will be nothing."

"Then I will be free."

Thorne opened the door. The wind howled. It was a living thing. It clawed at his face. It tore at his cloak.

He stepped out.

The courtyard was empty. The stones were slick with rain. In the center, there was a well. The well was dry. But it was deep.

Thorne walked to the edge. He looked down. The darkness was infinite.

Malcovich ran to the door. "Stop! You will doom us all!"

Thorne turned. He looked at the Lord.

"You are the enemy," Thorne said. "You opened the gate. You let it out. You thought you could control it. You thought you could serve it."

"I serve the power!" Malcovich shouted. "I serve the truth! You are blind, Thorne. You are a slave to a dead king. You are a fool."

Thorne shook his head.

"I am not a slave," he said. "I am a shield."

He turned back to the well. He climbed down.

The stone was rough. It cut his hands. The dark pressed in. It was heavy. It was thick.

He reached the bottom. The floor was stone. There was a pool of black water.

The smoke was there. It coiled around the pool. It whispered.

*Come.*

Thorne drew his sword. It was a heavy thing. It was forged in the old fires. It was the last of the line.

He looked at the smoke.

*Fear me.*

Thorne raised the sword.

"I do not fear you," he said.

He swung.

The blade cut the air. It cut the smoke.

The smoke shrieked. It was a sound of tearing metal. It was a sound of dying stars.

The smoke coiled tighter. It wrapped around his arm. It burned. It was cold fire.

Thorne gritted his teeth. He did not cry out.

He swung again.

The blade sank into the pool. The water erupted. It flew up in a black spray. It hit Thorne’s face.

He wiped his eyes. He saw the smoke. It was unraveling. It was thinning.

*Why?* it asked.

"Because I promised," Thorne said.

He swung the sword in a circle. The blade spun. It was a wheel of light. It was a wheel of death.

The smoke screamed. It tried to pull him down. It grabbed his legs. It grabbed his waist.

Thorne fought. He fought with his body. He fought with his mind.

He was alone. He was against the void.

But he was not alone. He was the wall. He was the gate. He was the promise.

He raised the sword above his head. The muscles in his back bunched. The veins in his neck bulged.

He brought it down.

The blade struck the center of the pool.

There was a silence.

Then a sound. It was a crack. It was the sound of the world breaking.

The light exploded.

It was white. It was pure. It was blinding.

Malcovich fell to his knees. He covered his eyes. He screamed.

The tower shook. The stones groaned. The roof cracked.

Thorne stood in the center of the light. He was a silhouette. He was a statue.

The light faded.

The smoke was gone. The pool was dry. The stone was clean.

Thorne was still.

Malcovich crept forward. He looked at the Commander.

Thorne was dead.

His eyes were open. They were clear. They were empty.

His face was peaceful.

Malcovich felt a coldness in his chest. He felt a emptiness.

He looked at his hands. They were shaking.

He looked at the well. It was just a hole. It was just stone.

He ran. He ran out of the tower. He ran into the rain.

The rain stopped. The sky cleared.

The stars came out. They were bright. They were cold.

The kingdom was safe.

But the Commander was gone.

Malcovich stood in the square. The people came out of their homes. They held candles. They held torches.

They looked at the tower. They looked at the open door.

They did not see Malcovich. They saw the light. They felt the warmth.

They bowed. They wept.

Malcovich watched. He was invisible. He was a ghost.

He had won. The thing was gone.

But he had lost.

He looked at the tower. It was just a building. It was just stone.

He turned away. He walked into the dark.

The dark was not empty. It was full. It was full of the memory of the light.

He walked. He walked until the town was behind him.

He walked until the road ended.

He walked until he could walk no more.

He sat down.

He looked at the sky.

The stars were still.

He closed his eyes.

He waited.

Nothing came.

Nothing went.

There was only the rain. It had started again. It was soft. It was gentle.

It washed the dust from his face. It washed the blood from his hands.

He was clean.

He was alone.

He was free.

And he was empty.

The wind blew. It carried the scent of rain. It carried the scent of stone. It carried the scent of blood.

It carried the scent of promise.

Thorne was gone. But the promise remained.

It was in the air. It was in the stone. It was in the heart of the kingdom.

It was a quiet thing. It was a strong thing.

It was a shield.

And it was enough.

Malcovich breathed. In. Out.

He breathed the air. It tasted of freedom.

It tasted of loss.

He closed his eyes.

He slept.

The tower stood in the dark. It was silent. It was still.

The rain fell. It hissed on the stone.

It washed the blood away.

It washed the fear away.

It washed the past away.

Only the future remained.

It was open. It was wide.

It was unknown.

And it was theirs.