The man crawled over broken shards of pottery, his breath coming in shallow gasps. His legs were useless now, twisted and swollen from where the bone jutted through the flesh. The raiders had left him for dead, their cackling laughter still echoing in his ears, but he was alive—alive—and that was all that mattered.
He whispered prayers to gods he hadn’t spoken to since childhood, his lips cracking with each syllable. A tattered leather satchel bumped against his side, the contents clinking faintly. Inside was his salvation: a tarnished medallion bearing the image of a hollow-eyed king crowned with jagged antlers. The old woman who sold it to him had called it a "ward." Said it could keep "the Hollow King’s gaze" away.
She hadn’t said what happened if he already had it.
In the distance, the wind stirred through the skeletal trees, carrying with it a low, resonant hum that made the ground vibrate beneath his palms. The sound was growing louder. Closer.
"No," he wheezed, clawing at the dirt. "No, no, no—"
The shadows moved unnaturally. They stretched and folded as though alive, wrapping around his body like a second skin. His screams were muffled as the shadows grew denser, heavier, until the only sound left was the faint clinking of the medallion against the hollow shell of his chest.
When the shadows finally withdrew, all that remained was a desiccated husk, curled and brittle like an autumn leaf. The medallion, strangely untouched, gleamed faintly in the twilight.
Far away, in a camp of smoke and fire, a figure sat atop a throne of bones. Hollow antlers curved from the creature’s eyeless skull as it tilted its head, listening to the hum of its power feeding once again.
The coppery tang of blood hung heavy in the air, mingling with the acrid stench of smoke and rot. Vigdis knelt in the dirt, her wrists bound with thick rope that dug into her skin. The raiders had stripped her of her armor, leaving her in a torn tunic that clung to her sweat-drenched body. Chains hung from her ankles, bolted to a crude iron stake hammered into the ground.
Even now, beaten and bruised, she was a presence that couldn’t be ignored. Her shoulders were broad, muscles honed from years of surviving this wasteland flexing against her restraints. The curve of her hips and the powerful sweep of her thighs gave her a statuesque, almost regal air that was impossible to diminish, even in captivity. Her dark hair fell in unruly waves around her face, hiding the worst of the bruises. But her eyes—cold and fierce, burning like embers in the firelight—never stopped watching.
The raiders knew better than to get too close.
"She’s a big one," one of them muttered, a lanky man with a jagged scar running down his cheek. He licked his lips nervously, glancing at her like she was a cornered animal that might lunge at any moment. "Think the Hollow King’s gonna like her, eh? Got enough meat on her bones for three sacrifices."
The others laughed, though it was nervous, uncertain. Vigdis didn’t flinch. She didn’t give them the satisfaction. Instead, she shifted slightly, the movement making her biceps ripple under the dim light of the torches. The scarred man took a step back.
"Careful, Rann," the leader barked. He was a barrel-chested brute with a mangy beard, a patchwork of leather armor draped over his bloated frame. His voice was gravelly, commanding, but his eyes lingered on her longer than they should. "She’s bound. But don’t be stupid. That one’s got fight in her. You see how many of us it took to drag her in."
Vigdis smirked, a flash of white teeth against her bruised lip. "More than you can spare, if you untied me."
The leader grunted, more irritated than intimidated, but his grip tightened on the haft of his axe. "Talk all you want. You’ll be talking to the Hollow King soon enough."
Vigdis leaned back, resting her weight on her heels as though she weren’t bound and bleeding. The firelight carved shadows across her form, accentuating the strength in her frame. "I’ll tell your king to choke on the first bite."
The leader bristled, raising his hand as if to strike her, but a guttural chant rising from the camp’s center cut him off. He lowered his hand reluctantly and gestured to the others. "Get her ready. It’s time."
Two raiders approached cautiously, spears angled toward her throat as they unlocked the chains from the stake. Vigdis didn’t struggle; she knew better. Every muscle in her body screamed for action, for revenge, but she forced herself to wait. Her moment would come. It always did.
They dragged her toward the ritual site—a massive tree rising from the center of the camp, its gnarled branches stretching toward the moon like skeletal fingers. The trunk was blackened and twisted, fungal growths pulsing faintly along its bark. At its base was a crude altar, piled with bones and rusted weapons. The air grew colder as they approached, the unnatural chill sinking into her skin.
The Hollow Tree. She’d heard whispers of it before, tales passed in half-truths among desperate survivors. A living thing, they said, fed by sacrifice. Its roots stretched across the wasteland, a network of rot and control. And now she was here, about to be its latest offering.
The raiders shoved her onto her knees before the altar, forcing her head down. The leader stepped forward, raising his axe high. "O Hollow King, accept this gift! Let her flesh nourish your roots and her soul join your glory!"
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The chanting grew louder, a guttural, rhythmic sound that seemed to reverberate in Vigdis’s chest. The fungal growths on the tree pulsed in time with the chants, their glow intensifying. The air felt heavier, pressing down on her like an invisible weight. She gritted her teeth, every instinct screaming at her to move, to fight.
And then she felt it—a voice, not heard but felt, slithering into her mind. It wasn’t human. It was ancient, vast, and hungry. “Break,” it hissed. “Submit. Feed me.”
Vigdis’s lips curled into a snarl. "Come get me yourself," she growled under her breath.
The axe began its descent.
But Vigdis was faster. She surged upward with a roar, snapping the rope around her wrists like it was thread. The leader barely had time to widen his eyes before her fist connected with his jaw, sending him sprawling. She grabbed the haft of the falling axe mid-air, spinning it in her hands with an ease that belied its weight.
The camp exploded into chaos. Raiders shouted and scrambled for their weapons, but Vigdis was already moving, her muscles coiled like springs. The axe whirled in her hands, cleaving through spears and flesh alike. She fought like a force of nature, every swing calculated, every movement deliberate.
The chanting faltered, replaced by screams. But the Hollow Tree’s glow didn’t fade. If anything, it grew brighter, its fungal growths swelling as though feeding on the chaos.
And then, from the shadows of the camp, something moved.
Vigdis froze for just a heartbeat, her grip tightening on the bloodied axe. The ground beneath her feet trembled, and the air grew colder still. A massive, skeletal figure emerged from the darkness, its antlers scraping the edges of the tree’s highest branches. It had no eyes, only hollow sockets that seemed to devour the light.
The Hollow King had come.
The Hollow King towered above her, an impossible silhouette against the pale moonlight. Its form was an amalgamation of nightmare: a skeletal frame wrapped in bark-like sinew, antlers dripping with fungal rot that glowed faintly with a sickly green light. The air reeked of decay and damp earth, as if the forest floor had opened its maw to breathe.
Vigdis tightened her grip on the axe, her knuckles whitening. Her chest heaved from the exertion of battle, blood and sweat mingling on her skin, but she refused to show weakness. Not here. Not now.
The Hollow King tilted its head unnaturally, its antlers scraping the Hollow Tree’s branches. The raiders fell silent, dropping to their knees and bowing as one, their foreheads pressed into the dirt. Their leader, still sprawled in the mud, managed a feeble groan of reverence.
“She belongs to me,” the Hollow King’s voice rasped, a thousand dry leaves crumbling at once. Its eyeless sockets locked onto Vigdis, and she felt the weight of its gaze in her mind, prying, searching. Her breath hitched, her thoughts momentarily disjointed under its invasive pressure.
She staggered, planting the axe in the dirt for balance. The voice inside her head grew louder, more insistent.
“Bow. Break. Feed me.”
The raiders began chanting again, their voices guttural and raw. They slammed their fists into the ground in rhythm, their devotion palpable. The fungal growths along the Hollow Tree’s trunk pulsed with their chants, feeding the entity with every word.
Vigdis shook her head violently, growling against the intrusion. "You don’t get to have me!" she snarled, swinging the axe in a wide arc. The blade bit deep into the tree’s twisted roots, severing one with a spray of dark ichor.
The Hollow King hissed, a sound that made the air tremble. Its form wavered, the fungal light dimming for a moment, before it steadied itself. The chanting of the raiders intensified, as though their devotion could hold the creature together. Vigdis could feel the ground shifting beneath her feet, the roots writhing like serpents.
Before she could pull the axe free, the tendrils shot from the ground, wrapping around her ankles and yanking her off balance. She hit the dirt hard, the wind knocked from her lungs, and before she could scramble to her feet, the roots coiled around her arms and legs, pinning her to the ground.
“You will not resist,” the Hollow King’s voice echoed, its antlers seeming to grow, casting monstrous shadows over her. The tendrils tightened, and the fungal growths along them began to seep into her skin, burning like acid.
Vigdis roared in pain, her body arching against the restraints. The chanting grew louder still, the raiders’ voices raw and frenzied. She felt the Hollow King’s presence in her mind again, stronger now, a clawing, insidious force that sought to tear her apart from the inside. It pressed into her memories, searching for something—a weakness, a fragment of her soul to devour.
Her vision blurred, the world around her melting into a haze of firelight and shadows. And then she heard it: a whisper, faint but steady, cutting through the chaos.
“Fight. The tree cannot hold its own.”
The voice was not the Hollow King’s. It was something else, ancient but sharp, like the edge of a blade honed for centuries. She didn’t understand it, but she clung to it like a lifeline, letting it pull her from the edge of oblivion.
With a roar, Vigdis wrenched one arm free, the raw strength of her body overpowering the parasitic roots. She grabbed a nearby shard of broken iron—a discarded weapon, jagged and rusted—and drove it into the tendrils coiling around her other arm. They recoiled, shrieking as black ichor sprayed across her face.
The Hollow King reeled, its form flickering like a dying flame. Vigdis wasted no time. She rolled to her feet, ignoring the searing pain coursing through her limbs, and seized the axe once more.
"Let me show you what I feed on," she spat, her voice thick with defiance. With every ounce of strength left in her, she swung the axe at the Hollow Tree again, cleaving deep into its trunk. The fungal growths pulsed violently, their light flaring and dimming in rapid succession.
The chanting of the raiders faltered, panic replacing their devotion. The ground beneath the Hollow Tree began to crack, splitting apart with a deafening roar. The Hollow King staggered, its form unraveling like a tapestry being torn to shreds.
“NO,” it shrieked, its voice a deafening cacophony. “YOU WILL BE MINE.”
Vigdis didn’t stop. Blow after blow, she hacked at the Hollow Tree, until its bark splintered and the pulsing growths exploded in a shower of black ichor. The Hollow King let out one final, ear-splitting cry before collapsing into a heap of antlers and bones, its massive frame dissolving into the ground.
Silence fell over the camp. The raiders, stunned and leaderless, scrambled into the darkness like rats abandoning a sinking ship. Vigdis stood in the wreckage, her chest heaving, the axe slick with ichor in her hands. The Hollow Tree was nothing but a smoldering husk now, its roots curling in on themselves like dying spiders.
For a long moment, Vigdis simply breathed, her body trembling from exhaustion and adrenaline. The faint voice that had guided her was gone, leaving only the rustling wind in its place.
She wiped the ichor from her face and turned toward the wasteland, the faint glow of the moon lighting her path. She didn’t know what lay ahead, but one thing was certain: the Hollow King wasn’t the only thing out there.
And whatever else was waiting, she would be ready.