The Hollow Crown Page #2

• Fantasy
• Fiction
• Action and Adventure

								


Finally, driven by a surge of panic, Alaric turned and bolted from the circle, his boots pounding against the earth as he pushed his way through the thick undergrowth. Branches whipped at his face, tearing at his skin, but he didn’t slow down. His face became sticky with blood, but he had to escape—escape from the crown, the memories, the agonising weight of it all. The forest around him blurred, his breath growing shallow and strained.

But the further he ran, the more distorted the world around him became. A sharp pain festered behind his eyes, growing more intense with each step he took. He clutched his head, stumbling as the pain swelled into a piercing agony, like a hot iron being driven through his skull. Pulling his hands down, his gauntlets were stained with blood. His vision swirled, the trees and sky merged in a whirlpool of pain and shadow. 

The pain further intensified, and Alaric let out a strangled cry, his legs buckling beneath him. He collapsed to the ground, clawing at the earth as he tried to escape the darkness closing in around him. The pressure in his head was unbearable, a vice that squeezed tighter and tighter until, mercifully, the world went black.

When Alaric regained consciousness, he was lying on the cold ground, the earthy scent of moss and damp leaves filling his nostrils. His body ached, and his head throbbed with a dull lingering, pain. Groaning, he pushed himself up on shaky arms, blinking as he tried to make sense of his surroundings.

It took a moment for his eyes to focus, but when they did a wave of dread washed over him. He was back at the stone circle. The ancient stones loomed around him, silently mocking his attempt to flee. The crown lay just a few feet away, exactly where he had left it, its surface glinting faintly in the dim light.

The raven perched upon its stone, regarding him with the same unblinking stare as before. It let out a soft croak, a sound that sent a shiver down Alaric’s spine. He wanted to run, but he knew it was futile. The crown wouldn’t let him. It had chosen him, and no matter how far he tried to flee, it would always bring him back.

The realisation settled over him like a shroud, and Alaric felt a deep sense of despair creeping into his heart. The crown was a binding, a chain that linked him to the past, to the sins and burdens of every king who had come before. He had seen what it had done to them, how it broke their spirits, how it consumed their lives. And now, it was his turn.

Alaric sat there for what seemed like an eternity, the cold earth seeping into his armour as he stared at the crown just a few feet away. His mind was a storm of conflicting emotions—fear, despair, anger—all swirling around the inescapable truth that the crown chose him. The visions had shown him the fates of the kings before him, each one a reminder of the inevitable price of bearing the iron crown.

But as the minutes ticked by, something else began to stir within him. It wasn’t acceptance, nor was it resignation; it was a determination born of survival. The crown may have chosen him, but that didn’t mean he had to bow to its will completely. There had to be a way to bear the burden without losing himself in the process, without becoming another decaying king, lost in the abyss.

Slowly, Alaric managed to push himself to his feet. His legs wobbled beneath him, but he forced them to support his weight. The raven watched him, its head tilting slightly, as if curious about this new development. Alaric glanced at the bird, then back at the crown. The aura of darkness that had surrounded it before still lingered, but it no longer had the power to paralyse him.

He took a deep breath, his lungs filling with the cool, damp air of the forest, then stepped forward. Each step was deliberate, his boots crunching on the fallen leaves and twigs beneath him. Reaching the crown, he hesitated only for a moment, before bending down to pick it up. The iron was cold and heavy in his hands, its physical weight a mirror of that which weighed upon his soul. But Alaric didn’t flinch; he simply held the crown in both hands, studying it with a mix of weariness and determination.

There would be a time to don the crown, but it was not now. He wasn’t ready—perhaps he never would be. But for the moment, it was his to carry, his to protect from those who might seek it for darker purposes. The crown was a binding, yes, but it was also a responsibility. And for now, he would carry that responsibility as best he could.

Alaric turned back to his horse, the loyal steed that had waited patiently on the edge of the clearing. The horse whinnied softly as he approached, its dark eyes reflecting the dim light filtering through the trees. With careful movements, Alaric opened up one of the saddlebags and gently placed the crown inside, covering it with a layer of cloth to muffle the cold, hard edges of the iron.

The crown was hidden away but its presence was still clear, a constant reminder of the path before him. Alaric secured the saddlebag, patting his horse’s flank, his hand lingering for a moment as he drew strength from the animal’s warmth.

Mounting his horse, Alaric took one last look at the stone circle. The ancient stones, weathered and silent, seemed to watch him as he prepared to leave. The raven let out another soft croak, but this time, it didn’t feel like a warning—it felt more like an acknowledgement, a reluctant acceptance of the choice Alaric had made.

He urged his horse forward with a nudge of his heels, leaving the clearing behind. The forest closed in around him once more, the twisted branches up ahead weaving a canopy that blocked out the sky. But the oppressive atmosphere that had weighed upon him earlier had disappeared, replaced by a clarity of purpose. The crown was his burden, but it would not be his undoing—not yet at least.

As he rode through the darkening woods, the light began to fade, the shadows growing longer and deeper. The path was narrow and winding, but Alaric followed it with a quiet determination, his thoughts focused on the road ahead. The memories of the visions lingered on the edge of his consciousness, but he kept them at bay, refusing to let them control him.

After what felt like hours of riding, the trees began to thin, and the sound of distant voices reached his ears. Alaric slowed his horse, straining to catch the sounds more clearly. There was laughter, the clinking of mugs, and the low hum of conversation—signs of life amid the wilderness. He rounded a bend in the path, and there, nestled between the trees, was a small tavern by the name ‘The Broken Wing’, its windows glowing warmly in the twilight.

The sight of the tavern brought a wave of relief. It was a refuge, a place where he could gather his thoughts, and perhaps find a sense of peace before continuing his journey. He dismounted, leading his horse to the small stable beside the tavern, where he handed the reins to a stable boy who greeted him with a nod. 

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