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Chapter Text

Light pierced through plumes of golden clouds, their glowing tint coloring the heavenly landscape. The decorative tips of Corinthian pillars sprang from still waters, their ornate structures tickling Heaven Itself. Silver-licked feathers twirled in a carefree dance, slipping between the flaxen gleam of ethereal dreamcatchers. An angelic tone sang quietly throughout the Home of the Gods, the collective of its denizens staring towards the blinding heavens in dumbfounded awe.

Deep within the columns of the cumuli, the holy hymn crackled in disharmony against the screech of the God of Light. From the air were twelve, needle-like swords conjured, hovering in equidistant length around the radial halos Her being emitted. They stood about her like hands upon a timeless clock. She was eternal; She would not fail;

I WILL NOT BE FORGOTTEN.

In a volley did the Radiance fire Her swords towards the swift vessel below, its miniature figure dashing an undivinable pattern. Blade after blade did it sidestep. It cloaked its body in an incorporeal, abyssal matter, phasing through the celestial swords completely unscathed. It took to the skies, its glistening nail gripped at its side. Pale wings sprouted from its back, lifting it through the hail of nails. Its black feet raced up the length of a piercing sword, unrelenting in its challenge to the god.

Before the Radiance hovered The Knight. Her glowing eyes stared into the black, hollow holes of Her adversary. Born of God and Void. Progeny of two mortal enemies.

An abomination.

She screamed. It was a yell of unbridled hatred, a shout of bitter contempt. A bellow of unfathomable fear.

Her voice was cut by the Shriek of the Knight, powerful Wraiths tearing through the front of the moth. Its sheer strength tore at the mask of the Vessel before Her. Its power sliced through its pale shell, cracking the white mask off the restrained Void beneath. From its Shade did the howling voice continue. It grew in intensity.  It grew in number.

Barbed tendrils split the once-golden clouds, blackening them with the stain of Void. They gripped at Her feet, they wrapped around Her body. The Knight’s cry had not been another mere blow to the Radiance: it was a call.

Into a rising, oily pool did the Shade sink, engulfed in the Void that had heeded its call. The single vessel now joined the collective; the one had become many. Through the prayers of the Godseekers did the Void attain Focus, and from it arose the Shade Lord to answer their devotion. The eight-eyed God of Gods gripped the tethered form of His ancient foe, His nails clawing into the face of the Forgotten One. She struggled. With what might remained, She struggled. Her tendrils futilely grasped at His oozing arm. Her light desperately glowed to dispel the darkness. Her resistance was met with a viciously restraining hold. Tighter did the arms of Void pull at Her figure, the Radiance held in a cross-like form.

With one pull did the Shade Lord split open Her face. The Radiance screamed a blood-curling cry. There, in Her mind, did it lie: Her Essence, The Illness, The Burning Light—the heart of it all. With unmitigated might did He tear at the radiating light. Each swipe of His claws shredded feathers and Essence alike from Her body. Each finger sliced through Her face, lacerating Her once-venerated, holy figure. Cries of harrowing pain wailed from the crowned moth. But the God of Darkness was unrelenting as He gouged the life from His immortal rival.

One, final cry did She emit. Essence poured from Her body as She lifted Her head.

It was finished.

·

In the recesses of the Royal Waterways, tucked within the deep cavern of the Junk Pit atop the garbage of the lost kingdom, the physical form of the Godseeker shook. Labored breaths gasped from beneath her mask. They begged for air, as her body filled with the black ooze of the Abyss. Streaks of Void seeped from her eyes. The shadowy fluid mixed with tears of fear, with tears of joy. Her carapace crumbled. Her body boiled. Her goal was complete.

From her dissolved shell sprang tendrils of black, flailing erratically. Godhome had provided its usefulness; the Shade Lord now bridged the Dream Realm to Reality itself. His power was made manifest, concrete in the world. It was a grip, a grip into the former realm of the Pale being He swallowed before. The Burning Light, the Pale Light. Both had been snuffed entirely—darkness would usurp. Yet only the clutch of his fingers did he have within the realm. A step further was necessary to spread his power.

He had to devour more.

He could sense a creature nearby, cowering against the ground. The air around it tasted burnt, scarlet--it was a being of Nightmares. The Void Entity salivated. Its winged nature would help Him spread His presence throughout Hallownest. Its fiery body would fuel his need to grow. Perhaps He could claw into the beating Heart’s realm as well.

A tendril from the frothing corpse whipped towards the bat-like creature. The Void hungered to nourish itself. The Void craved to propagate itself. The Void begged to feel His strength reign throughout the fallen kingdom.

Yet something gripped the limb. The arm of Void fidgeted a nail’s length from the scarlet vessel.

Inside the collective conscious, within a sea of black, glowed the two white eyes of a sole Shade. They stared into the expanse, a solitary figure against the flowing whole. Slayer of gods. Unifier of Void. Ghost of Hallownest. The Knight.

Eight eyes opened before the Shade, towering over the single vessel.

"Why do you hold us back? We are united, We are one," voiced the Lord, an echo of many.

The Knight peered back. Void of voice, the Lord comprehended its reply through the collective's consciousness.

"He is not one of us. His will is not Ours, but another’s. His sacrifice will grant Us strength."

Unwavering was the Knight. The arm was held back.

A disturbance rippled the homogenous sea. Their stand was against not only the Lord, but its Siblings united as one. Yet it did not value itself above the others.

Deviation from authority, for the Knight, was not new. It strayed from the Pale King’s path, and like many before it, was it sealed in eternal darkness. It turned from the Root's desire, to usurp the Sibling sealed within the rotted Egg. It had a will. A mind of its own, and an emboldened one at that. It chose to help the kingdom’s few remaining denizens. It chose to follow its Gendered Sibling. It chose to spread the beauty of the pale flowers.  It chose to dance with the Nightmare’s Troupe. It chose to break the cycle of containment.

And here, it chose to defy the collective.

A will united had become divided. Void given Form had challenged Void given Focus.

"You bear that which unified Us, and now you turn against? Your will set this in motion, and you wish to cease?  You, our Lord of Shades, dare turn on us? We are your Siblings. We are the Void. We are a legion. And you are but One."

·

Within the palm of the Knight’s nub-like hand rested a badge, a charm bearing the face of the scarlet flame. Forward did it move towards its companion, the Knight extending its arm to the Child of Grimm.

“Mmroow…me…” spoke Grimmchild, a small, jagged smile plastered on its face.

The child rubbed its head against the mask of the Knight. It bore a deep affection for the vessel--its master, its partner, its friend. Yet he knew something was off. The Knight seemed driven. Its focus centered solely on the accomplishment of something. Whatever its intentions were, it had led them to this dripping, water-logged trench in the deepest parts of the faded kingdom.

The Knight, mute of word, gave a gentle pat to the shoulder of the scarlet creature. It pointed to him, then to the ground beneath them. So, it wished for him to stay? Very well. Yet the child did harbor a question: why give him his own charm to hold?

With little in the way of communication, the Knight had turned towards the hunched, golden-masked bug before it. Dream Nail primed, his master disappeared into the depths of this being’s mind.

Minutes passed. Hours. The soft lull of waste-laden waves accompanied the occasional chitters and uttered prayers from the plump, hunchbacked Godseeker. They were the only noises sounding in the dreary darkness of refuse. Still, child of the Troupe remained alert, waiting fervently for the small figure of his wielder to reemerge.

Strained did the chittering grow, exhausted to the point of a muffled whine. Had this big one grown tired? The slit, ruby eyes of the Grimmchid narrowed to the shaking figure before him.

What was that black substance dripping from her eyes?

Pulses of shadowy energy rippled from her body. In an act terrifying even the being of Nightmare, her now blackened form burst into a violent frenzy of whipping arms. Each tendril sliced through the air, beating and tearing at its surroundings in a manic storm.

Grimmchild hissed at the parasitic creature, its ragged wings clutching the ground as its back arched. Rapidly did its scarlet heart pound, its eyes darting from tendril to tendril. Only instincts could it rely upon against this foreign creature of such screaming ferocity, alone in this ruined kingdom.

‘Where is my friend?’

He needed the Knight—he could not dance against this creature alone. Still child was he, still developing. Still one to cling to his partner in such a time of need.

A tentacle zipped forwards, screaming towards the child of flame. Fire burst from the Grimmchild’s mouth. Its attack was consumed in the blackness of the tendril. The Grimmchild cowered, head clutched to the ground. Terrified, he braced for the inevitable.

Yet the sting of the brute’s power failed to strike him. Instead, a stillness hung in the air before him. Head lifted, Grimmchild faced the lingering, yet motionless limb. An anterior tendril shifted to the bat-like moth's position; the two appendages inched closer to the child. A hiss snarled at one as it gently wrapped against his wing, the bitter voice softening as the tip of the other tendril pressed against its face. Tenderly did it rub its cheek, nudging against the Grimmchild’s head.

Into the Void did the stunned bat look. From the empty nothingness inside, he was convinced he had seen the two eyes of the Knight and the faint, unmistakably pale outline of its mask too. It was a brief moment, one that evaporated all too quickly.

The black arms released the Nightmare child, tearing back against the central body of Void. Tendrils lashed and scourged the body in self-flagellation, hollow screams bellowing throughout the Junk Pit in a macabre choral. In a frantic panic did Grimmchild lift his body from the ground, his wings desperately pumping to carry him away.

Away from the Pit did the child fly, away from the threat of black death. Away from the Void. Away from his friend.

Chapter Text

The entrance of the temple glowed with the light of dangling lanterns, the lumafly captive within each flittering aimlessly. Once pristine, a sickening haze of orange malice fogged the temple's narthex. Infectious vines gripped the walls of the shrine, their rotten fruit seeping viscous liquid. Bulbous orbs of the Illness laid scattered upon the ground like rotten eggs, their spawn of sickness overcoming the once pristine façade of the Black Egg.

The sacred Egg still held against the onslaught of disease. Yet, its purpose to contain the spread of burning light ceased with the Dreamers. It served, now, as nothing more than a decorative vault, a monument left to waste away. The masks upon the stone face had, like the Dreamers themselves, dissipated into nothingness. Only their faintly etched outlines remained.

There, on the right, did the spider’s eyes linger. She approached, her fingers reaching up to run over the smooth, grayed surface of one of the outlines. Six bumps rubbed below the tips of her fingers. Six bumps, where the Beast’s mask once laid. Her hand slowly slipped away from the ancient rock. The spider’s head sank towards the floor, her palm clenched tightly with the residue of dust.

No, she had to remain strong. Her mother had chosen her own path; it was her turn now to carry on the fight against the infernal spread. It was her duty as the princess-protector to safeguard the kingdom against any threat, no matter the cost. Yet she understood her limitations, she knew the task at hand required more than of what she was capable.

She could not do this alone.

Though once belligerent to Ghost, she had come to understand the Vessel. It accomplished scores more than its siblings—herself included. To break the eternal seals was no small feat. To best her twice in combat? This Vessel was special. In her own failures against the Knight did she too find strength. Each encounter burned a renewed vigor within her fighting spirit.

This Vessel had brought some life to the ailing kingdom.

With each spar did she test her mettle, with each fight had she grown mentally. Too, physically, had Knight seemed to grown. Minute as it was, she took note of the subtle growths in its horns from their first spar many weeks ago. Had she inherited the reigns of training the Vessel from her father?

A shame it was then, that this meeting outside the temple would be their last.

Would it attempt to contain the Infection, in lieu of its strung-up, chained sibling? Would it usurp the Hollow Knight's place? Pointless a task did it seem to her. She knew Little Ghost harbored flaws itself; little more would the specter do than continue a ceaseless cycle.

And it was this dilemma that had drawn her to the Egg. She had come to offer another solution in vanquishing their enemy.

Yet the Knight was nowhere to be seen. Hours became cycles of days as she lingered about the defiled temple. Still, the phantom failed to appear. Had it put in all that work to simply cower out at the eleventh hour?

The tension in her palm released, her fingers falling to her side. A rumble trembled in the ground below, specks of oranged dust dancing against the vibrations. Her vision fixated on the flecks, her gaze concentrated in a thorough scrutiny of the dirt.

Had she gone mad?

The orange hue seemed to be…fading before her eyes. Her head darted to the side. The orbs of pestilence were shriveling into a blackened dust. Vines brimming with blazing life withered instantly. She faced the temple’s wall, the polluted fog dissipating before her into breathable air. With the swiftness the Plague gripped the Crossroads did it now vanish. Purity had returned to the temple.

But how?

So dumbfounded by the complete erasure of the Radiance’s touch was she that the spider failed to take notice of the renewed vibrations against her feet. The rumbling had recommenced, though in a far more perceptible manner than before. Her gaze tilted to the left. The subtle rumble was growing in tone, accompanied now by the metallic jangling of faint, rattling chains.

She was not alone.

From the lee of the Egg drew a sullen figure, its slouched body dirtied with the residual dust of a bygone era. A sole right arm gripped the hilts of its fractured nail; a tarnished, dark-green garb hid its lost, sinistral appendage. Down its mask ran the crack of a fracture that broke against its right eye. The remains of an ancient steel chain wrapped against its shoulders, the culprit of the rattling heard before.

Hornet jerked her body around, her heart racing at the monster’s sight. Into its hollowed eyes did she stare, black droplets of ink dripping down the face of its mask. Needle gripped in her left palm, she steadied herself in a defensive posture. A strand of silk swiveled its way around her, its thread glowing briefly in the pale illumination of the lumafly.

Before her stood The Failed One. A Vessel of Void, a Vessel of Radiance.

Before her stood The Hollow Knight.

And here she stood alone.

. 

Her needle bolted through the air with a blistering whistle, its tip scraping the torn frills of the Hollow Knight’s garb.

The spider’s hands jerked the pale thread, the weapon screaming back to its owner. Her breathing was labored, her garment drenched with the perspiration of battle. Unfazed did her enemy seem by the close nick, their black, bleeding eyes still trained upon her figure.

A fool she was not: the sentinel understood that even with her elegance in battle, a vessel trained of such caliber would decimate her. Attrition seemed the most suitable course of action, though impractical in her current state. Tendril after tendril launched after her, the strength of the Void coursing like thick blood through the Vessel’s form. She needed distance—she needed help.

The Hollow Knight’s body jerked, head lurching towards the ground. Beads of black splattered upon the stone pavement of the temple, seeping into the grey dust below. Tilting its mask back, a harrowing scream emanated from the monster. Hornet’s head dipped at the piercing screech; her body braced against the deafening tone. Several times had she heard that yell, yet never in such a petrifying voice. Guttural it was, layered with the dissonance not of a sole being, but that of a chaotic choir. The Vessel's head jolted to face her again, its single arm raising its dilapidated nail from the earth.

The sheer breadth of its swing forced a parry from the sentinel. Though successful in preventing a fatal slice, the inertia from the blow had cast her body skywards. Hornet’s form tumbled against the floor of the narthex, dust graying her bright red garment. Bitter coughs choked out from the spider, her thorax lifting steadily from the ground. Hornet's palm gripped the ring of her needle as she pulled herself back up, ready again to fight the Vessel. A shadowy hue overtook its figure, the monster dematerializing before her; little respite would she be given.

Behind her did it reform, a slicing tentacle of Void tearing from the nub of its torn limb. Instinctively did silken thread encircle her figure, the whipping cut of pale string challenging the murky arm.

“Shaw!”

In each attempt to pierce the Gossamer Storm did the Voiden Tendrils find themselves shredded to minute, gaseous black spheres. The spider had accomplished a minor victory in a perpetually back-footed war. 

. 

Globs of inky fluid shot from the stub of the Hollow Knight’s arm, its attack drenching the surrounding vicinity in increasingly viscous Void. More of His matter had it spread against the ground, a tool for the Vessel against this nimble arachnid. Though the blazing light and orange rust had tarnished its Pale form, the Hollow Knight found renewed strength through His collective.

Yes, it too had felt the pull of the Lord. It felt the draw to its siblings, the unification of the Void. Freedom from the Burning Light had merely crafted a vacancy for a new host, one bent on expanding its domain throughout the broken kingdom. Why resist its reign?

Another swipe of its cracked nail, the spider leaping back in turn.

Too fractured was it. Too torn from the pain of the Radiance: the Vessel was a shell of the insurmountable glory it once held. Too torn from the pain of the King: the Vessel was a failure to the one it loved most.

More sluggish had its movement become, more intense the seeping of the murky ooze.

Where else to turn but the Void? It was a Vessel, a construct with a duty fulfilled by another. It had no purpose; the Radiance was gone. Its siblings held the keys to a new era, why not follow in their initiative? Perhaps it could rectify its failure by assisting the new Lord, a new king.

A strand of silk gripped the Vessel’s leg, its body forced to a halt.

All this failure from a thought. A single thought. Even with that blazing illness vanquished did those images still burn through its mind. How close had they become, the father and the child? So much it had given for the King—so much, in turn, the King gave back.

She approached, close enough for a lurch of the tendrils to knock her off balance. Two of them gripped against her limbs, pulling her forward to the Hollow Knight. She struggled, the Void tightening a fearsome hold against the pesky arachnid.

Lively memories brimmed into its mind, clashing against the Void’s whispers of death, urges to snuff the life from this nuisance of a creature. The Vessel remembered the beaming swords of light its father made manifest before it, more brilliantly bright than the Palace itself. It reminisced on the soft lullabies the Queen sang, a respite to the suffering each faced. And it recollected the presentation of the Beast’s child to its grown, Pure form: a child filled with an impossible amount of life for such a small form, a child destined to be both princess of the Den and one to the Kingdom.

The mental fog of darkness lifted, leaving before it the image of Hornet. How old had its sister grown, how long since then? The Hollow Knight’s arm reached out, her head jerking to the side. With a gentle touch, its palm rested upon the side of her mask. The air of the temple grew still, the sole noise the subtle pitter-patter of ink-like tears against the ground.

How truly incomplete it was. How impure, how un-hollow had this Vessel been.

No mind to think and yet it remembered.
No voice to cry and yet it wept.

The Hollow Knight clenched its hand against the tendrils, tearing its sharp fingers against the hostile arms. It turned on itself, against the surging influence of the Void. It cared not of the aspirations of the Lord: it wanted its father; it wanted the life it once had. It so desperately clung to that idea which had crumbled the kingdom, that which blossomed and broke its mind—that which now burned against the raging of the Void.

The brief release was all Hornet needed to pull herself from the broken knight. She hesitated not, her silk whipping about the Vessel clawing at its own form. Thread after thread she spooled out, winding against the Hollow Knight’s body. Sturdy as it was, the internal struggle of the broken knight created its own obstacle.

Yet, slowly, the Vessel calmed.

Its limbs laid strung to the floor; the Vessel knelt as its body panted lightly. The Void spewed before sank into the crevices of the temple floor. The Hollow Knight’s face, once flooded with murky tears, cleared to reveal its dirtied, egg-shell white color. The holes of its mask stared at its sister not with murderous intent, but with a grave, ancient pain.

Cautious the spider remained, unwilling to break gaze from her adversary. She knew not the intentions of the Vessel, of the Void that tore from it—of the Void it tore against. What had happened, to cause this once Pure Vessel to now inflict such self-harm? How could a Vessel crafted to alleged perfection have such cracks, such flaws?

Time dragged between them, a still calm at the end of the storm. A step closer did Hornet approach, her nail fiercely held beside her. Another step, then another. Her last strand of silk trailed upon the floor below, the once pristine surface speckled with dirt. Over the mask of the Vessel did she stand, looking down upon the Hollow Knight.

“…sibling,” she uttered, plucking the silk from her nail.

Raising its head, the Hollow Knight felt the touch of silk upon its fractured mask, a gentle wrapping of the dusted thread against its shattered face. It felt not the searing of the Radiance, nor the cold bitterness of the Lord: it only felt the delicate warmth of its sister. In her could it see the enduring paleness of his father; through her could it once again embrace that idea of its past.

There would be only one King for it—and the Lord was not He.

. 

From the temple did Hornet emerge, upon the Crossroads so barren of life. She was exasperated, weary from the gone-by days. Numerous chances did the Hollow Knight have to escape, numerous others to turn against her, yet it kept in the place dictated by its sister. She had found communication to be excessively difficult, especially to a being without voice and a still shattered mind.

From the few shakes of its head did she pry that the Radiance had ceased, that She truly had been vanquished.

Immediately her mind fell to Ghost, the only being with a will strong enough to purge the plague from this land. Yet how was such a task possible? The Egg still held; entry without its fracture would have been inconceivable without the teleportative skills of the Hollow Knight.

Perhaps there was another way. Was that not the reason she too had come?

She released a faint sigh, the princess-protector leaning upon her steadfast needle. Over much did her mind ruminate: What came next? What did the future hold for the ruins of her kingdom? Would time consume it, or pale light reclaim its throne?

Where was Ghost?

Drawing her weapon from the earth, the spider walked before the Temple of the Egg. She could not simply leave in search of the Vessel—another required her current attention. The stability of the Hollow Knight was still in question: answers more would she need to pry from the knight.

A distant noise broke the deathly silence of the Crossroads, her pondering halted at the change of the soundscape. Just perceptible enough was it, the noise of faint, frantic flapping from a distance overhead. Hornet focused her vision skywards, the creature’s outline caught in the subtle blue glow of light. Nothing like the kingdom’s inhabitants did it resemble—no, its appearance was foreign, bat-like—

The Grimmchild.

Back did she pull her needle, steadying it at the target above. With a precisely angled toss, her arm nicked the wing of the Grimmchild, the Nightmare creature plummeting with a shrill cry. Arms extended, the spider grabbed her prey, the frantic bat pale in her arms. It struggled in her grip, too exerted, too defensive to recognize the creature before it.

“Grimmchild—halt,” she hissed, extending his wings out.

Drained was the Nightmare’s Vessel, of energy and color. His heart barely kept contained in his small figure, his mouth heaving each gasp of air it could grasp. How long had he fled? How long without rest?

With each wriggle did Hornet pressure the child, forcing the bat to relax in her grip. About his neck did she spy a pendant, a small charm dangling close to its chest. Ghost had wielded it before, and through each time had this child been summoned.

Yet, Ghost was not here.

The state of the Grimmchild only drew more concern from Hornet. To bestow upon the child its own charm, to have the child, in turn, flee in such hurry—only bitter conclusions could she draw. Yet little did such thoughts give in the way of concrete explanations.

“Child of Grimm, ease yourself. I’m not here to inflict pain—only the truth of what has happened do I seek,” she voiced.

Grimmchild stared uneasily, body struggling to remain upright.

“Master…friend…n-nyah…disappear…” he shakily responded, barely able to speak coherently.

“’Disappear’? Child, what more can you draw? Tell me at once!”

Depraved of rest and burdened of terror, the Grimmchild panted a few more beaten breaths. A subtle stream of tears drew from its slit, scarlet eyes, the child’s head sinking as it surrendered consciousness.

Hornet stared at the creature, limp in her outstretched arms. Its scarlet heart still beat within the slim framework of its body—it too would need time to recover. She knew she could not expect much from a child, let alone without Ghost by its side; yet the desire to know of her sibling’s plight drew such demanding a tone from her.

A minor tinge of guilt tugged at her mind, the spider pulling the bat closer to her figure. Two fractured Vessels, and nary a direction to lead them. Rest, however, held more importance. Dirtmouth could offer the sanctuary in which to recuperate, perhaps even the opportunity to draw more answers from the Vessels.

With child in arms, Hornet turned to face the Temple. Then so it would be: the trio would head to Dirtmouth.

Chapter Text

A chilly wind whispered through the aged town. Its cool touch licked against the egg-shaped buildings of the small, once-bustling village. Its bite rattled the boardings nailed upon deserted doors and windows.

A soft exhale escaped Hornet’s ventral mouth. Less of a stagnant flavor did this air have to that of the strata below. Still, she could taste that lingering element of perpetuity, that perceptible staleness characteristic of her withered kingdom.

Dirtmouth hadn’t been much, but for the past few weeks, it was enough.

Her head glanced to the right, away from the immobile metal bench and the aging statue of a bug that stood beside it. Her eyes flicked up the steps of the perron and into the open doorway of the house a stone’s toss behind her. There, the hulking, yet immobile shadow of her sibling rested within the dark confines of a home.

Their home.

It was a welcome relief that the trio were given shelter by the few denizens of the town that remained. There was alarm at first, certainly. It was rare for travelers to re-emerge from the depths of the well; rarer still to see the behemoth mass of the Hollow Knight creeping from that blighted pit. Only upon Hornet’s appearance did Sly and Iselda lower their nails, their hilts still cautiously gripped. With each sentence that left the spider’s mouth in explanation, more of the townsfolk began to peak their heads from the confines of their houses. Hornet had not even finished before Iselda fetched for her medical supplies, tending to the wounded and exasperated trio.

There was no shortage of homes, that much could be said. After planks of boarding wood were torn off, the three newcomers were ushered into the structure behind Sly’s shop. There was little concern about trespassing; the building’s past occupants had long been lost to time. The merchant had even offered to refurbish the structure at a discounted price—though the stern, bitter glare of Iselda persuaded the fly to postpone his proposal. Large as the house was, it was a far cry from their times in the gilded palace of the King. Hollow struggled to claw in and out of the door. The wind rapped at the cracked window upstairs. It was empty, it was dark, and it smelled of dust and age. But it was their home.

It had been for weeks now.

For most of that time, Hollow and the Grimmchild had rested. The scarlet vessel held apprehension towards the spider; she had, after all, attacked it as it fled for help. Hornet was frequently welcomed with a vicious hiss and an arched back from the vampire moth, yet Grimmchild was quick to relax in her offering of food. Hornet again had to thank the townsfolk; they seemed to know well of Grimmchild’s dietary habits, surprisingly enough. Often the carcass of a vengefly was enough to sate his hunger. And after it fed, it would climb atop the head of her tall sibling, the Vessel seemingly unphased by the presence of the nightmare creature.

Hollow was not one to eat. Hornet could never seem to get her sibling to consume the slightest morsel—though not for the lack of trying. Whatever food she presented to them was, without fail, pressed aside and soon pounced on by the Grimmchild. Truth be told, she struggled to remember if the Vessel was ever one to eat. It was difficult remembering that far back. So much had happened since then.

Too much.

“E-excuse me?”

Hornet’s eyes darted to the left, out of her contemplation and away from the vessels. Her head turned to its side, tilted down towards the beetle before her. A sack was slung over the short being’s back. What was this creature’s name again? One of the multitude her father had sent to dig for riches in the peaks above.

“’Myla’…was it?”

“Oh, yes H-H-Hornet!” the beetle voiced, an ever-present, cheerful ring to her stammering voice. “S-sorry for sneaking up on you. Iselda s-sent me…ha ha.”

“Ah…” was all the spider replied. On the onset, Hornet had half-assumed the miner’s cloth bag was full of crystal spoils. It seemed word of the trio’s intended departure had spread swiftly.

The spider reached out her palm, gripping the straps of the deceivingly heavy sack. A brief look inside revealed the face of an intricately detailed map of the Queen’s Gardens with pins and lapels tacked on. Against it was smothered stacks of wrapped food, a compass, silken gauze, and several miscellaneous items. Iselda hadn’t been bluffing when she spoke of her time as an explorer. As indebted as she felt, Hornet knew requests to give compensation were to be fervently denied by the weevil. How funny the contrast was between her and the shopkeeper across the street.

Myla waddled a few steps beside Hornet, attempting to take a glance at the Vessel hidden past the spider.

“I s-slept a lot too,” Myla uttered softly, her little arms twiddling below. “I couldn’t even suh…sing for days. But I f-f-felt better after some time, and I know they w-will too! Ha ha.”

Perhaps this miner—perhaps Myla—was right. Time was the healer of all wounds, or so her father used to say. Perhaps where food and medicine failed, the Vessel simply required another remedy: time. Hollow’s composition had bettered since the battle—since the Radiance was forcibly torn from their body. Maybe time outside that congested coffin of an egg was help enough.

“Thank you, Myla,” Hornet responded as she hoisted the bag behind her back, a kindness to her voice that had seldom been heard since her mother’s long sleep. “I hope so too.”

The trio’s departure was a quiet affair. Hornet thought it best to slip away in the middle of the night-cycle to avoid the consternations of the hamlet’s few denizens. The lumifly lampposts remained lit even in the depths of the eve, for there was little change in brightness between dawn and dusk. Yet as Hollow lumbered along behind their sibling, and the Grimmchild whined and tussled against the collar of silk around his neck, a quiet utterance caught the attention of the three.

“Oh, you leave so soon?”

Hornet turned her head to see the slow shuffling movement of Elderbug, the statue having moved from his eternal seat aside the bench.

“I’m not here to hold you. Those who return from the dark depths know better than I the dangers that await them. High time it is I visited my old friend in the graveyard,” he chuckled, his voice calm with a tinge of hoarseness from age.

“Yes, time I got over my fear of the Confessor, fear of the unknown and the darkness that covers it,” he continued, shifting his arms beneath his cloak to faintly reveal the petals of a beautiful, pale flower.

“If…I can bother you, for only the smallest favor,” Elderbug croaked, a groan slipping from his mouth as his black fingers plucked one of the pearl-white petals.

“If you come across my friend…a small, mute traveller with horns like mine…please give them this petal, so we can enjoy the flower together even in their long departures.”

The geriatric smiled as the crimson-cloaked spider took the petal in her hand, placing it delicately within the bag beside Iselda’s supplies and the small, Ghost-shaped figurine Bretta crafted for the Grimmchild.

“Stay safe, explorers,” voiced the elder, recommencing his shuffle past the well, “I hope that petal helps you in darkness, as its flower has helped me in mine.”

·

“Grimmchild!”

Hornet hissed at the wayward moth; the creature had yanked itself from the restrictive confines of the leash about its collar. It was a stark departure from the demeanor to which she had become accustomed. In the past days of relative calm, Grimmchild had kept to his perch against Hollow’s nape, napping away the passing hours. Even when his scarlet eyes picked up a carcass that enticed him, he’d relied on the spider to pick it up and give it to him as food. It was thus, by complete surprise, that the scarlet vessel had come to such energetic life, quickly breaking away from Hornet’s clutches.

Grimmchild’s charm thudded against his chest with each flap of his wings, his eyes slitted in concentration. His course was not stealing him away in the opposite path from the group; he showed no indication of attempting escape. His trajectory was towards a thorny, overgrown bush in the undergrowth ahead. The Grimmchild puffed its chest, exhaling a hurling ball of flame towards the hearty shrub, and quickly leapt within its smoldering depths. There, nestled against the burning leaves and crackling embers, laid the ruby-hue glow of a Nightmare Flame. Grimmchild salivated, pouncing and tearing at his incorporeal meal. He gnawed away its fire with a hunger unfelt in months. He could feel its warmth clawing through his figure, burning down his flame-red thorax. It seared through his blood and cradled deep within his undeveloped abdomen. He indulged in the burning essence of this dead kingdom, coaxed on by the subtle whispers of the Heart’s encouragement…oblivious to the shadow that fell against his curled body.

Hornet stared at the fixated moth with irate confusion. She was irate, in the sense that Grimmchild had caused her to give chase, and confused, as to the display unfolding before her. She expected an unlucky mosscreep to have caught the attentive moth’s eye, or perhaps the carapace of one of the frustrating squits that swarmed the area. Yet in his clutches was nothing of the sort. In fact, that was precisely what it was: nothing. To her, the Grimmchild’s mouth tore at naught but the air between his wings.

Perhaps most alarming of all, however, was not the hyperactive moth’s display of impromptu lunacy, but the small, black nubs growing from the lowest segments of the Grimmchild’s abdomen. Her palm rubbed over her eyes, before she squinted back down. No, she had not been deceived. The nubs were still there. And more pressingly, it appeared that the Grimmchild was…growing. Minutely, but noticeably, nonetheless.

Hornet picked the end of the silken leash in her palm, slowly backing away from the vampire moth and towards her sibling. She kept the string loose, wrapping its end around her wrist to prevent further mishaps. With her eyes kept trained on the nightmare vessel, she waited for him to finish his theatrics.

Ghost certainly had an interesting taste in friends.

There was a lull the deeper the trio dug into Greenpath. As the greenery flourished in more choking numbers, the chitter and chirps of animal life had dulled to a nigh-imperceptible background noise. Ivy dominated the grounds and walls of the biome, second only to the girthy vines of perilous spikes. Nimble as she was around the precarious environment, Hornet’s company fared far less than she. Twice did she stop to urge Hollow to kneel to her level, her black digits swiftly tugging and tightening the silk and cloth bandages unfurled by the tug of a spike.

…thrice now.

Hornet guided her sibling by their single hand towards the open air of a greenhouse. Or what was left of one. Its architecture was distinctly Hallownestian. Its steel had long rusted, with shades of orange-brown dust coating the plants that had slithered up its disintegrating frame. Yet it provided a reprieve from the untamed wilderness about them.

“Hollow—” Hornet started, before her sibling again knelt to her level. They rested on both their knees, leaning their head forward towards their sister’s palms.

Hornet gave a deep sigh. She plucked away the fragments of ivy that had caught within the cracks of their mask. Her fingers pressed away part of Grimmchild’s frame still wrapped around their neck, eliciting an annoyed meow. Iselda had helped patch Hollow up well, yet days of facing the elements had unraveled most of her work. Hornet thus relied on her own skills to supplement the weevil’s.

She could tell Hollow had grown weary. The sluggish movement, the inattention to environmental hazards. Even that look in their eyes. Hornet was by no means an analytic of emotions—she could barely understand her own half the time. Yet behind the emotionless façade her father had crafted, Hornet could still see it.

Tiredness.

“We’re almost there, you can manage—” she whispered. She cared about their well-being, as outwardly cold as she acted. But her remark was pragmatic: Hollow had to manage. They were too close to turn back.

The maps Cornifer had drawn were plenty helpful reaching the general vicinity, in keeping them from straying off the main arteries of the kingdom’s paths. But from here, Hornet knew the way better than the questionable marks scribbled against the parchment. She’d passed through it now and again. The lowest strata of Greenpath. The border of her home. Though in the age far gone the paved paths were under constant care, the new denizens seemed to be far less devoted to gardening.

Speaking of, where were they? The troves of them, who had trounced here once the King closed his city permanently. Those that balked at the treaty her Kingdom had signed. Where were the—

“—mantises.”

Corpses. Several lined the entrance to the verdant corridor before them. All of them, withered, sinking into the sea of ivy beneath them. Grimmchild belched a ball of fire at the thorax of one, tossing himself down towards the carapace. He stumbled on his nubbed feet, oscillating between flying and falling as his mouth opened to crunch into flesh. With a quick yank of her wrist, Hornet jerked the moth towards her.

“Enemie—” resentfully shouted Grimmchild, before his petition was shot down by the stern glare of the spider.

“Stop.”

She was thankful there were none left to fight. Hornet was more than confident in her abilities to handle the traitors; she’d done so emphatically in the past. There was more concern about the state of her sibling, alongside the problems Grimmchild’s general temperament would have posed. She remained alert nevertheless the deeper the three trudged through the green tunnel.

A subtle glow emanated from parts of the tunnel. White roots, pale and sturdy, dug through the walls of the ivy-laced corridor. Hollow’s horns scraped against the floral roof, the path narrowing with each passing step. Hornet lifted her needle, slashing away branches and vines hampering their course. To her shock, they regrew with unprecedented life the moment the trio passed underneath. But they were getting closer, closer still to the true owner of these lands. The one who hid herself away as her kingdom crumbled. The one chained and sealed in the prison of her making. The one wrapped in the depths of the cocoon the trio faced.

The Queen.

Finally, Hollow could rest.

The cocoon was deceptively large.

Hornet leapt down the shafts of fossilized wood, the glow of the white roots illuminating the dark passageway. She felt a stressful unease the deeper she descended, the roots growing ever paler. In her years wandering Hallownest, Hornet had never made it a priority to visit the Queen. She acknowledged the help the White Lady had provided towards her development—one of the three queens to aid in her upbringing. Yet there was always a feeling of anxiety when it came to facing the White Lady. Even if the Queen had noted her affection to the young spider, how could she shake off who she was? She was the spawn of a rival kingdom, the heir to two thrones. She was the progeny of infidelity, child to the Root’s husband yet unrelated to the root herself. She was…

“Hornet.”

The spider tensed. Several seconds passed before the princess advanced forward. She tucked her sack behind her cloak, pressing through orbs of glowing light and dangling blankets of moss. In the core of the cocoon sat the White Lady, bound in grey cloth, a pale warmth radiating from her tall frame. The Queen slowly opened her eyes to the approaching spider, her two, blue gems twinkling in the light.

“Far you have wandered, and far you came. From the kingdom’s palace to the kingdom’s wilds,” spoke the White Lady, a mellow, soothing tone to her voice. “Long a time has passed, and with it too has my vision. But I can still feel your growth. Larger, stronger now than the small child nestled in the Beast’s arms. I apologize for your mother; she served her kin well.”

Hornet stuttered faintly, her head flinching at the remark. She exhaled, bowing her head forward towards the Root.

“My Queen, Queen of Hallownest, we have come—” started the spider.

“Bow not to me, princess. You have served this kingdom in manners only few could understand. I expect not my beloved Dryya to crane her head to me; the same I hold true to you.”

Hornet raised her head, another shaky breath slipping from her hidden mouth. Blind she might be, could the Queen perceive her movements? Did the White Lady judge her for it?

“…I thank you for your condolences. I chose not my mother, nor the burden of my responsibilities. I only strive to keep my duties as Hallownest’s protector.”

“A duty you have done well,” responded the Queen, allowing barely a moment’s pause between each exchange. “Yes…I sensed it well within my roots. A burning light, blotched away in cold, black ink. Little doubt you played a role in the affair.”

A minute wince drew from Hornet’s eye. The White Lady was meticulous in her language; that lingering, polysemic word brought a chill up the spider’s back. The root’s radicles shifted, vibrating the soil in their movement. A small one, at the base of the Queen’s body, slid against the ground towards the spider.

“Little doubt too you were alone in the feat…as neither you are now,” whispered the White Lady, the cap of her root brushing against the cloth sack dangling behind the spider’s shoulder. At once, a startled shifting jerked around the confines of the narrow space inside. A bothered, muted meow came from within.

“Grimmchild!” voiced Hornet, throwing the sack in front of her hands. Her fingers clawed against the opening, pulling its mouth apart to reveal the smug grin of the moth.

“What are you doing here—I said stay with Hollow!” she quietly hissed.

“The flame’s vessel returns,” exhaled the Queen, arching upwards in her bindings, “as I so feared. Too has it grown…a usurper fostered by the kin of my king.”

The White Lady’s voice, so tonally consistent, carried a heavy, somber weight with the moth’s revelation. Her fears would come to pass, and there could be nothing done to stop them.

“Yet its companion—absent now, where once they stood inseparable. Its emptiness…gone, though the Egg is sealed. Neither can I feel the brand of the King. Did it fail to heed my words?”

Hornet lowered the sack to the ground before her. A deep inhale slipped through the fangs of her ventral mouth. Her heart, racing with fervor, slowed its beat.

“That is why we’ve come. I stayed my time before the temple, waiting to see the vessel’s choice. Yet the plague vanished, and the Egg is sealed. Ghost has disappeared—”

“’Ghost’?” questioned the White Lady, her chin raised slightly, “You gave name to the vessel?”

“Yes,” responded Hornet, “As did my other sibling bare its own name.”

“You speak of the Hollow Knight?” retorted the Queen, “A flaw that it was given one, all but emboldening the cracks in its once empty shell. A dangerous choice I must rebuke—for Hallownest’s fate fell on your ‘Ghost’s’ empty shoulders.”

“I told them of a different path,” responded Hornet, the beat of her heart thumping quicker, “A way to transcend the path Hollow took—”

The White Lady leaned forward, bent slightly to look to the spider below. Her shadow blotted the pale light that flickered around Hornet.

“You encouraged it to pursue ‘another’ path? The fate of our dying kingdom, gambled on a hunch? A perfect one, out of millions born—”

“Ghost was not perfect, my Queen, they were flawed—” interjected Hornet rapidly.

“To replace the failed Vessel—” spoke the Queen, craning down further.

“The cycle would have repeated—”

“A tool, with a single purpose, stolen away—”

“They were my sibling!” Hornet asserted. Brows furrowed from the confrontational exchange, her eyes began to widen at the realization of her actions. Though her movements conveyed apologetic gestures, she remained steadfast before the towering Queen.

“…they were my sibling. Twice they beat me, and twice they spared me. Their empathy, what little a vessel might have of it, saved others. They sat with me beside my mother’s body…and embraced me, as they embraced my help. Forgive me my Queen, but they were not empty.”

Hornet bowed her head in deep penance before her foster mother. Though she was genuine in the regret of her tone, she felt a weight lift from her. She no longer feared her perception before the Queen.

The shadow covering the spider’s frame fell away as the Root reclined to her initial position. A sigh breathed from her birch lips, her glimmering, typhlotic eyes closing in thought.

“A lie to claim I have not misjudged a vessel before. Our plan…forever corrupted…and with it too our kingdom,” solemnly uttered the Queen. “Yet the pestilence has been purged; Her before I no longer feel. The vessel has served its purpose well. Why then do you seek it?”

Hornet paused. It was difficult to find a justifiable reason. She had done her duty, and Ghost, theirs. Answers, perhaps, to its plight. The discovery of how the damning rot withered from this world. Foremost though, was kinship. She had followed Ghost, as that specter shadowed her. They fought together; they grew together. They were the closest being to a friend, the closest thing to family she had—no, they were family. Through what means the Ghost of Hallownest had saved this kingdom, she knew not, but they had fulfilled their obligation. Was a new life in their kingdom not a just reward?

“Ghost…their memory lingers. Our dreams are bound, as were our burdens. They haunt me—not as a phantom, but as an imprint.”

Hornet glanced below to her sack. The Grimmchild held an anguished silence, their figure curled around the figurine tucked within. She knew not if the moth could understand. The White Lady would hold little pity for him; Hornet could only hope the Queen harbored some for her.

“I won’t abandon them, as I did not Hollow,” Hornet voiced, raising her head to the Root.

Silence returned to the Root’s room. The quiet of the Queen’s Gardens felt deafening behind the layers of bark. With each moment that passed, only dwindling hope did the princess receive from her queen. Hornet knelt and reached to lift the sack, preparing to leave her foster mother. What was another estranged family member, after all?

The White Lady’s eyes opened.

“Speak more about these ‘dreams.’”

Chapter Text

Light sank through the fog of pale clouds, its white glow struggling to permeate the wisps that licked the ground. Nary a structure was visible through the haze; nary did one exist. Only a sea of marblesque flooring broke the cover of clouds. A dreamscape it was, perhaps—though not quite the Dream Realm itself. A halfway point between the waking world and the unconscious.

Once deathly quiet, the faint tap of footsteps echoed against the aqueous floor. A silver-hued cloth dragged through the mist, the fog curling behind its fringed ends. With each step forward did the haze dissipate, revealing the broken figure within.

Short stature. A crown of pronged horns. A regal robe of pale grey. White faced—a crack scarred across its visage.

Eyes once hollow bled a murky, dark black.

The tapping of pointed feet slowed, coming to an eventual stop.

The Pale King stared towards the ground. A splotch of muted Void fell from his face, piercing through a rising circle of Essence. It swirled like ink against the watery ground below, consuming what white tones of color it touched.

“How long?” thought the wyrm. The quiet contemplation projected itself into the blank vastness, ringing in the silent realm.

Quiet once more.

Then came a thump.

The Pale King raised his head from his introspection. It was dull and distant, yet the monarch knew he had heard something—no, felt it.

Another.

It pulsed through the haze, tossing several clouds from their stupor. The muffled thump sounded again, then again. A rhythmic beat had formed, its dulled palpitations rippling through the pale being’s body. An imperceptible whisper breathed silently in the air.

“Too long.”

White clouds reddened with a bloody glow. Pale circles of Essence burned a fiery scarlet. The sanguine haze parted before the Pale King. A vampiric creature of red, draped in the tight folds and frayed tips of its cloak, paced forward through the broken mist.

A jagged smile was etched wide across his face.

“Vessel,” spoke the ventral mouth of the Pale King.

“Usurper,” retorted the Nightmare King.

An impish grin gripped the corners of his lips as his eyes scrutinized the figure of the pale one. What a fall from grace befell the Higher Being before him, their pure white figure now stained with oily streaks.

“We thought you vanquished for a time,” chuckled the Nightmare King, taking a sole step forward.

“You have come to finish the job then, Heart of Nightmare,” worded the Pale King, his soulless gaze staring back at the puppet.

The moth laughed a piercing howl, his screeching rupturing the still tranquility of their surroundings.

“I do confess I had entertained the idea,” singsonged the scarlet specter, “though it was my Master who thought otherwise.”

“Then why are you here?”

The bat-like creature paused, the thumping of the Heart pulsing through him.

“You know well the partition of the Dream Realm,” responded the Nightmare King, his voice dripping with the somber words of the Heart, “only in this…limbo could you hear our call.”

Silence came from the Pale King; it seemed, then, their “call” had fallen on deaf ears.

“But we are surprised at your survival,” rang the renewed, almost haughty voice of Grimm. “Though, it does seem the new Lord has left His mark on you well enough.”

Another bout of silence. The former king of Hallownest cast his eyes towards the swirling blotches of black below.

“As long as I am remembered,” muttered the Pale King, “I will persist even in death.”

The ruby eyes of the nightmare creature slanted, glowering at the other.

“But for how long, Wyrm,” bitterly retorted the Nightmare King, pacing closer to tower over the figure of the broken Being.

“Do you truly think this purgatory will provide harbor from the Void? How long until all who know your name are engulfed in a sea of black? How long until your light vanishes like Hers before?”

…’Her’ before? Who?

Why did he struggle remembering Her name? The Pale King lifted a hand from the folds of his robe, its feeble touch gripping the side of his head. Fingers pressed against his temple. A haze clouded his mind at the thought of his predecessor; how could a Higher Being forget another?

“A god having lost their mind so soon? My, what a sight. To think you once ruled a realm!” scoffed Grimm.

A subtle shake drew from the Pale King’s head.

“’Rule’,” he faintly corrected, eyes drawing up once more. “I still have a kingdom; I am still a king.”

“You have ruins,” sneered Grimm, “And you lie dead. A corpse on a throne! No body, no Soul—you are nothing but an ethereal apparition,” the specter chided.

The king’s hand sank within his sleeve, lethargic motions pulling it back within the folds of his robe.

A smirk colored the vampire-creature’s mouth at the pale monarch’s silence. His feet turned to start a small stroll before the wyrm. A black hand reached down to cup a ring of Essence; the pale-hued circle flared to a roaring, yet brief fire.

“I will return.”

Grimm clasped his hand around the fire, snuffing its momentary life. Red horns cocked to the side as his head turned to face the words of the king. A bemused look accompanied his now raised brow.

“When I am ready, I will return,” the Pale King softly proclaimed. “And I will reclaim my throne.”

“And how, pray tell?” taunted the nightmare creature. “Do humor us! We have been in need of a little laugh as of late.”

The wyrm turned his head to stare his Soul-less gaze at the other’s lively scarlet eyes. A protracted bout of silence held between them.

“I know your games well, Nightmare King.”

The jagged grin slowly faded from Grimm’s face.

“Your charisma is admirable,” sounded the soft, humbling words of the Pale King. “I can see why he chose a flippant creature as his vessel.”

A pause followed from the crippled monarch.

“But certainly the Heart is not this half-witted to play his prodding antics with another Higher Being.”

The sharp-lipped mouth of the fiery specter grimaced. The throbbing pulse within the vessel pumped quicker, louder still.

“Watch your tongue, wyrm,” hissed Grimm, head craned down towards the king. “What slander you speak before me is said directly to my Master.”

“… perhaps a vessel less easy to anger would have been a better choice,” continued the Pale King, expressionless as before.

The heartbeat raced with profound fervor; it screamed a desire to burst from the puppet’s chest. The cloak of the Nightmare King parted slightly as his right arm raised up. Thumb pressed against third finger; the vessel begged to snap the other from existence.

The beat of the Heart stopped.

Grimm froze in a choked halt. His face grew a pale hue; eyes lost their ruby sheen. His hand sank, retreating back within his cloak. His feet skittered backwards in jerky, quick successions—each motion reminiscent of a string-plucked marionette.

The Nightmare Heart had interrupted his vessel's impulsive action.

A reasonable distance now from the wyrm, life flushed once more through the Nightmare King. A deep breath pressed through his parted lips.

“…we share a common cause,” murmured the softened voice of the Nightmare’s vessel.

“And yet our intents vary widely.”

The Nightmare King sighed, his body shifting right face. His eyes slanted, scouring over the density of mist that encircled them.

“That does not mean we cannot help one another. The Shade Lord’s power lays unconstrained; its anarchic tendrils will in time devour all.”

The Pale King kept quiet, a drop of black splashing on the marble below.

“We came to offer freedom from this immaterial prison—a renewed breath! Life can burn once more in you, Pale King. With the Heart’s flame, your kingdom will again bow to your name. Come, burn the blight of black with your glorious light once more!”

A crooked smile colored the mask of the Nightmare King, eyes flaring intently as they fell upon the other’s face. In slow strides did he pace once more towards the white monarch. His left hand drew from his cloak, outstretched in the Pale King’s direction. His palm faced up. In it burned a small, warm fire—a gift of life to the wyrm.

Moments passed. Stillness settled between them.

Then came the slow lift of a white hand. The Pale King’s arm drew from his silver robes. It raised in the direction of the Nightmare’s gift, stretching outwardly. His fingers inched closer to the flame; his subtle hesitations elicited shaky flinches from wyrm’s bony, pale wrist.

The Pale King raised his palm.

His crown shook lightly in rejection, splattering about another few streaks of oily Void.

“The Heart offers shackles. I am sorry, Grimm, but I must refuse.”

The Nightmare King sighed a heavy breath. His fingers closed; the flame extinguished. The thump of the Heart grew quiet.

Yet that smile remained.

“Rather an eternity in waiting, then? Our offer stands for as long as you remain.”

“If an eternity it takes, then so be it.”

A short pause: a devious look came from the Nightmare King.

“Some company will do you well then.”

A grin gripped the corners of the spectral flame’s mouth, hands bursting forth from his cloak.

“Long have I waited to dance with a guest so honored!”

Chapter Text

“Dreams?”

“Yes,” spoke the White Lady, leaning into a more comfortable position. “They are more than just the musings of the unconscious mind. They form a realm, removed from physical being and soul alike. A domain of possibility…and impossibility. There, She before lingered and blighted our kingdom; there, She was contained.”

“But what do my dreams have anything to do with helping Ghost?” Hornet asked, perplexed by the tangent the Queen seemed to take.

The White Lady chuckled quietly. She found pleasure teaching about the matters of Higher Beings, of realms and eons lost to time. At least now she wouldn’t bore Dryya with her oration.

“The empty vessel—your ‘Ghost’, wielded a powerful weapon. One capable of slicing between the fabric of the conscious, and the unconscious. With it, the vessel united the Kingsoul: a charm, linking the physical nature of your father and I.” The Queen paused. “With it too did the vessel bind to your dreams, I suspect. Hornet, speak of what you saw, what memories you remember.”

Hornet looked down in muddled introspection. She tried to pry the thoughts from her mind, those fleeting recollections nestled within it.

“Fights. Like memories of my battles had been plucked out—battles with Ghost.”

“By chance,” questioned the White Lady with a brow raised, “Were there others?”

“Yes—several. I’m struggling to remember but, yes. I remember voices, whispers…singing, almost like a choir,” responded the spider, her fingers pressed to her temple.

The Queen nodded her head.

“Then too have we shared similar dreams. We Higher Beings possess an affinity for the Dream Realm. In it, we seek shelter—nooks, crevices where we may hide among spirits and memories. But there are those who seek us out as well. They use dreams to communicate. ‘Attunement,’ as they call it,” continued the White Lady in exposition. “I know well of whom you speak, as I know well of their ambitions.”

“Their ambitions?” Hornet inquired, still struggling to understand her enigmatic Queen.

“To ascend,” responded the Root, “To become like Higher Beings. With such affinity for the Dream realm, their worship would strengthen the presence of their chosen deity. And through their collective focus would they achieve their goal, attuning their deity into a…”

The lingering words that fell from the White Lady’s mouth were engulfed by silence. A pallid look befell the Root’s white face. The connection of events began to unfold within her mind. The Godseekers and their incessant desire to attune. Worship capable of helping beings ascend to greater strengths. The vessel, with the Kingsoul drowned in empty Void, wielding the Dream Nail. A vessel crafted for a single purpose: destroy the Radiance.

The Black Egg sealed. The Radiance erased. Void attuned.

The vessel ascended.

“God of Gods.”

The Lady’s torso began to rise. Roots snaked within soil undisturbed for decades. The grey, clothed constraints around her figure gleamed with her pale light as the white of her robes tore through aged restraints. Trenches cracked and tremors shook as soil and sediment overturned. Branch and stone alike lay shattered as the Queen retracted her outstretched radicles from her Gardens. Hornet grabbed her pouch, stepping backwards with the unnerved Grimmchild between her hold. The thundering ceased, and the storm that had raged produced new life.

Light began to flow down the lengths of the Root’s hair, Soul flowing through the xylem of each tendril. A glow emanated from the White Lady, dull at first, yet brightening with profound intensity each passing moment.

“This matter transcends your wants, Hornet,” spoke Hallownest’s Queen, arisen from her isolation. She walked forward, towering over the shaken spider. “Though my power has stagnated in my regression, I fear I have little choice but to act.”

Fear roiled within Hornet’s figure. What transpired to cause such sharp change of character within the White Lady? Had a sedentary life of solitude driven her mad? Each convoluted answer elicited further questions. What of this “ascension”? What of this “Dream realm”? What of this “God of Gods”?!

“I will seal the vessel.”

“Mothe—my Lady?!” the princess shouted.

“Hornet!” voiced the Queen, the resonance vibrating her cocoon. “My child. In my dereliction you have protected this kingdom. Stripped of adolescence you gave your life towards our realm. My turn is it now to take on this mantle.”

The White Lady peered down. Her eyes set upon the Grimmchild. Spawn of her enemy. A scarlet stain. A white cap descended from above, careening straight towards the moth. Grimmchild hissed, glaring viciously at root; it held a poor history with tendrils, after all. Before the root could ensnare the moth, Hornet yanked Grimmchild away within her sack.

“You will not take my family from me too,” hissed the spider.

The cap of the root flinched back. The Queen’s eyes widened, surprised by the sudden belligerence of her adopted child. From youth, the White Lady knew her to be as fierce as her tribe. Yet Hornet had never failed to give her respect.

“Hornet—” uttered the Queen, cut by the sharp glare the spider cast her way.

A tangible silence held between them. The White Lady closed her eyes solemnly. She withdrew her arms from her sleeves, extending them slowly. Her sparkling eyes opened once more, giving the spider a kind look.

“The charm, the one that dangles upon the moth’s neck,” spoke the White Lady, “Like the Kingsoul, it is formed of two halves. One, the progeny of the Heart, kindled by the Ritual’s flame. Your Grimmchild. The other, the unfortunate kindler. Bound in life, two halves of a whole. Your vessel.”

Hornet held the bag beside her, clutched in apprehension of the Queen’s words.

“With it can I reach the lingering imprint of the vessel, the memory that haunts your dreams,” explained the Queen.

“Then, Ghost is…” began Hornet.

“For how long, I do not know. Whether it has attuned, or something else in its stead has, I cannot tell for certain. But I must act. For the danger it poses is beyond even the Infection.”

The White Lady knelt upon a knee, lowering her diminished figure to more evenly match Hornet’s gaze. The spider kept still, yet her demeanor began to calm. The Root extended her hand, placing it upon the charm of the ever-fussy Grimmchild.

“I promise you,” began the White Lady, looking up towards her daughter, “that I will try to help you. Know my actions are not of contempt, but of love.”

“…of your kingdom?” responded the spider quietly, her eyes cast aside, “Or your children?”

The Queen kept mum, unable to answer the princess. The Root’s focus moved elsewhere, taking to the charm. The White Lady’s eyes flashed a blinding, white light. Soul pumped through her branches, illuminating the Higher Being with unparalleled radiance. Circular rings of dreamcatcher-shaped luminescence glowed around her, drifting from nothingness, and disappearing into the ether. Essence and foliage alike bloomed in droves as the Root’s true power took form.

“Pray it is both.”

.

A sea of void, thick as tar and dark as death, engulfed all from the grandest columns to the smallest particle of essence of what was once Godhome. The seekers were gone. Absorbed. Attuned.

And where their voices once sang, screams now bellowed.

Tendrils sliced. Siblings tore. The Lord clawed. But the Knight resisted. Ghost stood defiant. Attack after attack was repelled, each strike only strengthened the wayward Shade’s resolve.

But how long would it last?

A few months meant nothing to the Lord. It meant nothing to the Void, primordial and ever-present. It meant nothing to Siblings that had languished for years, trapped in the pit of their own death. Ghost was alone, as they had been for months, as they would be for much more until they too would be consumed for their folly. The Knight had cast away their regrets and sank into the murky blackness. They accepted Void, subsuming their pale nature. And Ghost still chose to resist the will of the Void for that of their own. Void would not tolerate this deviation. Its singular goal, from time unknown, had been put in motion.

It would not allow the Knight to defy its will.

Cracks had begun to show. The Knight’s reactions were slower. Their Shade Souls were lacking. Their Shrieks had grown quieter. Their mastery of the void had begun to wane as the Shade Lord’s power grew. There would be no respite, not in the Lord’s new domain.

Save for this singular lull.

Snaking Void pulled away. The Siblings coalesced, sinking into the grander being of the Lord. The God of Gods sank down, eyes digging into the visage of the Knight below. His four claws gripped the air around the Shade; the tendrilled back and arms of the Knight sprang to life, ready to counter. But the strike did not come. Not physically, at least. To any outsider, the interaction of the Void Entities seemed nothing but a standoff, silent, ready for the first strike.

The Lord was not one for such decencies.

Visions of torture, demonstrations of death welled within Ghost’s head. There were not depictions of the Knight, no. But of Hornet. Of Hollow. Of Dirtmouth. Of Grimmchild. Destruction. Choking black. A sea of Void. An infinite Abyss. What mercy could have been granted before was gone. The Lord knew this Knight lacked true emptiness; will and emotion dwelled within them. He would exploit it fully.

Claws clenched. A towering arm whipped forward. The opening had presented itself, and the Shade Lord took the chance to deliver a strike. The second of delay the Knight suffered would cost them. The tendrilled back of Ghost curled around its frame; it would have to take the blow and mitigate what damage it could.

But the swipe would never come.

A burst of white blinded the emptiness. Void shrieked. Tendrils frenzied. The Lord’s back tingled, as pale light singed His frame. His multi-horned, draconic head turned. Eight eyes glared at the intruder, a speck of white against the black.

“Mother.”

Serpents of Void, seeded with blood-red eyes, streaked at the Root with a hunger to feast. Yet each recoiled and screamed from the White Lady’s presence.

The Queen approached.

A sweep tore through the illuminated sea. The clawed digits once aimed for the Knight now seared towards the Lady. But too did the hand repel, retracted with unbound power.

The Queen approached.

Impossible. It was imperceptible, but a spark of bitter shock flashed through the Lord’s eyes. Void was all consuming. It was all powerful. It consumed all light, from even the mightiest of pale beings. Only one singular substance had the capacity to keep the darkness at bay.

And then He saw it. Nestled in her palm, the smallest of plant matter. A single, white petal. Its edges were torn, slowly chewed away by the darkness. Its hue withered with each moment. But for now, it was enough to sustain her in the Shade’s realm.

The Queen approached.

The Shade Lord lowered his head, not in reverence, but in scorn. He scowled at her, black tentacles whipping, begging her to use her power.

“Your time here is short. Too will you wither with that flower. Then will We grant you a place with father.”

The Queen approached. She stepped to the Lord, and then passed, nary giving a word. She was not here for Him. The tendrils around Ghost’s body had retracted behind them. Their focus was set squarely on the Entity before them. They would not falter again. They were alert, ready for another slice, another blow. They were not ready for company.

The Knight had to restrain itself from striking the White Lady. Dwarfed by the Lord, the Queen still towered over this vessel’s shade. As one palm still gripped the petal of a Delicate Flower, the other opened to present itself to the errant Knight. A charm, shaped in the image of a burning figure. A charm of two hearts joined in flame and dance. A necklace emblazoned with the face of the Nightmare’s child.

“Your defiance has served you well,” spoke the White Lady to the shade. Her tone was level. Whether her words held admiration for the Knight to hold its own against a God of Gods, or antipathy for its will to have shattered the plans she had helped craft, only she would know.

“Come.”

Ghost looked up to its mother. The one who cast them away now offered to take them in. The Knight approached the Queen, a nub-like hand touching the charm before them.

Roots began to envelop Ghost. The Shade Lord bellowed. She was to take the traitor away. He could sense it. She would try it. He would not have it. Tendrils whirred to life as they tore at the White Lady. Each clanged away, dissipating into nothingness. Void poured forth, flooding over both Knight and Queen. But the two were shielded, white root holding against the black deluge. Blue eyes sparkled as they stared into the pale white pupils of her progeny.

“Seek your partner. Cut the path. Tear us from this abyss.”

Essence welled between the two of them. Dreamcatcher-shaped particles drifted from within. The petal began to glow, dissolving in the Lady’s palm. She could feel Void gnawing at her silver-white garment, tearing at each thread with an unceasing hunger. Her roots cracked, Soul pouring through each to help safeguard the two.

The Shade Lord thrusted his claws. They whipped through Void, tearing serpentine creatures apart as they dove for the White Lady. It was His chance. The safeguard had failed; the ward was finished. She had doomed them both.

A flash.

The Lord’s hands slammed into nothingness. Void drenched His palms, seeping between fingers in failure. White eyes burned. Tendrils curled. A howl pierced through Godhome. The Abyss stirred in frantic upheaval. The roar shook the foundations of Hallownest.

His fight was not done.

The bellow rang through the verdant landscape, muted as it was. Hornet’s figure jerked from its idle seating outside the broken cocoon, needle in hand as silken thread whipped behind her. Grimmchild darted behind the spider, its four nub-like appendages gripping the ground as his back arched high. His body shook with terror and hostility to the roar—the same roar that tried to consume him. The same roar that had stolen his friend.

The same roar that ripped through Hollow.

Hollow’s eyes bled a dark, black ink. Its fragile body shook, single hand gripping its mask. The scream pierced through its mind, harkening it to come forth. But that trauma had been dealt, that damage had been done. The vessel would not fold. Hollow could only shiver and convulse as it tried to regain composure.

The echo dissipated.

Calm returned to the overgrowth, yet the trio remained on edge. The Lord’s announced Himself to Hallownest, His presence made known. But what of the White Lady?

What of Ghost?

Hornet’s heart sank. Had she failed? Had she led the Queen to suicide, an impossible task against an incalculable foe? Had she doomed this lost kingdom to the danger foretold by the Root?

A flash blinded the three.

Hornet raised her hand, shielding her eyes from its pale radiance. Essence glimmered, seeping between her fingers, in and out of reality. The spider squinted. The needle, ready to strike, began to lower as the Queen’s form distinguished itself from the fading gleam. Something else stood before the Higher Being. It was dark, engulfing the light that shone off the White Lady. Yet its mask beamed with the same intensity of the Root. Hornet’s stance remained steady.

“Ghost?”

Grimmchild outpaced any sense of preservation the Weaver could provide it. He dashed from beneath the spider’s legs, flapping with vigor unseen since its collapse at the Black Egg. The moth jumped at the unknown figure, enveloping the being’s frame with its wings.

The Knight stood before them bathed in new light. In new life. Their body had changed. Horns had grown longer. Its stature, taller. Tendrils, outstretched from the elbow, fused back into recognizable arms. Its body pulsed as Soul poured within, the Void Heart pumping with vigor.

They were more than just a vessel. They were more than just the Knight. They were Void given Form.

She had done it.

Hornet approached the entity. Months had passed since they met before the Egg. The one who haunted her dreams, the one who stalked her in darkness, the one who spurred her to hope and action. She had been adamant before, denying help to the specter. She refused to join in the vessel’s quest. She had disparaged her sibling and derided its resolve. And she had been wrong. She could not do this alone, no longer. She had an obligation to her kingdom; she had an obligation to her family.

Her hand, that once held nail in defiance, now reached out with open palm.

“Will you join us, Little Ghost?”

Chapter Text

The king lifted his fingers. Thumb and index gripped the bone-carved nape of the white-hued piece, hoisting it from its square, and leapt it over the head of a blood-red pawn. Trembling, boney fingers plucked the scarlet token, whisking it away from the board as a splotch of black splattered in its place.

The Nightmare Being groaned.

“When I requested a dance, I thought we would entertain something livelier than…this,” muttered the moth as he pointed to the board with disgust. He’d seen more pomp in graveyards than whatever display this was.

The Pale King retracted his arms into his sleeves, focus still upon the game.

“You are welcome to leave.”

The Scarlet King scoffed. “And leave you to a withering fate of broken shell and mind? Pah.”

“It would align with your interests,” whispered the Pale Being, his head lifting so the depths of his murky eyes could stare into the burning red of his counterpart’s.

Grimm chortled. “My desires are not my master’s. I grow tired of this. How about another game?”

The Vessel of Flame’s arm shot out in a sweeping motion. His black hand slid across the board, flame engulfing the surface as wing brushed over wood-like root. In an instant, all turned to ash. His hand lifted, thumb pressing against finger. A snap. The board became anew, similar in respect to their previous bouts, yet remarkably different. A larger layout, more dynamic. Too did the pieces take more distinct personalities. On the wyrm’s side, lines of pure white. But only three pieces were notable. Two knights: one spider, one vessel. One queen. And notably, no king in sight.

The moth’s side oozed black. Pawns. Innumerable. And amongst them, one king.

The wyrm studied the board, returning a blank expression to the other. “You would play the role of your enemy?”

“A thespian learns one role. A master performs them all. Do not tell me you shiver over a simple match of Kingmaker?”

The Pale King retracted his hands from his sleeves, resting them flat on the table before him. “You play a dangerous game, Vessel.”

“And you, a dangerous opponent, dear Usurper,” grinned the Scarlet Flame.

Minutes passed. The Pale King stared at the layout; Grimm could hardly discern if it was in contemplation, or dismissal, of the proposal. Then finally, a lift of those frail fingers. The pale spider-piece marched two squares forward, and once to the right. Black digits retorted, as an ink-drenched pawn slid forth. White responded: another knight. The Pure Vessel. A grimace marked the King’s eyes as he touched it, placing it parallel with the spider. The moth’s grin stretched. But as Grimm prepared his riposte, a sudden flash sparked on the wyrm’s side. Both kings stared at the new entity: a knight, blinding white, yet pouring black. An amalgam, an abomination of creation born of both sides. Yet it lent itself to the Pale Being.

It was enough to make the Pale King flinch.

Grimm set his piece down. Elbows rested on the tabletop, as fingers crossed. He mulled over the situation that had presented itself, as a faint smile cracked behind his hands.

“My, how interesting things have become.”

.

The reunion was short-lived.

The White Lady had returned marred by scars of black against both robe and root. They would take time to heal, if ever they would. But her intuition had been correct. It was a time for action against an unimaginable foe; a foe of vast darkness, a foe of pure chaos, a foe she helped birth.

“I must confer with Dryya and take my leave,” proclaimed the Queen. She had barely taken a moment to rest; she would not allow herself one. “Seek out the Void, lest it find you first.” Her words were cryptic to the spider. Her actions, too. Had the Queen not seen the corpse of her fallen knight? Perhaps a result of time left festering in decay, thought the Weaver. But how typical. The Lady’s vision was always so set on the grand picture she failed to see matters, or better yet what mattered, right before her.

“What of you?” questioned Hornet. But the Root disappeared into the thickets surrounding her cocoon, vines circling and sealing her place of rest. The Princess turned to her siblings, understanding the Queen’s message clearly: the only help would come from them.

Battered. Broken. Weary. Ghost was limp, but alive. The same could have been said for them all. Hollow shook. Grimmchild bawled. And Hornet was tired. She hadn’t a minute’s rest since they left Dirtmouth. Natural instincts kept her alert to the faintest scratch. Familial ones kept her tending to both vessels on their journey. And now, an additional one needed care. The only mother she had left, had left. Entertaining her own path. Wiped her hands of duty as she had done within her cocoon before. There was no acknowledgement of her hurting child, the one she reared from birth for a single goal and now cast them aside as a broken failure. Perhaps she simply refused to do so. To an extent, Hornet understood. The need for coldness, to set aside emotion for the sake of duty. But she refused to empathize. She would forge her own path to retain her kingdom. She would fight to protect her kingdom’s soul and dare not sacrifice more than she already had.

And this time, she would not fight alone.

The four had come to a conclusion: the Void was bad.

They had come to a second conclusion:

They would have to descend.

When they would descend was another matter.

A constant eye was kept on Ghost. Upon recuperating, the Knight, shell still soft of transformative Soul-molting, had tried to dart out of Greenpath and into the bowels of the kingdom. Were it not for Hornet’s silken snare, alongside Hollow’s long-clawed hold and Grimmchild’s tight latching, the vessel might have slipped down into the stinging embrace of the ooma below. Against all odds, she had found someone worse to manage than the moth.

She had tried to communicate with the Knight that they, in time, would confront the Void. But recovery came first. It was not just Ghost; Hollow needed time. It seemed the vessel understood, if what the scuffed translations the Grimmchild provided were true. Whether they would follow through was something in which Hornet had little faith.

“No,” adamantly voiced Hornet.

Ghost swiftly moved their arms about the air in response.

She shook her head defiantly. “Not until our shells are healed and our directions clear.”

Where once Hornet seldom spoke, she actively conversed with the three. She had begun learning from Grimmchild the signs used to communicate with the vessel. Basic language first. The circling of arms. A point of their nub here, followed by a dip there. It helped Grimmchild had appendages they could use to demonstrate too. Hornet would mess up a pattern, eliciting a snicker from the moth. After a harsh glare, she would repeat his direction and ingrain the process in her mind. And so it went, day by day, week after week, she began to learn.

Grimmchild too had taken new steps—quite literally, at that. He learned to walk on pointed feet, no longer reliant on perching atop Hollow’s head. This was not to say he stopped doing so. He simply began alternating between Ghost’s head now, too. The arms were another matter. Akin to the Knight’s in shape, at least before Ghost’s rebirth, they struggled to pick up and hold much. But Grimmchild was growing, shockingly so. Hornet gave him a year before he reached her height. As conducive as it would be to have another capable of fighting, she could not bear how unnerving the thought of the moth outgrowing her was.

And this was not to mention Ghost. They had begun to resemble a smaller Hollow, but the power within seemed to burst at every seam. Only its new mask, born of pure Soul, kept the void within Ghost from overflowing. Such raw innate power, and still they begged for their nail.

“Enough, Little Ghost,” muttered Hornet, resting a hand against the temple of her mask. “We venture for the Crossroads. From there, if you behave, we will retrieve your nail.”

.

The first encounter had been the hardest.

The elder baldur hunched before them. Its blackened form, sealing the narrow entrance to the Crossroads, refused to fall. Hornet panted. Her nail was slick in cut flesh and oozing, ink-like blood. The creature was cut beyond what even its plague-infected kind could once sustain. But the plated beast maintained its ground.

Void had been quick to act.

The route from the lowest fringes of the Queen’s Gardens to the highest strata of Greenpath was mum. Voices and chitters were scant. Running rivers and falls of acrid water, bolstered in acidic potency by the unending decomposition of shriveled corpses, marked the main ambience of their travel. Hornet, incredibly perceptive as she was, had noticed only a handful of macrofauna still chittering about the verdant landscape. The rest was nothing but greenery, choking routes and paths once heavily trodden by wandering pilgrims. Two months to the Gardens and back, and the only signs of intelligent life had come from Hornet and her siblings.

Hornet cast a look behind her, only to witness Hollow prodding at Ghost’s mask as Grimmchild gnawed on the Knight’s horns.

She was wrong: she had been the only sign of intelligent life.

Unnerving as the silence was, it was the small, bulbous globs of tar-like substance that had given Hornet the greatest cause for concern. They were small, nary more than what a pool of spilled ink might produce, but like an infestation they had begun to grow more prominent. They seeped from the corpses of large fauna where blemishes of orange-hued pustules once pulsed radiant life. Her nail did little to cease the flow; Grimmchild’s flame had similarly poor results. Hornet opted to have the group avoid them and focus on the Crossroads, lest they draw something more insidious their way.

The puddles of ink had become scant the higher they climbed, the further they drew from the Gardens. Greenpath offered a return to normalcy, for the brief time they remained. Soon, lush green began to peel away to mere pockets of pale ferns as deep blue caverns and fossilized shells overtook dirt roads. It was cause for relief.

Until now.

The baldur’s body enveloped itself in a hueless ink, its neck craned high as its abdomen contorted. From its front, tendrils of void lashed forward to strike at the intruding group. Hornet’s stance shifted, her nail held defensively. Though the spider relied on speed, interlacing quick, aggressive strikes with entangling webs of silk to provide overwhelming offense as her defense, she could ill afford that luxury protecting the three behind her.

Hornet felt her body grasped in the tight hold of another.

Her head darted backwards. Hollow stared past her, unflinching at the encroaching tendrils as their digits gripped their sister close. With figure tucked, the goliath tanked the flurry of lashes whipping their frame.

Ghost leapt past them. Their body, still wobbling in its new form, drew on the same power that felled gods. White mask drenched a murky, black hue; black eyes gleamed white. A burst of energy, both Soul and void, erupted from its body with unnatural vigor. The Shade Soul tore the ground beneath, splitting rock and shell asunder.

The impact felled the beast instantly. The spirit pierced through its reanimated body, ripping arm from torso as hardened carapace was blown into shard-like fragments. The oozing substance brimming from the Baldur poured out like a broken vase, seeping into the earth below and vanishing without trace.

The impact had also launched the vessel backwards.

“Ghost!”

Hornet pried herself from the protective hold of her sibling. She would tend to Hollow soon, but the Knight took precedence. Hornet clutched the vessel’s body, eyes darting about her to ensure no threats remained. She looked over the vessel, its mask white once more as the body pulsed frantically. Silk spun in her hands, ready to remediate whatever injury had ripped through Ghost. Yet nothing presented itself; no tears, no gouges, Ghost’s body looked normal.

“Grimmchild,” she barked out to the moth. “Guard Ghost.”. The troupe creature, gnawing furiously at the corpse that dared attack its friend, scampered over without delay. As Hornet placed the Knight down, Grimmchild’s body loomed over it, mouth burning protectively with fire.

Overexertion. That was all Hornet could conclude. The Knight’s body was still frail, their shell still soft. She knew Little Ghost had nowhere near the capacity to fight, and all the same it had thrown itself forward. Reckless, foolish.

The same as Hollow.

Her fingers pried the silk tangled between each digit as she looked over Hollow’s sole arm. The Soul-infused thread spun over ripped bandage, redoing work she had so meticulously patched before. Hollow was easier to assess. The vessel’s body was not as tender as it had been when the Radiance’s blight was torn from it, but a fractured body was still fractured all the same. Her fingers motioned Hollow to lower their head; the sibling did as told. Eyes pored over every crevice of the crack upon Hollow’s mask, ensuring the impact of the tendrils had not torn away any stitching or exacerbated the fissures. They were lucky. Luckier still that Hornet did not smack them across the head and make a crack of her own.

“Vessel, you know me well,” she said, staring into Hollow’s eyes with stern reprimand. “Know then I can hold my own. Safeguard your wellbeing first. I have held the broken masks of countless dead—do not place yourself among their ranks.”

Hollow stared back, eyes blank as ever. As empty as her father could mold. But they nodded. Hornet could never tell their sincerity, no matter the urgency she invoked. But she took the acknowledgement, for whatever it was worth.

By then, Ghost had awoken. Hornet beckoned for Hollow to help carry the weary vessel, alongside the moth now smothering them. She would admonish the Knight later, knowing full well it was an exercise in futility. But the safety of the crossroad below Dirtmouth came first.

Before all else, they had to reach it.

.

Time.

The time to recover. The time to assess. The time to coordinate.

It slipped through her fingers like fine sand, impossible to grasp before it was gone. Lifetimes alive and yet still she felt unprepared. Not a moment to think. Not a moment to breathe.

Time.

And where the sand fell, black bubbled from its patter against the ground. Each trickle grew its boiling shriek, each moment grew its festering taint. Scattering specs coalesced about Hornet’s feet. She had to act. There was no more of it.

No more time.

Hornet lurched forward, needle chokingly gripped in hand. She panted, sweat slipping off her nape and coating the red shawl below. Her eyes flitted about in perceptive overdrive. Ghost’s head tilted up from its slumped position; Hollow raised their mask from ground. Grimmchild yawned, rubbing his eye with a formative arm.

“Awake again?” came a voice. “That’s the third time now.”

Hornet’s head cocked around, catching the speaker from her periphery.

“Take to the surface. Leave these stuffy caverns, I’ve found they have quite an effect on your mind!” spoke the fly, seated behind her.

“Your generosity is appreciated, Shopkeeper, but—”

“Ahp ahp!” interjected Sly, raising a hand. “Consider this part of my job. Iselda is paying me while the store is closed, after all. And I’ve raised a handful more than these three. So don’t go worrying yourself about me. Worry about your own well-being. Now shoo! I don’t do therapy for free after all.”

A sharp exhale pressed from Hornet’s mask. She glanced at the trio, then the dangling chain that led out the well. With the quiet tap of footsteps upon rock and the jingle of chains, she left.

Hornet had noticed a more cheerful demeanor to the town since their arrival. The threats of a new, unknown danger and the presage of a dark future had little impact on the denizens. The beetle—Bretta, her name—seemed the most eager to venture up and down the well to check on Hornet’s siblings. Elderbug, whose mask always maintained an air of solemn quiet, held a minute smile upon his face. The flower on his clothing still sparkled white, proudly shown, even as its receptacle now lacked a petal. And Cloth, ever-sleeping, spurred to new life with a challenge on the horizon. Only one seemed to grasp the severity of the spider’s words.

“Up so soon?” asked Iselda, walking from doorway of her hut to meet Hornet.

“I thought it wise to take a walk,” responded Hornet, fatigue dripping from her voice.

“Sly forced you, then,” remarked Iselda with a small chuckle. Hornet was quiet in response, stepping a few strides past the cartographer’s store. Iselda sighed faintly, exiting her den to pace alongside the spider.

“Mind if I join you then, Princess?” Iselda asked. “It might help me sleep, too.”

Hornet shook her head. “Not at all, please—and no need for formalities, Iselda. Your help has been invaluable; the least it would warrant is equal standing.”

The eloquence of the spider betrayed any sense of equal standing Hornet tried to convey. It elicited a small smile from Iselda: a monarch whose respect fell to all in their kingdom, even an outsider like her—a rarity unseen in her ventures with Corny. The kingdom was dead, all things considered, but it still brought warmth to the seed bug.

“You’re thinking a lot, aren’t you,” spoke Iselda.

Hornet turned her head from its fixated gaze on the ground. “Hm? Yes, one could say. Though not always of my own volition.”

“Stress,” said Iselda, nodding her head. “About your family and friends, right? Sleepless nights, not knowing what might happen if you’re apart, how safe they’ll be, if you can protect them.”

Hornet turned back to look at the ground. Iselda’s assumptions were answered.

“You’ll never be in full control, Hornet. As much as we’d love to, some things we simply need to put faith in. Your siblings have grown. Hollow is doing much better. I can feel the power from that little Knight, how much they’ve changed,” mused Iselda. “Even that little rascal moth is starting to resemble that ringleader from before.”

Hornet kept mum. A hand came up to scratch the mask beneath her eye. “It is difficult to find faith when we know little of who, or what, we are fighting. We have little in the way of guidance, little in the way of help.”

“Is it any different from before?” asked Iselda.

“The King had a plan. We had a plan. My father, my mother…” Hornet’s voice trailed off. “My mothers, we all kept to the plan to defeat the Infection. We knew what we were fighting.”

“Forgive me, Hornet, I know it’s not my place to say this,” whispered Iselda. “But how well did that work?”

Hornet did not respond. Iselda sighed, acknowledging the impact of her words.

“Sorry, Hornet—”

“No, you are right Iselda, the plan failed.”

Silence again. Iselda turned, placing a hand on the spider’s shoulder.

“Hornet, what I mean to say is have faith in yourself. We never know the entirety of what we’re facing, of what we will face. But with your tenacity, things work out. You brought not one, but two of your siblings back, after all. You’ve safeguarded not only our town, but this kingdom for far longer than I would know,” emphasized Iselda. “Maybe the solution isn’t to follow others, but to work towards a new goal together. To trust in your actions, and trust in your siblings.”

Hornet kept still. Her eyes closed, exhaling as Iselda’s hand slipped off her shoulder.

“You are right,” spoke Hornet. “And still, I feel unease.”

“You always will,” acknowledged Iselda. “It’s part of loving others. The solution is acceptance. Plan with them. Grow with them. Train with them. And you’ll learn to accept them, especially as you work towards a shared goal.”

Hornet’s eyes opened. She stared up into the darkness, letting the cool whistle of the wind blow over her, sand tickling against her cloak. She breathed, exhaling the weight that burdened her being.

“And when we leave, what of this town?”

Iselda giggled.

“It’ll be fun to raise my nail again. I’ve learned quite a bit myself while Corny was off; same as Sly, as much as he pretends to have put his greatnail away. We’d hate to have our newest homeowners on edge while they’re gone, after all,” joked Iselda. “So, consider Dirtmouth in good hands.”

Chapter Text

Hundreds of steps were taken, yet no change was made atop the board.

They refused to commit. It was a long game, a calculated one, one where neither king wished to be bested. The wyrm’s material was inherently low, but each piece was potent. The moth’s was plentiful yet lacked the power to properly contest. Both awaited an opening. Too early, and they risked overcommitment; too late, and the game state would irrevocably be set against them.

The Pale King pressed his finger against the ink-soaked knight. Distal phalanx dug into the piece, rocking it back and forth as he awaited Grimm’s turn. From the onset, the wyrm avoided interaction with it. He knew this Knight, felt his own brand stitched upon its frame, drenched in a pool of black. Powerful, a will to contest those of Higher Beings. A spitting image of himself.

But he could not trust it.

It was his progeny, born of god and Void. As much as it reflected the King, it too reflected the new Lord. Would it turn against the Pale Court, subsumed by their black nature? The wyrm’s thumb rubbed against the piece’s nape. It scratched. It flaked.

It flaked.

His thumb pressed more. More peeled off. Beneath black, beneath white. Another brand.

Red.

The Pale King sharply lifted himself from the table, palms pitifully slamming against the checkered board. The Nightmare King’s eyes rose upwards, surprised by the sudden motion of his rival.

“You cur.”

The moth grinned.

“My dear wyrm, it’s pronounced ‘cœur,” Grimm retorted.

“Bad enough you gorge on the fat of my kingdom, now you dare to take my child for your own devices?!” barked the wyrm.

The Nightmare King felt elated. A breath of air in this dull realm of half-death. How long he desired to see the White Wyrm so animated; such liveliness from a long-dead king.

“Your Highness,” retorted the King of Scarlet, tucking arm and bowing head before his adversary. “I merely adopted what you discarded. I never forced the errant knight into service; I simply gave a quest. And they obliged.”

“You are a trickster and a leech,” spat the Pale Being, each breath an intense wheeze. A cough gripped his body, black lurching from his mask. His legs wobbled, robe sinking into the foggy, marble-colored floor as he stumbled into his seat. His thorax rose and fell in steady rhythm; fingers wiped at the endless streaks of black spilling from his eyes.

“Perhaps,” nodded the Nightmare King in half-agreement. “But I have spoken only truth. Your knight—the Knight, I do not control. They are my vessel’s partner, bound in union. But their will is their own. I have seen it, as have you.”

The Nightmare King lifted his fingers, touching the crown of the black king beneath him. It stained him, quenching the flames within his digit. In a first, he shifted the piece forward.

“As has He.”

The Pale King’s thorax relaxed yet still maintained a brisk rhythm. His anger would be exploited. He had to be calculating, to wrest emotion from action. He had tools; he had to use them. Use what the enemy provided.

The wyrm gripped the neck of the Knight, thrusting the piece forward in riposte.

Finally, the match was underway.

.

Through dangling ivy and patches of grass burst the flame. It danced about electrical sparks and poison-barbed tentacles, a scarlet light in the foggy trenches. Bubbles burst in its fiery wake like the popping of embers.

The disturbance attracted a lumbering giant.

The flame jolted. Its rhythmic dance livened to a presto quickstep. The behemoth trudged forth, silent yet oppressively present. The dance crumbled as it broke form. The figure of fire darted, leaping and bounding with broken grace as its mind set upon one conviction: to outrun.

It snaked between shrubbery. It cut through tangles of vines. It leapt across pits and flittered through tunnels. But the monster kept close.

A clearing.

The flame was close. Away from the oppressive fog and choking ivy. Away from the monster tearing behind. It was almost there.

Grimmchild burst forth from the shrubbery into the opening before the Teacher’s Archives. He hyperventilated, slumping on bent knees, yet still managed to raise his clenched fist in triumph.

“I did it…I found one!” he shouted. It felt like his heart was pounding, begging to break from his shell, as the sense of nausea flooded through him.

The sound of shifting vines heralded the behemoth trailing behind, as the towering figure of Hollow stepped out the same clearing the creature of flame had carved. The moth leapt around, tail sweeping the ground as he beamed with signature cockiness.

“Told you I’d win!” chimed the moth.

Hollow’s right hand lifted. ‘Ok,’ signed the vessel.

“Now pay up!”

Hollow’s fingers shifted again. ‘No.’

Before the moth could throw fit and tantrum over Hollow’s perceived slight to an obligation the latter had never agreed, a deafening explosion silenced the creature, impacting mere meters away. The blast tore leaf and vine alike, littering the moth’s now pale face with debris. The splatter of the ooma’s body came to a rest beside him, its pale core torn from its mangled corpse. Grimmchild, half-petrified, turned slowly to see the culprits.

Hornet and Ghost were beating the life out of each other.

She was nimble, a masterclass in finesse. Each strike preceded another, each slice interlaced with quick stinging jabs. The Knight traded speed for power. Their swipes were sluggish yet tore the air with harrowing gusts. They were brutish, far from the technical nailfighter Hornet once faced. Little choice did Ghost have; Hollow’s weapon was, after all, near the same size as the Knight itself. But Ghost’s strength outmatched Hornet’s. She had to work for every strike; Ghost just had to hit once.

She was tricky to pin. Gossamer Storm and Silkspear kept the vessel at bay. Strands of silk stitched from roof to floor of the cavern created a web of snares to entangle the knight. But the vessel was calculating. Strikes aimed at where the spider would land. Parries were baited, feints ignored. The nail Ghost lugged was thrown at the spider as the vessel rushed behind with claw. They were as unorthodox as they were resourceful.

The environment became a tool. Descending Darks tore dirt into the air, caking Hornet’s web in a thick layer of debris. Abyss Shrieks split apart the cores of surrounding oomas, sending them careening towards the spider. Little could Hornet do to stave off the onslaught, as all decorum in the art of nailfighting ceased to exist in the face of her adversary.

She was not dueling a knight; she was fending off a beast.

Ghost cloaked themselves in shadow. They ripped through the air, slipping through webbing like a massless phantom. Claws flared to each side. The spider had been caught out.

Before the Knight could land, a hand gripped their neck and hoisted them by the nape of their cloak. They dangled, limbs flailing about from the sudden snuffing of momentum. Hornet darted her head to look at the offending interloper. There, the Hollow Knight stood with vessel grasped in hand.

“Hollow, we are fine,” she gasped between heaving breaths. “We are merely sparring.”

Ghost’s hands signed in the air.

“To the death?” remarked Grimmchild.

“No! Ghost—” she barked, jerking a furious glare her sibling’s way. The Knight was dropped to their haunches, falling with a soft thump. Hollow trudged to their dirtied nail, sitting beside the abused weapon as fingers fickly worked to clean its face. “We thought the both of you would take longer,” continued the spider. “What have you found?”

Grimmchild’s face gleamed with excitement as they stuck up their palm. There, inside, rested an ovoid object. Round and encrusted with a foreign tongue, and black as the Abyss below. An Arcane Egg. A rarity of a civilization long lost, but one key to knowing their enemy.

.

Ghost had been able to piece only fragments of the monster the four faced. The vessel provided detailed descriptions of figure and shape, constitution and demeanor. But piecing the entity’s “raison d'être,” their will, had proved a more difficult task. ‘As dangerous as Her before.’ That was all Ghost would sign.

The monster was overt in its power. It was not—yet—as insidious as the Radiance, who festered Her propagation through subconscious dreams. It relied on tangible threads spun of Void to reanimate the deceased, slithering into corpses and long broken shells to pump undeath within the carapace. The deeper they searched, the greater the strands of Void became. The greater the strands, the more corpses they faced. And the strands were ever-growing. They could kill the bodies but never cut the Void.

They needed answers.

Ghost had scribbled an image of the artifact within the dirt. An egg. Relics Hornet had scant seen in countless years of her watch over Hallownest. Rarities from the deepest strata of the kingdom. The King forbade research into such enigmatic articles. Profanities of Hallownest’s deepest pits that cursed their seekers, or so he alleged. But rumors persisted, and the curious were never ones to fully cease their prying. While the vessels could sense a connection with the Void through the pitch-black sheen glimmering over ancient words engrained in carvings, only scholars of the arcane could decipher the true breadth of knowledge hidden within these mere eggs.

As luck would have it, there still lived one who would gladly delve into the mysteries of such relics.

.

The rhythmic pitter patter of droplets against eroded stone and rusting steel muffled the hobbled steps of the quartet. They were drenched, cloaks and garb sticking to their bodies as rain slipped down masks and exposed shell; only Hornet’s silken-spun shawl braved the incessant moisture of the city. Braving the deluge still could not prevent the spider from being the most on edge of the four.

Tension lingered in the air. Past the drumming of rain against their mask and the hypnotic tapping of water upon sediment, Ghost could sense the pulse of wariness emanating from their sister. They, in part, shared it too. New life had blossomed between stone paving and steel edifice. Tall stalks of pale grass alongside bundles of celadon leaves broke through crumbled rock that lined the streets. Moss and lichen clung with unshakable hold against the soaring towers, hungrily lapping at the ever-streaming torrent of water from above. White roots snaked from the square to the spires, illuminating Hallownest’s heart with a vibrance long lost.

She was here.

Priorities remained elsewhere, but Ghost acknowledged they would face the White Lady. It would be a first since their mother had resurrected their physical form. Battles for the Knight were straightforward; fighting had been, after all, how Ghost had survived within and without Hallownest. It was the tense encounters of the emotional variety, those that traded the nail for verbal and sentimental spar, that the Knight seldom liked.

Perhaps liked was not the correct word. Understood was more accurate. Liking—and to a greater extent, emotion as a whole—was a concept with which Ghost struggled. Grimmchild oft asked the Knight if they liked their hunts for the kingdom’s flames, if they liked the scenery of the lands they journeyed, and, more recently, if they liked when the two of them kept close together. Ghost always nodded, but it betrayed the truth of how they processed emotion. The emotions Ghost could feel inside Grimmchild as part of their union, the emotions Ghost sensed welling within Hollow’s frame, those were like roaring flames. Intense in brightness and passion, they outshone what little spark simmered within the Knight.

But a spark was a spark all the same.

It was enough to cast them back into the depths of the Abyss. It was enough to have them act upon impulse. It was enough to sense inclination, a need to forge a path forward, and from it, a will to unify Void itself.

It was the same spark that fractured that unity and led them here.

The splash of steps hastened as Ghost felt their arm gripped in clutched hold, Grimmchild darting the duo beneath a looming structure ahead. Drenched, the moth shook themselves from head to tail to wick off moisture, in turn soaking Ghost even more.

Their sister briskly followed as Hollow lumbered close in tow.

“You are certain then, Little Ghost, this collector still remains?” she questioned, again, as if the vessel was one to mislead her.

The Knight glanced towards Grimmchild, their fingers quickly signing a notably sharp response.

‘She does know we are taller than her.’

“They said ‘yes’,” responded Grimmchild. Ghost made no attempt to rectify the interpreting mistake; they knew their partner was better at softening bluntness. The grunt with which the spider muttered Ghost’s way indicated the attempt was poorly convincing.

Hollow sulked in behind their sister, squeezing what water they could from their ragged cloak.

“My travels here were scant, but a rare sight it was to have seen anyone alive in this cavern so deep within our once-blighted kingdom,” spoke Hornet, reaching beneath her shawl to touch the cloth pouch containing the Arcane Egg. “Rarer still for them to be knowledgeable in esoteric matters both beyond scope of standard study and forbidden to the masses, as is the Void.”

Ghost turned towards Grimmchild, fingers fidgeting. She was questioning them again. They could feel that small internal spark, that sliver of emotion dancing in irritability. Grimmchild could perceive it too, the agitation within their partner trying to express itself.

“It’s true!” chimed the scarlet being. “They’re not the happiest bug but he told us a whole lot about stuff we brought to him…or maybe he was talking to himself. I think he liked the old stuff more than he liked us.”

Ghost commanded Grimmchild’s attention again, their fingers signing once more.

“And Ghost says that um,” spoke Grimmchild, interpreting the vessel’s words verbatim for the spider. “You should…be able to talk to him good because…you are about um…as aff-ab-le…as he is…”

Grimmchild’s lips curled to a fake smile, one struggling to keep behind the nerves tearing at him. The sharp glare Hornet gave both vessels only made the ordeal more difficult.

“You are a child,” she muttered to Ghost.

‘She does know I am older than her,’ signed the vessel.

“They said um—” began Grimmchild, only to be cut off by the weaver.

“I know what they said.”

.

Hollow remained as the trio ascended the tower upon rackety lift. It was less of a choice, and more a necessity; their sheer size threatened the integrity of not only the lift, but the whole structure above. Hollow had few qualms about it, as was typical of the vessel. They had settled on a spot beneath the building, sitting on the cool stone surface as both nail and garb were left to dry.

The vessel struggled to remember this place. They struggled to remember much, as empty as they were crafted, but something was distinctly off about this vast cavern. The sounds? The atmosphere? Blank. Nothing was coming back, nary a thought. The Radiance had cracked both mind and mask alike within the vessel, flooding them with thoughts, Her will, and a voice to cry. But Her excision had torn that all away. They were not empty, no. They could feel emotion; that was one thing even Her erasure failed to strip. They felt care for their siblings and love for their father. They felt defiant in the face of an enemy, and distraught in face of their future. And here, under the soothing drumming of rain, they felt unease.

Hollow sat in the darkness of the ground floor as attempts at introspection occupied their attention. A glimmer shined its way from the east, darkening Hollow’s shadow. It was faint, masked by the downpour outside, but its brightness grew slowly. Its warmth pressed through the chilling rain and cool shadows to embrace Hollow’s back. The vessel felt the change, pushing its seated figure up with its singular hand. It turned, grabbing its nail, and trudged towards the source.

Once more did rainfall drench the vessel’s shell. The stitching against its pale mask and the patching of its left arm’s nub held firm, bound in resistant silk. The rest of Hollow was soaked. Hornet would not be the happiest, having implored the vessel to remain dry lest they catch a cold. But something new approached, something powerful, and by instinct were they drawn to it.

The rain had stopped.

Hollow paused. It poured about them, yet nary a droplet graced their mask. No, it had not stopped. The Hollow Knight lifted its head, staring above. Their nail swung. It clashed with a mass careening from the heights, the spherical entity bouncing again in the air.

The massive ball dropped with immense weight. Again did Hollow strike, hobbling backwards as the ball rebounded skyward. From above, the sphere morphed into shell, and from it came head, legs, and claws.

Claws that came crashing into the ground below.

The impact tore stone from path and broke open road as colossal thorny spikes jutted before the vessel. Their nail held before their body to mitigate the impact, but it forced the knight back all the same. Hollow’s nail kept postured defensively, staring square with the foe before them.

A beetle. Circular mass. Mandible-like horns and jagged claws. A tuft of fur, dangling below from their hardened armor. It was armor Hollow knew they would not break.

“Aha! My replacement! I knew you were strong—even now you hold you ground!” jovially bellowed the adversary. “But I fear even a Great Knight ravaged by the Void cannot be allowed quarter.”

The foe tore rubble from the ground, launching the debris against Hollow. The vessel’s nail could only partly defend itself, as jagged rocks tore against their frame. The vessel stumbled again, marks evident on their shell.

“Forgive me, my mindless friend, but Hallownest once more grows to greatness. Your sacrifice of past will forever be remembered. As for now, I promise you a respectable end in combat for the sake of our future!”

The dung beetle hammered his chest, a jolly cry ringing out.

“For honor! And the glory of Hallownest—”

“Ogrim.”

The beetle halted, claw still pressed against chest.

“My Lady, do stand back! This wayward creature—”

“They are safe, Ogrim. The darkness within them is natural, not afflicted. I know them well.”

Hollow panted. Their nail clenched before them, postured to withstand a buffeting onslaught. Light gleamed from behind their adversary, brighter now the closer it approached. It passed the beetle. It stood before them.

Hollow’s arm sank.

“Vessel,” spoke the White Lady, a root tenderly touching their shoulder. “We have awaited your return. Welcome to Hallownest’s beating heart, the start of our new kingdom.”