How to Fake a Kingdom

Chapter Twenty-Six: Ashes and Aftermath

The ground rushed up to meet them like the hand of an angry god.

The Crimson Wraith bucked and groaned as she plummeted, her crimson sails shredded, hull cracked along her seams. Crew members clung to ropes and railings, eyes wide with panic as the jagged, ash-strewn wasteland of the Hollow King's domain loomed closer with terrifying speed.

Elliott's hands burned with golden light as he poured the relic's magic into the failing ship. The relic pulsed furiously—alive, aware, fighting beside him—but even its ancient power couldn't undo gravity.

They hit hard.

The ship slammed into the blackened earth with bone-jarring force. Splinters of wood, shards of enchanted glass, and fragments of rigging exploded outward. The deck shattered beneath their feet. The sails crumpled like torn parchment. A thunderous crack echoed for miles as the ship finally came to rest—broken, smoldering, barely intact.

Then, silence.

And dust.

A lot of dust.

The Wreckage

Elliott groaned as he rolled onto his back, coughing as ash filled his lungs. His head throbbed. His ribs ached. The relic pulsed faintly against his chest, its glow dim but steady.

They were alive.

Mostly.

Marlow's face appeared above him, streaked with grime, eyes wild with concern. "Elliott. Say something."

"I hate flying," he rasped, coughing up soot.

Relief flickered across her face, quickly masked by exasperation. "Idiot."

A few feet away, Dorian pulled himself from a pile of shattered crates, limping slightly but otherwise intact. His sword, miraculously, remained strapped to his back.

Seraphine emerged from the rubble, scowling, a thin cut across her cheek. "Next time, maybe we let someone else drive the apocalypse relic."

Elric stumbled toward them, clutching a battered book to his chest like it was a life preserver. His expression was equal parts terror and awe. "We… survived."

"Barely," Indigo Voss muttered, limping over. Her coat was torn, her hat missing, but her usual cocky bravado still clung to her like a second skin. "Congratulations, kids. You've officially crash-landed in the worst neighborhood in existence."

The Wasteland

The Hollow King's domain stretched endlessly around them.

A desolate expanse of jagged stone, volcanic fissures, and crumbled ruins bathed in a perpetual twilight. Rivers of molten silver snaked through the cracked earth, casting faint, eerie reflections. In the distance, the Hollow King's fortress loomed—a monstrous spire of bone and obsidian, wrapped in chains of glowing energy.

The ground itself pulsed faintly, as if the land resented their presence.

Elliott rose unsteadily, scanning the horizon.

"We're close," he said, voice hoarse but determined.

Dorian's gaze narrowed. "Close enough that every creature loyal to the Hollow King will be hunting us."

"Better them than the fall," Indigo quipped, wincing as she checked her bruised ribs.

Elliott's fingers tightened around the relic. "We go now. Before they find us."

A Path Through Shadows

The group salvaged what little they could from the wreckage—rations, weapons, a few intact enchantments—and set off toward the fortress.

The terrain was unforgiving. Razor-sharp rocks sliced their boots. Ash choked the air. Whispers drifted on the wind—faint, ancient, in a language none of them wanted to understand.

The closer they drew to the fortress, the more the world seemed… wrong.

Time blurred. Shadows moved where they shouldn't. The relic pulsed with growing intensity, as if recognizing the place of its creation—and its intended use.

Seraphine's voice was low as they trudged forward. "I've fought assassins, monsters, and tax collectors… but this? This feels like walking into the end of everything."

Elliott didn't argue.

Because it was.

The Hollow King's Army

They found the first patrol near a crumbling ruin.

Shadow-forged soldiers patrolled the perimeter—twisted humanoid constructs of bone and darkness, their faces hidden behind cracked masks. Void energy shimmered along their weapons.

Dorian signaled silently.

The group slipped into position—silent, coordinated, deadly.

Seraphine struck first, daggers finding weak points in the constructs' forms.

Dorian's sword flashed in the gloom, severing limbs and scattering shadowy ichor.

Marlow unleashed kinetic blasts that sent enemies tumbling.

And Elliott… Elliott called upon the relic.

Golden energy erupted in controlled bursts, searing through the enemy ranks, forcing the shadows back.

When the last soldier fell, the group pressed on—tired, bruised, but alive.

The Fortress Gates

Hours later, they stood at the edge of the Hollow King's fortress.

The obsidian spire towered above them, wrapped in chains that pulsed with sickly, ethereal light. The gates, carved from black stone and ancient bone, were sealed tight—but not unguarded.

Two colossal constructs loomed at the entrance—sentinels of bone and shadow, their eyes like molten silver.

Beyond them, the Hollow King waited.

Elliott's heart hammered in his chest as the relic flared with anticipation.

Dorian cracked his knuckles. "We doing this?"

Elliott nodded.

"We're doing this."

End of Chapter Twenty-Six