The Hollow Crown Page #5

• Fantasy
• Fiction
• Action and Adventure

								


He reached the landing, the dim light flickering weakly from the candles along the wall, and paused. The air was thick, even more so than before, almost as if time itself was holding its breath. The muted sounds of the tavern below seemed too distant. Like echoes from another world.

Alaric, now sweating, wiped his brow clean. Trying to calm himself, he took deep breaths. Was he allergic to something in the drink the innkeeper poured him? His instincts once again told him to leave, but he was unable. Locked in place by this feeling that had overcome him, he had no choice but to wait.

After a few moments, the feeling began to fade. Taking a deep breath, Alaric was able to force himself forward. The door to his room loomed before him, the wood groaning as he tried to push it open. Inside, the room was much as he had left it, everything was in place, yet something felt different. A chill hung in the air, seeping into his bones despite the warmth of the hearth downstairs.

A distant caw of a raven echoed in through a crack in his window, sending a wave of pure, raw terror crashing through his body, leaving him paralysed. His vision began to swim and a sharp pain pierced his skull. Only able to let out a low groan, he tried to reach for the source of the pain, but his hands stayed in place by his side. The pain spread like wildfire, causing his knees to buckle, and leaving him sprawled out on the old wooden floor.

Then, the voice came. A low, guttural voice echoed in his mind, scraping at the inside of his skull “They all succumb in the end.” It wasn’t just words. There was a dark presence, one that crawled into his thoughts, surveying his mind. 
“You’re no different, no better than the others that came before.” The room around Alaric seemed to vibrate as the voice spoke, almost like the force of the voice itself warped the very reality he was in.

Alaric tried to fight, tried to break free, but he was unable. Whatever the force was, it was stronger than any normal being. Just its voice froze Alaric, its words slithering in his mind like a poisonous snake, while its thoughts plagued him.

Then, as soon as it had come, it stopped. Alaric was able to control his body once more. Pulling himself up, He struggled to stand as he shook violently from the traumatic experience. The pain in his skull had left him with nothing but a cold, empty void in its place. Alaric felt different, like something in him had changed as if he had lost part of himself.

With the room now still, the weight vanished like it was never there. The only sound was the quiet crackling of the candle on the table. Trying to forget what had just happened, Alaric walked over to the bed. His fingers brushed over the coarse, worn fabric of the sheets. Pulling them back he went to climb into bed, when he realised the symbol above the headstock was gone. Examining the area more closely, it seemed the plank on the wall had been replaced. Refusing to acknowledge this, Alaric got into bed and tried to sleep.

The scratchy fabric irritated his skin, causing every nerve to be on edge, yet it still grounded him. But no matter what he did, Alaric was unable to find any comfort, his mind too burdened with what he had seen—what he had felt.

Finally, giving up on sleep, he lay there staring up at the ceiling in darkness. His mind swarmed with fear, frustration, and a plethora of unanswered questions. As the hours crawled by, one thought stayed with him, gnawing at the back of his mind. Who had carved the symbol, and furthermore, who had removed it?

Day 2

Alaric awoke with a start, his breath catching in his throat. The morning was dull, muted through the grimy window of his small room. He blinked, trying to shake the vivid memories of his dreams. But they clung to him, like a veil of fog that refused to lift, and for a moment, he was unsure if they really were dreams.

In his sleep, visions had come again— warped and fragmented. The stone circle. The raven. The twisted faces of the cultists, contorted in silent screams of agony. And always, in the background, was the voice: dark, rasping, slithering its way through his mind.

Alaric sat up in bed, his muscles stiff and aching. He pressed a hand to his forehead, feeling the cold sweat that had accumulated there during the night. He could still hear the faint echo of the voice as if it had followed him into the waking world, lingering on the edge of his consciousness. His hand trembled as he ran it through his tangled hair.

The air in the room felt thick as if the atmosphere had conspired to keep him trapped within. Alaric glanced toward the wall above his bed, where the symbol had been carved the previous day. However, it was gone, replaced by a new plank of wood, but the memory of it remained vivid in his mind.

As he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, Alaric rubbed his face with both hands, waking himself up. As he stood up, it was clear that the weight of the crown was still pushing down on his body. He tried to shake off the feeling to no avail. Meanwhile, the carved symbol festered in his mind, looming over him like a predator waiting to strike. Walking over to the table Alaric looked for something, anything to mark down the details of this symbol. Searching the drawers attached to the underside of the table, he found a sheet of paper along with a pencil. Drawing the symbol as best he could from memory, Alaric picked up the piece of paper, folded it, and slid it in between his clothing.

He quickly got dressed, donning his armour with rehearsed movements, each clank of metal waking him, preparing him for the world outside the room, the dangers that may await him on his journey. Before leaving the room, Alaric hesitated, his gaze lingering on the door. He couldn’t explain it, but he felt as if something—or someone—was waiting for him beyond the threshold. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door.

The corridor was dimly lit, the faint murmur of voices drifting up from the tavern below. The warm scents of breakfast—a mix of meats and bread— wafted through the air, but they did little to ease the tension within Alaric’s chest. Every noise felt amplified, every footstep echoing unnaturally against the wooden floors.

As he descended the stairs, he found the tavern bustling with life. The patrons from the previous night were there, along with a few new faces. But something had changed; they looked at him differently. What was once a casual glance now became furtive stares followed by whispers exchanged behind cupped hands, as though his very presence had disrupted the whole tavern. The innkeeper, behind the bar, noticed Alaric, addressing him with an unwelcoming glare.

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