The Hollow Crown Page #3

• Fantasy
• Fiction
• Action and Adventure

								


Alaric paused at the entrance of the tavern, his hand resting on the door. The crown was secure in his saddlebag, hidden from view, but its weight still lingered in his mind. For now, he would push it aside, if only for a few hours. He needed to be Sir Alaric, the knight, not Alaric, the king who bore the hollow crown.

With a deep breath, he pushed open the door and stepped inside. The warmth and light of the tavern enveloped him, a stark contrast to the cold, dark forest outside. The patrons glanced up as he entered. A weariness crossed their faces as they watched the armoured traveller enter the tavern, Still, eventually, their gazes returned to their drinks and conversations, uninterested in the stranger who had joined them.

Alaric found a seat at a corner table, away from the fire and the prying eyes of the other patrons. A serving girl approached, and he ordered a simple meal and a mug of ale, his voice quiet and tired. As he waited, he allowed himself to relax, letting the tension drain from his body. For now, the crown was out of sight, and he could pretend, if only for a moment, that he was just another man seeking shelter from the night.

But even as he sat there, his thoughts kept returning to the crown hidden in the saddlebag. The visions, the memories, the weight of it all—they were a part of him now, and there was no escaping that. Yet, as he sipped his ale and listened to the murmur of voices around him, Alaric felt a small flicker of hope. The path ahead was uncertain, but he was alive, and still in control of his destiny, at least for now. And for tonight, that would have to be enough.

Alaric climbed the narrow, creaking stairs to the small room he had rented for the night. The air inside the tavern had grown thick. However, the warmth from the fire below was unable to dispel the cold dread that seemed to follow him like a shadow. As he reached the landing, he could hear the muted sounds of the tavern below—a murmur of voices, the clinking of mugs, the crackling of the hearth—but they felt distant as if muffled by some unseen barrier.

The door to his room groaned on its hinges as he pushed it open, revealing a modest space, sparsely furnished with a small bed, a wooden chest and a single candle flickering weakly on a rough, misshapen table. The walls were bare, the floorboards worn and uneven, and the only window, small and grime-covered, let in little more than a sliver of the night outside.

Alaric closed the door behind him and leaned against it for a moment, his eyes drifting around the room as he tried to shake off the lingering unease. He crossed to the table, removed his gauntlets, and sat down heavily, rubbing his tired hands. The events of that day had taken a toll, his mind still swam with the memories of the visions, the weight of the crown pressing on him even now, despite it being safely stowed in the saddlebag downstairs.

As he reached for the candle to extinguish it, his hand froze in mid-air. Something caught his eye—just above the headboard of the bed, a faint outline on the wall almost unnoticeable in the dim light. Alaric frowned, moving closer to inspect it. The closer he got, the more distinct it became, as if it were slowly revealing itself to him.

There, etched into the wall with a hand that trembled in the darkness, was a symbol. It was roughly carved, the lines uneven and jagged, but its shape was unmistakable—a circle enclosing a twisted, thorny pattern, the thorns spiralling inward toward a central point. At the centre, where the lines converged, was a single slash, as if the carver had been interrupted or had lashed out in frustration.

Alaric’s breath caught in his throat, He had seen this symbol before, in the depths of his visions, among the books of the dimly lit chamber. Alaric’s grip on reality faded as the line between truth and illusion blurred, his mind a cauldron where fiction and reality melded into one disorientating stew.

The air in the room started to grow colder as he stared at the symbol, and for a moment, he thought he could hear a faint whispering, just at the edge of his hearing, like the rustle of dead leaves in a forgotten crypt. He reached out with trembling fingers to touch the carving, but before he could, a chill ran down his spine, and the whispering grew louder, more insistent, filling his mind with words he couldn’t quite understand.

Pulling his hand back, Alaric turned away from the symbol, his heart pounding. He moved back to the table, gripping its edge as he tried to steady himself. The symbol was more than just a mark—it was a sign, a calling. He couldn’t ignore it, not after everything he had seen, not with the weight of the crown still bearing down on him.

He knew he had to find what it meant, and where it would lead him. But the thought filled him with dread as if the very act of seeking it out would draw him deeper into Marowen’s web, closer to the fate she had in store for him.

Resolute, Alaric retrieved his gauntlets and donned them once more, the cold metal a comforting weight against his skin. He extinguished the candle, plunging the room into darkness, and stepped outside into the corridor. The air was thick with tension, the walls seeming to close in on him as he descended the stairs and made his way to the front of the tavern.

Outside, the night was deep and cold, the stars obscured by thick clouds that pressed down on the world like a shroud. In the distance, a deep rumble from a storm waiting to unleash its wrath on those below. The tavern seemed almost a part of the darkness, its windows glowing faintly, the sign of The Broken Wing creaking in the wind.

Alaric paused at the edge of the forest, staring into the blackness between the trees. The whispering had faded, but the weight of the symbol pressed on him, urging him forward. He knew not where this otherworldly urge was taking him, but he had no choice but to obey. Somewhere, not far from the tavern, lay the answer.

With a deep breath, Alaric stepped into the forest, the undergrowth crunching beneath his boots as he followed the path the symbol had shown him. The trees closed in around him, their twisted branches once again weaving a canopy overhead that blocked out what little light remained. The deeper he went, the more the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the oppressive darkness, the cold, and the sense of something terrible lurking just beyond his sight.

And then, after what felt like an eternity, he found it—a small clearing, barely visible through the thick undergrowth. The air here was still and deathly quiet, the trees standing like silent sentinels around the edges of the clearing. In the centre lay what appeared to be a ritualistic site.

The ground was stained dark with dried blood, and around the perimeter, half-buried in the earth, were the etchings of ritualistic symbols, carved into stone and wood. Alaric cautiously approached the seemingly abandoned site, his breath fogging in the cold air, his eyes scanning the clearing for any sign of life.

								Rate this book:5.0 / 1 vote