“One more bench. One more day. Hallownest isn’t dead. It’s just waiting for someone to patch the holes.”
The first was . As the Knight touched it, their own dark carapace bled to rusty iron. A cracked traveler’s cloak, patched with maps of ruined roads, draped their shoulders. Their nail became a rusted broadsword. For a moment, they felt weight —the ache of a long road, the loneliness of a survivor. They moved slower, heavier, but every swing of the sword sent out a small shockwave of dust and forgotten sorrow. They were no ghost; they were a wanderer who had lost their kingdom before it even fell.
The stag’s bell echoed through the forgotten tunnels, a mournful chime in the dark. The Knight, silent and empty, rode not towards the Crossroads or the City of Tears, but deeper. To the Place of Ash.