Book I - The Hollow Crown

Chapter Three: The Choir of Broken Saints

Rain fell like needles.

It didn't cleanse the city. Nothing could. Not when the clouds were made from the burnt prayers of a thousand years, and the wind whispered sermons no one asked for.

Veylan stood at the edge of the canal, the flickering lights of the Cathedral of Silence shimmering across the water like drowning ghosts. Clov stood beside him, spinning a stolen communion coin between his fingers.

"You know," Clov said, "you're making history. Breaking into the Hollow King's sacred vault before your third bath as a free man? Very ambitious. Or very stupid. Possibly both. You've got the look of someone destined to die iconically."

"Can we focus?" Veylan muttered.

Clov smirked. "We can try."

The Cathedral of Silence was unlike the others.

It was carved not from stone, but from calcified truth - a material that screamed softly when you stepped on it. The walls were lined with frozen saints, all with hollow mouths and golden blindfolds. Their hands were broken at the wrists, palms open in offering, though none remembered what was once given.

Inside waited the Choir.

Holy soldiers not born but sung into existence, stitched together with relics and blind obedience. They did not speak. They hummed.

And when they hummed, blood boiled.

They entered through a forgotten drainage path beneath the foundation, guided by one of the Unspoken - a child named Orrin, whose voice had been taken by the Hollow King during a purge.

He led them to a staircase carved into the ribs of a god, which pulsed as they passed.

Above them, the choir began to sing.

Low. Bone-deep. Like grief in harmony.

Clov froze mid-step.

"They've started the Blood Psalm," he whispered. "They know we're here."

"How?" Veylan asked.

"Doesn't matter. Move."

At the vault door, Veylan placed his hand on the obsidian lock. It shimmered - recognizing him.

Inside: a table of gold-veined stone, holding a single object.

A map.

But not a normal one.

It was made of living flesh, inked in celestial scars, twitching softly as if remembering pain. This was no tool. This was a remnant of the old gods - a piece of the Wound, severed and preserved.

"The hell is that?" Veylan asked.

Clov hesitated. "A piece of... you."

"What?"

"Long story."

The Choir arrived before he could demand answers.

They didn't walk. They floated, robes soaked in bloodless ink, faces hidden beneath golden veils. Each held a staff carved from bone-flutes. The moment they opened their mouths, sound shattered the torches.

The Blood Psalm began.

Veylan fell to one knee instantly. His skull screamed. He saw visions of flame, of chains, of the child he once was, screaming beneath the Crownspire as nails were driven into his spine.

And in that moment - he remembered.

A voice: "Let him scream. He was born to burn."

A figure: not the Hollow King. But someone older. Watching from a throne of roots and salt.

And Veylan awoke.

Golden light poured from his chest.

Not like before - not wild, not accidental.

This time, he called it.

He stood. Skin fracturing like pottery, revealing light beneath.

The Choir's song faltered.

He raised his hand, and without a word, he silenced them.

Every member of the Choir fell. Silent. Dead. As if he had pressed his will upon the world - and the world obeyed.

When it was done, Clov just stared.

Not laughing. Not smiling. Just... watching.

"You felt it, didn't you?" he asked.

Veylan turned to him, eyes still glowing faintly.

"Yes."

"You were awake."

"I was," Veylan said. "And I think I know who I was supposed to be."

Clov frowned. "That's... not always good news."

Veylan looked back at the twitching map.

"They were hiding this from me."

"And now you have it."

"Yes," Veylan whispered. "Now I begin."

Far away, in a chamber of thorns and silence, the Hollow King opened his eyes.

His birds fell from the sky.

His tongue split in two.

And somewhere, in the ash-covered dark? a second voice began to laugh.