Dominion of the hollow king

The nursery smelled of rotting roses and wet parchment.

Lucien didn't remember walking here. One moment he'd been fleeing through the estate's ever-shifting corridors, the next he stood before his childhood crib — its oak bars now warped into grasping fingers, the mattress sprouting black thorns that pulsed like veins.

A music box played on the dresser. His mother's favorite.

Except the tune was wrong.

The delicate melody had curdled into the Inquisitor's layered chanting, the notes slithering into his ears like living things. The porcelain ballerina's face had cracked open to reveal miniature versions of Orlan's mask-filled eye sockets.

"You used to cry when this played," whispered the walls in his father's voice. "Now you'll cry for different reasons."

The Steward's New Tongue

Orlan stood in the doorway.

No — not stood.

Suspended.

Thick ropes of candle wax connected him to the ceiling, each strand vibrating with that same wrong lullaby. His chest cavity had split open like a reliquary, the ribs peeled back to reveal hollow space where his organs should be. Floating within:

A single burning eye.

"Little lord," Orlan spoke without moving his sewn-shut lips. The words formed directly in Lucien's skull. "Have you come to hear the good news?"

The nursery walls began weeping blood. Not in rivulets. In scripture. Verses from the Church's forbidden texts crawled downward in perfect calligraphy.

Lucien's knees gave out. His palms hit the floor just as the wood grain rearranged itself into his own screaming face.

The Architecture of Faith

"The estate remembers what you've forgotten," Orlan murmured.

The doorframe melted.

Suddenly Lucien stood in the great hall — or a nightmare of it. The banquet table stretched into infinity, each chair occupied by a different Lucien:

Age six, missing his front teeth, neck bent at an impossible angle.

Age sixteen, holding his first sword, the blade rusted through.

Present day, eyes gouged out, hollow sockets singing in unison.

At the table's head sat Kael.

Not the half-brother he remembered.

This Kael wore the estate like a robe, its towers rising from his shoulders, its foundations pulsing beneath his skin. The crown on his head dripped black stars that burned holes in reality itself.

"Do you understand now?" Kael asked with infinite patience. "You were never the heir. You were the vessel."

The Lucien at the far end of the table stood. His chest unzipped itself, revealing nothing but hollow darkness inside.

The Seed Beneath

Lucien stumbled backward into a mirror.

The glass didn't break.

It absorbed him.

For one terrible moment, he saw himself clearly:

His eyes were gone. In their place — tiny silver masks, identical to Orlan's, just beginning to form. His ribs pressed against his skin like prison bars. Something moved inside his chest cavity.

Something echoed.

The estate's heartbeat synchronized with his own.

No —

His heartbeat synchronized with the estate's.

From somewhere deeper than the foundations, something vast and hungry stirred in its sleep.

And in the dark behind his new mask-eyes, Lucien finally heard its first word:

Mine.

Final Line

All prayers are answered eventually.

Even the ones screamed into sealed mouths.