The Hollow Crown

• Fantasy
• Fiction
• Action and Adventure

								
Day 1

The rustling leaves and creaking trunks whispered in a foreign language. Sir Alaric rode through the ancient forest, the twisted branches blocking the waning sun. The path forward began to narrow, swallowed up by the encroaching undergrowth, as if nature was reclaiming what it once lost. His once-proud banner, embroidered with the rampant lion, hung limply by his side. Its cloth was tainted by the stains of a long, arduous campaign.

Ahead, a lone raven perched upon a gnarled oak. Its beady eyes watched with a hidden intelligence. A single croak, harsh and guttural, echoed through the silent woods. Alaric readjusted his grip on the reins, his knuckles pale beneath his gauntlets. The raven was an omen that had followed him since his last battle. In this, the blood of his men was shed. The cries of death filled his mind. The raven above seemed to act as an omen sent by the goddess Marowen, as though her unseen hand weighed upon him, tethering him to a destiny shaped by powers far beyond his control.

The path led to a clearing where an ancient stone circle stood. The stones were a relic from when druids—also known as The Ancients—ruled. Although weathered and cracked, a silent power exuded from the stones. In the centre of the stones lay a crown. Simple and unadorned, it was formed with iron and rusted with age. The crown spoke to Alaric, not of glory or power, but of burden and sorrow.

Alaric dismounted, his armour clanking as he approached the crown. Hopping from its perch, the raven landed on an outer stone, acting not as a distraction but rather as a witness. Its eyes never strayed from his. The raven seemed to be urging him to take what was rightfully his. But Alaric hesitated. He knew this was not just a symbol of authority; it would also be the shackles that held him down. The crown was bound to the lands, acting as a chain that linked the bearer with the land and its mountain of sins. Wearing it meant inheriting the evils of all those who came before.

The wind sighed through the trees, and with it came the scent of damp earth and decay. Alaric reached out. As his hand hovered just above the crown he felt the weight of it, a burden on his chest which spoke of unfulfilled duties and dreams sacrificed upon the altar of kingship.

As Alaric’s fingers brushed across the crown, a jolt surged through him. It coursed up his hand and arm before flooding his mind, overwhelming his thoughts. His vision blurred and the forest began to fade away. Replacing it was an ocean of images that were not his own.

He stood in a grand hall, the arched ceiling supported by an array of stone pillars. Banners hung from every wall, displaying sigils of lords long lost. A blazing fire roared in the centre, its flames casting shadows that danced upon the walls. The air was thick with spiced wines and roasted meats, but also with something darker—fear, desperation, and the scent of blood.

Before him sat a king, slumped over a high throne. The iron crown resting upon his brow was glinting in the light of the fire. His face was thin and his eyes seemed hollow from sleepless nights and lost battles. Alaric could feel the king's weariness as if it were his own, the burden of ruling a kingdom teetering on the brink of ruin.

The vision shifted, and Alaric found himself standing on a battlefield, the ground beneath him a soup of mud and blood. Another king stood at the forefront, sword in hand, surrounded by the screams of death and the clash of steel. His breath came in ragged gasps, his limbs heavy with fatigue. Watching as his knights fell before him, one by one, the iron crown once again upon his head, the cold metal pressing into his scalp as if it were trying to fuse with his very flesh. 

The battlefield dissolved, and Alaric was pulled into yet another vision. He now stood in a dimly lit chamber, the stone walls lined with shelves, overflowing with scrolls from the Ancients and laced with books bound by cracked leather. The flickering light of a single candle cast long, wavering shadows across the room. The air was thick with the sharp odour of some unknown potion bubbling away in the corner. A figure cloaked in shadow sat at a large oak table, their face obscured by the hood of a deep black robe.

The figure spoke in rasping whispers, telling of betrayal and dark pacts. Of sacrifices that must be made to ensure the survival of the kingdom. The words slithered through Alaric’s mind, staining his conscience with a black ichor that seeped into the deepest corners of his thoughts. He tried to turn away, to reject the figure’s poisoned counsel, but he found himself unable to move, rooted to the spot as though the iron crown held him in place.

One more flash left Alaric standing on the edge of a cliff. He overlooked the raging sea below. The wind howled around him, grasping at his cloak as if to pull him into the abyss. Crashing upon the rocks below, the salty ocean spray whipped across his face. Feeling another presence, Alaric turned his head. Beside him stood a young king, shrouded in shadow, but it was his face—rather his lack of one—that sent chills down Alaric’s spine. The young king’s face was a blank, featureless expanse, as smooth and pale as bone. Despite this, Alaric could feel the king’s terror, a silent scream of despair emanating from the emptiness.

The crown once again adorned the young king's head, the weight bowing his neck, forcing him to look down into the abyss of crashing waves. A young voice echoed through Alaric’s mind. “I’ll be with them soon.” Alaric could only watch, powerless, as the young king took a step forward. The faceless boy hesitated at the edge for a brief moment, then plunged into the darkness. Alaric’s breath caught as the king’s body disappeared into the violent currents, swallowed by the sea’s relentless fury, leaving nothing behind but the echo of his silent scream.

Alaric recoiled, his hand jerking away from the crown finally rupturing its grip on his mind. He gasped, his breath coming in shallow bursts, as reality slowly filled the world around him. He was back in the stone circle, the raven still perched upon the stone, watching him with a trained eye. 

The weight of what he had seen pressed down on him, heavier than any armour he had ever worn. The crown lay before him, deceptively simple, yet he knew the truth of it. It was a vessel for the sins and agonies of all those who had worn it before him. Each king who had taken up this burden had been marked by it, their souls etched with the scars of their failures and the sacrifices that were forced upon them.

Trembling, Alaric took a step back, his heart pounding in his chest. The crown, resting innocently on the moss-covered stone, now seemed to emit a dark aura. He was unable to tear his eyes away from it, even when every instinct screamed at him to flee. The weight of the visions still pressed down on him, a suffocating reminder of the agony that had consumed the kings who had worn the iron crown before him.

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