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Chapter Text

“It is time. Vessel-” A single twitch. “-fall in line. Match my pace.”

It is led from the White Palace by its creator and King.

“As a knight you must always be aware of your surroundings! Do not let a single detail escape you, lest a threat evade your senses!”

Guards line the walkway from the Palace to the gate, the Great Knights- Ogrim, Isma, Hegemol, Ze’mer- stand within the lines, falling into pace with it and the king, framing them. The guards begin to shift as they pass, saluting their king.

“Don’t simply hit your mask on things- you could damage yourself! You must bend, crouch, twist to avoid such things!”

“Do not allow unnecessary damage upon your form.”

It passes the gate, tilting its head to avoid catching its horns on the arch.

The guards stationed at the bridge salute their King as he passes. His Pale Light shines brightly in the dark caverns that house the Palace Grounds, illuminating the path for the mortal bugs to see.

It is not mortal. It looks beyond the reach of the Pale Light, senses open to what may lurk in the darkness. It senses the faint movements of small, docile bugs in the dark. Hears their small footsteps as they crawl.

It is led through the caverns upwards.

It tracks the movements of the docile creatures in the dark.

It is led across the second bridge, past the saluting guards.

A pale steel cage awaits at the base of a tall chamber. Ogrim, Ze’mer, and Isma enter first. The door shuts, metal sounds as the cage rises into the air.

It waits, slipping into appropriate form. The tip of its blade touches the floor between its feet, both hands clasp the handle.

Hegemol adjusts his flail over his shoulder.

Its creator’s light dims slightly.

The cage begins to lower.

A drop of water falls upon its mask from above.

“Hm. Still leaking.”

The cage reaches the floor, it steps in at a gesture of its King.

The cage rises with a clatter of metal, swaying slightly from side to side.

“The mechanism is loose again, no wonder it’s leaking. Be prepared to leap if the elevator cage comes loose.”

Its void tenses, preparing for movement.

It waits.

They reach the upper platform. The King steps out first, it follows at his command.

Its body relaxes as it is removed from the unstable cage.

The King halts a guard before they throw a lever. ”I’ve deemed the elevator unsafe for further use. I fear the weight of Mighty Hegemol’s armor would pull the loose mechanisms free. Someone fly down to inform him to return to the Palace- you! Bar entrance to the shaft, lock the door.”

A guard moves past it, diving down to the bottom.

It follows the King and three Knights out into the streets.

Its cloak grows sodden with rain and muck. Water runs down its mask, pooling in the curve of its hollow eyes. The void inside swirls in distress discomfort agitation at the stimulation.


No mind to think.





It is led away from the heart of the City. The stone is slick under its feet.

Crowds of bugs watch their passing, shouting cheers and praise for the King, for the Knights. Its head jerks to the side as one rushes towards the King-

The bug is stopped by the arm of a city guard, shouting their praises to the Pale Light.

Its gaze returns to facing perfectly straight ahead.

The crowd echoes the bug, cheers rising in volume as its creator raises a single, stained black hand in acknowledgement.

The crowd cheers like thunder, thanking-

”Thank you, Hollow Knight!”

“Go save the Kingdom, Hollow Knight!”

They thank… it.





It is led up a series of stairs into a building.

It is led through halls, passing few guards and no other bugs. It is led upwards in two smaller elevators.

It is directed into another large metal cage. The door shuts and a lever is flipped. The cage begins to rise with a clattering, metal sound. Its creator’s light flares as the cage rises, reflecting off the water covered glass to their side.



It steps out, waiting as the cage returns down towards the base. A small stationing of guards salute their King, falling into formation ahead of them.

It falls into position again, its king stepping closer. He stands a breath from the blade in its hands, back to it.

Trust-

No mind to think.





It follows its King at his command, continuing through quieter corridors.

The stone is cold, barely slick under its steps. It is dark, quiet. Nothing moves in the stillness beyond its King’s light.

It is led up, pausing after each leap as the group gathers at each new height.

It is led past memorials, small statues planted on the cold stone.

Light shines ahead, a lamppost holding a glass cage of lumaflies.

It is led to a tram station, the tram’s door already waiting open.

It steps inside, moving to a corner and falling into stance, head slightly ducked to avoid the low ceiling.

The tram rattles along, the dark tunnel outside nearly barren. Small burrowing insects dig into the dirt as the large mechanism passes; none dare to lash out at the large box of metal.











It steps out of the tram and into humid air. It is colder, dully lit by lampposts.

The guards take the lead, its King before it. There is movement in the cavern, mindless bugs crawling and fluttering about above them.

A wild bug dives-

Its blade is wet with hemolymph in an instant. Isma is on guard within the same moment, Ogrim’s blades brought forward as Ze’mer slips back a step, hand on her great nail.

Its creator glances to its blade, then down to the vengefly cleanly bisected on the floor. “Clean your blade, Vessel. Isma?”

It takes the offered tools, doing as directed. A procedure it has practiced thousands of times, its blade is made perfectly white, dangerously maintained.

It returns the tools to Isma, then follows as its creator continues ahead. Ogrim now flanks it with Isma, several guards taking position ahead and behind.

Formation.

It is led onward, up through the damp caverns.

The guards push small crawling insects aside, clearing the path.

Another flying insect is snared by Isma’s vines before it can dive, bound to a piece of stone.

It is left to chew its way free. Spared by Kind-

No mind to think-

















It is brought before the glowing entrance of its prison.

“Everyone wait here. Vessel,” its mask tilts ever so slightly, “-follow me closely.”

It does.

The inside is perfectly dark. Perfectly cold. The void in its shell thrums in resonance with each step. The floor seems to ripple with its footfalls.



It is stopped at a stone. White sigils glow on the surface- its creator waves a hand towards it.

It places its hand on the surface.

“A parting gift for you, my Pure Vessel. A glimpse of Sight instilled, that your view of the world not be consumed by these walls. Using this gift, from time to time, you may look upon the kingdom you have saved.”

The magic seeps into its shell, engraving upon its void. Its senses expand in an instant, widening across the Kingdom below its feet.

It does not look.

A gesture summons it, it follows deeper.




It stands where instructed. Takes its stance as instructed, honed and burned into every fiber of its being.


The chains are attached to its armor, its robe pulled back to reveal the hooks on its shoulders.


Its creator pauses, tilting his head to look up at it.

“Vessel… If- if by some miracle you survive this. If you outlast the Radiance, outlive this Infection that has plagued our Kingdom…”

His head turns away.

His voice is soft- barely a whisper.

No other being could have ever heard his words.

“Return to me. Come back to me alive.”

No mind, no will, no voice-

No tears-




Its arms do not shift as it is raised into the air, the sound alike the cage that raised it bef-

No mind to think.



Spellwork glows to life around it, strengthening the chains.

No cost too great.

Several lengths of chain embed into the floor by their sharp tips.

No mind to think.

The room blazes as the seals come to life.

No will to break.

It does not move as burning light pours into its shell.

You shall seal the blinding light that plagues their dreams.

Something screams within its shell, unheard. Spellwork flares as the light is sealed within, its void writhing under its shell, within its mask.

Born of God and Void.

Its void smothers the heat, swallowing up the light within its shell.



Its creator leaves it.






“As a knight you must always be aware of your surroundings! Do not let a single detail escape you, lest a threat evade your senses!”
“Who said that? Show yourself!”

The room is perfectly dark. Perfectly silent.

The voice comes from within it.

Howling in rage, burning in its shell-

It is in two places, perception split.

“-be aware of your surroundings!”

Its mask turns slowly as it assumes its stance, taking in the vast sprawl of golden clouds. The ground beneath it glows with the same golden light.

Its senses are dulled by the omnipresent light, prickling the void of its body. It’s head turns to face perfectly forward.

It has no orders to perform.

The sun unravels into a form of burning light.








It bears the weight of the god’s rage.






”Do you think your silence will trick me? I know you are not a machine.”








”He couldn’t have resurrected the Void. It would have swallowed him in an instant! Do you think you can fool me, you pale imitation?”



”Hm, ‘pale’ imitation indeed.”
It hears amusement.




Stillness takes hold as the light recedes.

Awareness focuses for an instant. It had an order.

"Using this gift, from time to time, you may look upon the kingdom you have saved."

"Oh? So it remembers its orders."

It looks upon Hallownest and sees how they celebrate.

It is like a window folding open in its mind. The light moves closer to it, peering through it.

It sees banners strung across the City of Tears, gatherings around a statue of it at the city’s center.

It sees bugs dance among the plants of Greenpath.

It sees miner bugs celebrate with drinks in the depths of the Crystal Peaks.

It sees the bustle in the Palace, the Great Knights sharing a feast with their King.

"Look at how they celebrate your sacrifice. They think you a martyr! Well, I suppose they aren't wrong, are they?"

...

"Nothing? I wonder how long you will keep this stoicism. I know this must be painful for you, to try to swallow the sun."

...

"...Fine. I will be waiting when you choose to break. You certainly are strong; what a fine, willing vessel for my light you could become."

…

It looks upon Hallownest and sees how the plague does not end.

It sees how the sleeping do not wake.

It sees how Greenpath wanes in mourning.

It sees how the City’s streets grow empty.

It sees the Knights struggle to hold back a gathering of bugs at the Palace gates.

"You see the pointlessness of this now, don't you? You tried your best, yet you could not hope to contain my light. Are you ready to end this farce so we can be freed of this accursed tomb?"

...

"...This isn't going to end. You are not going to win. You cannot outlast me, you hollowed out child of a wyrm! You are going to die, painfully and slowly, at the heed of my light!"

"Do not just stand there and ignore me! My light remains in your precious kingdom- this ruse has failed! You are not a fitting cage for a god- let me out! "

"If this is how you wish it to be, then prepare to burn, Knight."

Its shell burns and its void boils.

It looks upon Hallownest and sees how hope wavers.

It sees the caverns of Deepnest grow bare, its denizens in hiding.

It sees the Hive’s walls sealed shut.

It sees the Palace closed, the gates and doors locked shut.




It sees a revolt in the City, guards striking down bugs as they attempt to breach the Watcher’s tower.

"Even they are beginning to see the truth."

"Your sire cannot sate them with empty reassurance for much longer."

"Do you think they still remember you? I wonder what they think of you now."

It looks upon Hallownest and sees how the plague continues to spread.

It sees the streets empty.

It sees homes locked shut.

It sees guards patrol empty roads, equal numbers infected and not.

It sees the spiders fight in their nests, eating the bodies of the infected.

It sees the Mantis Tribe split, the bloated and infected body of one of the Lords chased from their boundaries.

"You see the way my light is growing, don't you? You can feel it in your shell, can't you?"

"I hope it hurts. I hope it burns your every sense in your every waking moment. I may hear no voice from that pathetic shell, but I hope you do feel pain."

A blade of golden light pierces it from between its shoulders down and through its stomach.

"Oh, was that a flinch? Something? Anything?"

A beam of golden, burning light encompasses the Dream, the perfectly dark silhouette washed out gray by the blinding white.

Blades pierce its body.

Balls of crackling light crash across its shell, shattering into motes of essence.

"WHY."

It stands, shell scorched and too-warm.

A blade of light skewers it from below, forcing its head to tip forward where it gouges its mask.

"BREAK!"

The Dreamers flinch and wince where they watch as light burns and void stains the Dream.

It endures.

"K N E E L !"

It does not.

It looks upon Hallownest and sees how it begins to collapse.

It sees the great City’s gates closed, the bridge folded away.

It sees bodies litter the corridors, none left willing to clear them.

It sees corpses piled from floor to ceiling within the Sanctum, drained to husks of their soul.

It does not look at the Palace.








The Radiance forces its vision upon the Palace. It sees its creator bent over the table in his workshop.

It sees the Pale King weep.

"They won't remember you when this ends."

It feels soft, warm fur press against its side.

It sees the too-bright form of the moth in the corner of its vision.

She attempts to pull the blade from its grip, attempts to break its stance.

It does not budge.

"They're turning on each other already. Do you see those scholars, draining the soul of those poor victims? This kingdom is hardly even worth saving anymore, don't you think?"

"If you just let this end, you don't have to die. You don't have to suffer. You can be an example, show them how they can avoid the pain. Just don't fight me, this doesn't have to be torture."

The burning fire in its shell quells, becoming naught but a dull warmth.

"He hollowed out the light you were meant to have. He took so many things from you. Your voice. Your wings. Your light. Your heart."

The warmth pools-

It gags, autonomous, in its chains. Orange light splatters against its armor, sizzling against the floor.

"I can give them back. I can make you whole. If you just-"

Its throat burns.

"Stop. Fighting. Me."

Its chest burns as light begins to crack its shell.

It looks upon Hallownest.

It’s gaze is forced upon the Palace-
"Oh? Now what is he working on there, spells? He doesn't think he can do any more to contain me, does he?"

It sees its father creator in a workshop, spellwork dancing in the air.
”Is this where he made you, I wonder. I see stains upon his worktable from your like.”

It sees spells it should not know, should not recognize.
”...What is this, a chip in your insufferable fort-”

It sees a binding of dream and matter turned outwards upon the palace.
”No. No- that damned wretched wyrm- he wouldn’t dare! That obnoxious pest can’t just run from his consequences! I will snuff out his light myself!”

”That selfish hypocrite- he steals my children then abandons his own! His worshippers! His kingdom! Filicidal torturer blasphemous coward!”
Why…




”Leave it to a wyrm to run! Leave it to a wyrm and their damnable pride to rather die by their own claw than admit defeat! Leave it to an insufferable, wretched, disgusting dirt-eater to bring ruin and run away!”








”He thinks he can hide within his own pocket of dream and essence? Well he has a reckoning coming… I will breach any seals he leaves behind, carve away his magics- I will have his head and by my own hand!”






It sees its father the King bring forth a Kingsmould-
”Is that his plan? Drown himself in a realm soaking in the void!? Does he think that will protect him from my wrath!? I will burn that animate husk until his spells are laid bare! If even you, his pathetic ‘greatest creation’ cannot hope to hold me back, what does he think he can do with that!?”

It sees its father preparing to lock himself away-
”That coward-!”

Abandoning the kingdom-
”How dare he-!”

He is leaving-
”Insufferable, wretched, child-stealing wyrm!”

It is a martyr.




It is a hollowed-out child.

"It seems you do have a mind I’ll have to break, after-"

The Pure Vessel, the Hollow Knight, throws back its head in its chains and lets loose- not a scream, but an absence, a void of sound.

The Kingdom falls silent as the void of sound washes across it, the force making the stone of the Kingdom tremble.

Far, far below, in the workshops of the Palace, the Pale King's hand stills before casting the final spell. His eyes draw upwards, light dimming as his focus narrows.















Within her gardens, the White Lady’s entire body locks up, appearing to all the world as a piece of her own garden.

“Return to me. Come back to me alive.”

Within the Dream, the Dreamers watch as golden blood spills.



















Hallownest is shaken by the echoing scream of a forgotten, vengeful god.












































The Pale King’s hands still in his workshop, spells thrumming under his fingers, within his very being, permeating the air-

The pressure of the scream is unlike anything he has ever experienced. For it must be a scream- there is no other possible conclusion for this.

The Pure Vessel has broken. The Radiance will be free.

Hallownest will fall.

His worst fears are confirmed seconds later as the scream cuts off- a second, far more familiar scream taking its place. The Radiance’s scream of rage and pain shakes the very bedrock of the Kingdom, his spells threatening to shatter under the force of her rage. His eyes are blind- his Sight fails him as his Focus wavers.

He cannot know what the result will be. He didn’t see this- but he couldn’t see anything now. Void stains his hands, his arms, his Soul- even his Sight had been stained black by the primordial force.

The Kingdom falls to silence- deafening silence, unraveling the spellwork in the air.

The Radiance was silenced. Her screams cut off-

The Pale King’s eyes widen, throwing himself from the table of his workshop and towards the door.

The Pure Vessel is fighting the Radiance. There is yet time, there remains a single strand of hope for his Kingdom.

She could not break it in an instant. It bore her light and her rage, and now-

Now the Hollow Knight bares its nail to a hostile force. It has never failed before.

It has failed to prove itself Pure-

The halls of the Palace are in disorder, retainers running in a frenzy, clattering- no, the silence is deafening-

He flares his Light with all the force he is capable of, washing the halls in pure white.

His Voice cannot pierce the void of sound. He brings up his stained-black hands, gesturing for all to follow him. They are desperate, scrabbling against white tile as they rush to the light of their King and God for safety.

He leads them through the Palace towards the gates-

The Radiance’s shrill screams break the silence, and there is chaos.

”Go! Evacuate the Palace, evacuate to the City!”

He hears screams, the rushing of feet on the stone of the courtyard. He turns towards the Palace, a breath from rushing back inside.

The silence deafens the Kingdom once more.

The screams return a moment later-

They alternate, battling their wills over the Vessel-

His breath hitches, light flickering.

If the Radiance seizes the Vessel, she will have a body capable of retaining her. She will have physical form, trained and crafted to wield a nail with deadly precision.

She will come for him, and kill him with the face of his own creation.





The Pale King’s light flares ever-brighter, taking wing as he leads his panicking subjects from the White Palace as the cavern begins to collapse.

















The City is in anarchy when they emerge.

Ogrim rushes forwards in an instant, catching a bug before they tumble into the canals- saving them from an assured death. He fits words in the gaps between silence, shouting out for the panicking crowds to calm.

Isma binds a bug as she watches the orange of their eyes flicker with growing brightness. She spreads her roots through the city, feasting on the water- the corpses, so many uninfected drowned in this chaos- she spreads her roots and her vines wide, carpeting the canals with a thick layer of foliage. She feels bodies tumbling against her spread awareness, saved the same gruesome fate as others.

The Great Knights force their way deeper into the City, set on mitigating the deaths in this chaos.

The buildings are being emptied as glass fractures under another wave of sound, the screams of some- some god, surely that is the only thing that could make such a sound-

Ogrim dives over a cluster of bugs, letting shards of glass carve his thick shell rather than their softer ones.

“We must get them to higher ground! If the Waterways have begun to collapse-”

“Ogrim! There’s no time!”

Silence deafens them, his words lost in the crushing pressure as he turns back to Isma. As he watches her vines extend, digging into the metal and glass of the buildings, flinging herself towards the sky.

As his gaze turns upwards, and he sees the cracks spreading across the cavern roof far, far above.




















A red cloak soars through the tunnels of Deepnest, needle burying in the soft dirt of the caverns.

Hornet does not stumble as silence becomes screams.

She does not flinch as pressure overwhelms the air, crushing sound.

She does not care for the infected struggling feebly upon the floors, their reanimated bodies stuttering between life and death.

She does not stop as she sails through the caverns, a single destination in mind.



She must reach her mother. She must know.

























The Queen’s Gardens swell as white roots dig and spread across the earth. Vines blister and spread, choking the onslaught of Mantises to a halt.

Dryya bares her nails at the Mantis Lord, lowering her stance as her Lady’s roots twine their feet. She will not receive another chance like this.

Their movements are jarring, aborting mid-swing. As silence and sound fight for control, the Lord’s strength wavers.

Her blades taste flesh, spilling Infection across the fertile soul. She parries a claw-strike, bringing her second blade up-

The mantis screams as he is disarmed.

She knows not what battle the Hollow Knight wages- for it must be the Knight, the void-soaked spawn of her Queen and King whose cries laden the air in so alien a way- but she will not waste the opportunity they afford her. Her Queen shall be made safe. These trespassing mantises will be slaughtered for daring to raise a claw against her.

Her nail bisects another mantis as she leaps atop the thorn-covered vines, perching between the spikes.

She laughs when the Lord impales himself on the spikes, trying to reach her.

Mindless things, blind with no means of reflection.

To think that foolish wyrm considered the Hollow Knight alike to this.

She trained them far, far better than this.






































Within the Temple of the Black Egg, behind the Void-stained walls of the Egg itself, the Hollow Knight thrashes in its chains.

Orange Infection stains its mask, dribbling from its eyes. It soaks its robe, blisters on its chest swelling and bursting as it fights. The walls pulse with orange, infected vines, bulbs thrumming in the corners.

Void roils in its mask, spilling over and burning away the orange of the Infection. It pools on the floor, sizzling where it meets the pool of too-hot orange light. Where its shell cracks along the edges of Infectious light, void spills and mixes with orange.

Its head thrashes in its bindings, bright white spellwork flaring all around it.

“Return to me. Come back to me alive.”

The Vessel fights.







Its blade carves through white fur, blade painted gold in its every carving.

It twists as light coalesces in the air, body blurring as it evades the orbs of light.

It leaps- teleports in response to the Radiance’s own, burying its blade in her chest.

A spear buries through its chest in the same moment.

It does not flinch, does not halt. It carves through the moth’s body as its Void loses solidity. Drops of black liquid spray as it twists away, Focus reforming it as it reaches the ground.

The Radiance screams as she evades the void.

It screams back.

Light shines below it, so it leaps to evade.

Blades cut through the air from the sides and above, so its form twists and weaves through with precision.

It sees an opportunity, so it strikes.

It predicts learns her attacks as the fight wears on, taking less damage as it continues.

Its nail carves the soul from this god’s body, it uses it to fire a volley of pale white daggers into her form.

“Return to me. Come back to me alive.”

Its arm becomes tendrils of Void, dragging the wretched moth down as pale white blades pierce the skies.

The Radiance screams as essence spills across the Dream.

The Hollow Knight’s nail carves into her neck.









The Dreamers watch in awe, baring witness to the battle between god and god-crafted weapon.

Herrah doubts, as the fight carries on, that this thing could be as empty as the Pale King asserted.

Monomon wonders, as she watches, if this is the true might of Hallownest’s Great Knights distilled into a single being.

Lurien fears, as the Radiance’s head reforms upon her shoulders, that a god truly cannot be killed.










”I GAVE YOU CHANCE, GAVE YOU WARNING!”

The Vessel steps slightly aside, straightening- the spears jut up around it, barely more than grazing its form.

”YOU CHOSE TO EXPOSE YOURSELF TO ME, TO MAKE YOURSELF WEAK TO MY LIGHT’S INFLUENCE!”

Its body burns, but it does not care.

An empty thing feels no pain.

The void within it foams and boils as its tendrils lash out, carving into the moth’s body where they grasp.

The Void feasts on the god’s essence, and it hungers for more.

“Return to me. Come back to me alive.”

It feeds its void, drinking in the god’s blood as it fights.

”I WILL NOT FALL HERE, IN THE REALM OF MY POWER! YOU CANNOT HOPE TO KILL ME!”

A blade sinks into its chest-

Void wraps around the blade of light, snuffing it out.

Focus heals it.

”SURRENDER YOURSELF TO ME, AND I WILL GRANT YOU A MERCIFUL DEATH!”

Its grip on its Pure Nail tightens.

“Return to me. Come back to me alive.”

It will not die here.

The Radiance hesitates for an instant, so it dissolves into its void. Reforms behind her an instant later. Lashes her in tendrils as its Nail submerges through her flesh.

It pulls itself to her back, mandibles unfolding under its mask. Forcing the split exposing them wider-

It bites into her neck, drinking in her essence.

The Radiance screams in rage and pain, thrashing as it drags her to the platform below.

Its void hungers.





















Hegemol kneels, lifting another bug from the trembling platforms and back onto solid ground.

The Kingdom threatens to collapse, and the Knight must serve the Kingdom.

A Kingdom is a people, and not a place. He will do nothing for the walls of these tunnels, and instead focuses his efforts on evacuating its people. The bugs of Hallownest are fleeing to higher ground, fleeing the Kingdom.

He wonders how many fled before this, how many bashed themselves against the gates to the Kingdom’s edge.

He will lead them to the top of the stairs and throw wide the gates of Hallownest if it means that even a single bug will survive. Now, while the Infection struggles and gasps upon the floor, they have a chance to escape without carrying away this curse. The Kingdom has a chance-

He swallows the bitter taste in his mouth as he lowers the chain of his flail down for another bug to climb.

The Kingdom will have a chance to survive. Even if it is without its King.

But he will not go with them.

















Ze’mer curls in the corner of her small home, clutching a delicate flower to her chest.

She watches as its petals flicker with light, dipping as her tears spill across them.

She knew- she always knew, deep down.

The Hollow Knight was a child.

A child she helped to train.

A child she drove into the dirt of the training yard, strange blood spilling from their shell.

They were a child once, and she had been one of the instruments that stole their childhood from them.

She had stood aside as argument was raised that they could not be a bug, for they were so oddly shaped and so strangely large.

She had bitten back words of reproach, knowing that they had once said the same of her.

Tears spill as she weeps for the Hollow Knight, as she weeps for her lost love.

She weeps for Hallownest, knowing deep down that it will not survive.



















The Pale King’s magic flares to life, lifting another group of bugs up the sides of the elevator shaft.

The elevator wasn’t fast enough to move them, and water was pouring down the tunnel. He had no choice but to intervene- he could not abandon them.

No matter what spells lay unfinished and uncast in the workshop of the White Palace.

Wings buzz in the air as guards lift bugs up, flying them in droves to the top of the shaft. The retainers huddle close to him, some crying out as water spills atop them from high above. He ignores their cries as he lifts yet more along the walls, magic batting away pieces of wood that fall from the scaffolds above-

“WATCH OUT!”

All six of his arms snap free of his robe, a great white barrier taking form in the air above. He braces himself as the metal cage slams into the spellwork, metal shrapnel spraying out in all directions, embedding in the walls.

Water pours from above against the barrier, pooling atop it.

Washing away the blood of those who had been inside.

The wyrm snarls, baring his teeth as his magic shifts, as he dumps the wreckage to the side, creating a raised platform above the floor.

“Every bug still living, climb atop.”

They do not hesitate to follow the orders of their King, bodies piling atop the pale glowing floor. Guards pulling bugs up, crowding the platform with as many bodies as could fit.

One reaches for their King as the last bug to help up.

He pushes the platform up the shaft, raising a fence-like short ledge around it to help prevent any falls.

He cannot move onwards until he is sure the Palace has been truly cleared.

He cannot risk leaving even a single bug behind-

Not when he feels the air growing thicker. When the chill of the Abyss deepens.

His hands itch as he sets off back across the bridge, wings spreading open as he prepares to take flight.

He stumbles, nearly falling as he sees liquid pouring through the cavern.

He watches as void creeps up through the air, pooling against the high ceiling.

Silence deafens him as the ground rumbles below his feet.
























Her wound continues to bleed.

The Vessel deflects another thrown spear, dancing across the suspended platforms.

The wound it left in her neck still seeps golden ichor, dripping into the clouds below.

Its nail bisects a crackling ball of energy, soul rending the air as it dives back from the unraveling energy.

The Radiance screams curses at it, at its creator, at the Void itself.

It skewers her on a blade of pale light, leaping forwards to carve into her chest.

Its void lashes out and tears into her wings, trying to drag her down into the clouds.

Its void spills as another blade of light pierces it, pouring down to the clouds below.

It sees the clouds darkening as its Focus restores it.

“Return to me. Come back to me alive.”

It cannot be distracted.

No mind to think.

It will not fail.

No will to break.

It screams its rage at the Radiance, kicking off one of her blades as its tendrils lash out. It thrashes in its chains as the spells hold back the essence of the light, as Infection burns its form where it spills.

It sinks its nail into the moth’s shoulder, carving her wing from her body. It rides her to the ground, coils of Void wrapping around her form as she slams into the floating platform, thrashing in its grip.

Light skewers it.

It sinks its blade through her back, pinning her.

A burst of essence burns its body, nearly evaporating its void.

It digs its mandibles into the wound left by her missing wing, carving deeper into her flesh.

Its grip tightens as yet more light burns away its form, Void boiling and bubbling out of its mask. It digs its claws into her, carving golden lines down the god’s back as she struggles in its grip.

Its mask cracks, tearing its head away from her body as a ball of energy slams into it.

It Focuses-

The crack spreads as a beam of light overtakes them both, searing its body until-

It Focuses-

Sharp pale blades skewer the god from below as a blade of light shatters its mask.

Its form dissolves-


















The Dreamers watch as the Vessel falls to the Radiance’s light-
No.










“Return to me. Come back to me alive.”










The Knight screams as its Shade lashes out in a frenzy of motion, sharp tendrils carving into the fallen god’s form.

“Return to me. Come back to me alive.”

It twists through a hail of blade, panicked, as it tears her body open.

It nearly loses its form as it struggles to avoid a beam of light.

“Return to me. Come back to me alive.”

The pieces of its mask fall away as the Radiance thrashes, unable to take flight with a single wing.

It lets loose a volley of Void-tainted blades, pinning her remaining wing to the platform below her.

“Return to me. Come back to me alive.”

It cleaves her leg from her body, tendrils wrapping around the limb and-

It swallows it.

The Radiance screams in a dying rage as her essence pours out into the Dream. She screams as the Void-made Shade devours the essence, as it carves into and eats away at her form.




The Dreamers watch in shock and horror as the Knight devours the Radiance.




They watch as the void spilled across the Dream begins to rise through the clouds, pinning the moth to the ground.





They watch as the Void swallows up the Radiance’s light, her form dimming from golden white to dull grey.





The Dreamers witness as the Shade and Void join, spreading across the struggling moth’s body, cutting her from vie-













































The Pure Vessel goes slack in its chains.

It stares out across the room, watching as the infected vines crawling along the walls, the bulging bulbs, even the pools of orange light upon the ground… wither.

It watches the Infection curl and die.

Hot light drips from its mandibles, void staining its mask below its eyes. It sees the void seem to drip upwards from it, dissolving into the air.

It feels the chains holding it slip, slackening just faintly.

It sees the spells binding it glow to life-

And shatter. The chains dissolve into white light, dropping its body to the floor in a clatter of metal and the splash of blood.

The seals are no longer necessary, as the Black Egg’s door vanishes.

The Hollow Knight is freed, left with nothing to contain.

Chapter Text

Its blood drips from its damaged body, pooling on the floor below it.

It chokes as rancid Infection spills from its mandibles. Its chest heaves as burning light is forced out against its will without its input. Fading orange soaks the floor before it, dribbles off the dulled armor settled on its shoulders.

It digs its claws into the bubbles of blight on its shoulder, spilling and draining them across the floor.

The light withers and dies outside of itself.

It looks to the glow filtering in through the far-off entrance of the Temple.

“Return to me. Come back to me alive.”

It moves its arms under itself, slowly pushing its body upright.

It has a final order to complete.

Its left arm buckles, forcing its weight onto the other. It sees orange oozing from that side, darkening as it adds to the pool below it. It feels heat in its shoulder and chest, slowly- painfully- dulling as the Infection continues to die out.

It held the heart of the plague inside it.

It had eaten it.

Its legs tremble with the effort of raising itself. Its hand finds its nail, stabbing the tip into the floor, chipping the smooth, blackened stone of the temple. It leans upon its nail heavily as it rises to its feet.



It takes a step.



It takes another.



It moves its nail forward, leaning upon it.


Another step.

Another.

It walks from the Temple slowly, each step measured.

Equal parts void and infection drip from its body with each step.

It Focuses-

It flinches jerks under the backlash, its soul reserves depleted.






It takes another step.













It encounters its first issue in its damaged state- the cavern's drops have potential to further its damage.

It cannot teleport without soul.

It is not damaged by the first few drops.


It stares at the outcropping slightly below it.



It looks down at the ground much further below that.





It ducks its head under the low ceiling, leans heavily upon its Pure Nail, and reaches its leg out for the lower outcropping.

It finds purchase, balancing between its far leg and nail as it brings its other leg out.

It falls.

It does not let go of its nail, dragging the blade down with it.

It lands roughly, jarring, on the ground below. It curls as it falls, allowing the impact to force it to uncurl, lessening the blow.

It feels the ground quickly grow wet under it.



It is slow to rise, but it does.



It does not note the large pool of dying Infection it leaves behind. It does not note the pure darkness staining it.

It continues through the cavern.









It is more careful. It takes the longer drops when the gaps are too wide for its stride.

It must return.

Its weight drives it to its knees as it drops, nail digging into the ground to steady it.


Its left arm hangs all but uselessly at its side.

It can move it, but is too weak to do any more.



Its nail carves through a wild bug that approaches it-

It straightens slightly as soul drips into it.



It continues forward, cutting down any wild bug it sees.

It Focuses.


It steps more easily, leaning less weight upon its nail.




It hears voices from another path-

“Get back!”

“Is that thing still infected!?”

“I thought you said the Infection died!”

“...Is that- that’s the Hollow Knight!”

It steps up to the path it must take, continuing the path it knows.

“That’s impossible! The Hollow Knight sacrificed itself!”

“If it did, the Kingdom would have already been saved!”

“Unless it's why the Infection is…”

It walks beyond the range of even its hearing, cutting down a vengefly from the air.

It has many steps to make downwards.




It does not fall with stronger legs.




It emerges onto the tram platform.

The door is shut.

It halts, all at once, at this obstacle.

The tram is shut, it does not know how was not told to open it. The tunnel the tram travels through is also closed.

It stands upon the platform, staring at the necessary step in its path that is unreachable.









It hears a soft sound approaching it.










It hears footsteps on the metal platform.

It does not turn. It was not-

“- you must always be aware of your surroundings!”

It turns to the sound, looking down at the bug near it. A small beetle.

“Did… Do you need help? The tram?”

It stares.







“I- I have a pass. I can let you use it!”








It watches the bug nervously hold out a small card.







It watches the bug slowly lower the card, looking between it and the tram.







It watches the bug step towards the tram, pushing the card into a slot-

It watches the tram door open, then takes a step forwards.

It ducks its head low to pass the doorway, pushing itself upright once inside.

It stands, staring towards the tunnel the tram must take.







It watches the bug step inside, slowly approaching the pedestal to one side.

It watches the bug insert the card into the slot-

It catches itself on its nail as the tram jerks into motion.

“Oh! I’m so sorry, I didn’t think-”

It Focuses-

It stops before the magic can backlash.

“...Was that magic?”

It straightens, falling into stance.





“Wow… Just like the statue.”





















The Pale King shines with light as he soars up the ruined elevator shaft, magic buzzing in the air around him to drive him faster.

He had watched the Void rise and pool against the cavern ceiling, waiting to see the rock erode and break. Waiting to see the Void break free of the Abyss.

He had watched the Void drop, pouring down from the ceiling in a wave of darkness.

He had dove from the bridge with a flash of magic and wings, throwing himself into the soaking elevator shaft to avoid the downpour.

He had narrowly avoided staining his entire shell with the suffocating cold of the Void.

The damage to the shaft had worsened, the roof showing cracks in the stone from the tremors and the overburdening of the elevator alike. He twists as he dives past the sagging metal platform at the top, driving his body onwards and into the City.

He finds destruction. Chaos. Bodies.

He sees infected bugs withered, the thick and honey-like plague that oozed from them browned and decayed.

His eyes turn across the City, baring his Light for his subjects to see.

For the canals to be so flooded, the Waterways must be blocked. The drains must have become clogged somewhere, perhaps due to the rubble spilling into the canals. He can see buildings damaged, glass shattered and spilled into the streets.

He sees clear signs of Isma’s presence, the vines coating the canals likely having saved many bugs. The few he can see in the water were likely killed in the chaos, not by the shallow depth in which they could stand.

He takes wing, intent on flying towards the City’s center.

As he rises, he sees the vines spread across the cavern roof, struggling to hold it together as cracks continue to spread.

It widens its stance slightly.

It does not fall as the tram stops.

It walks out once the door opens, continuing its path.

“Oh! Alright- you’re welcome! Thank you for saving us!”

No mind to think.







It sees the memorials.

It sees a large rock crushing one.







It has more difficulty fitting through the tight gap with weaker legs.

It persists.






It hears the rattle of guard armor below.

It takes a long drop, nail burying in the stone of the path.

The rattle stops.



It rises.



It continues.








It enters the cage to the City.

It stares at the lever.

“Return to me.”

It reaches up with its weak arm.

It cannot move the lever.



It stares.






It tilts its head slightly to the side.

It tilts it forwards.

It leans its weight upon its mask, shifting the lever slowly.





The cage rattles into motion.

























The air of the City shakes with the burst of soul and pressure as the King drives himself into the sky.

He lets his light burn brightly, drawing the eyes and gaze of the bugs left in the City. He hopes that this- the end of the Infection, to see their King rising into the sky to save them from a flood- he can only hope that this is enough to renew their faith in him.

He brings the weight of his magic to bear as he reaches the lowest hanging vines, spreading his soul across the stone of the cavern ceiling.

”Isma! Wherever you are, come to me! Retreat your roots as I mend the stone!”

He pushes his magic into the cold stone, pressing all six of his hands against it. He feels water stream down his arms and back as the ceiling takes on his light. He feels the weight of the water above as the vines begin to shift and move around him. Feels the eyes of his Kingdom upon him as he attempts to perform a miracle.

If his Vessel could manage one, why shouldn’t he?

The Pale King bares his fangs as he presses deeper into the stone, soul pouring through the deep cracks. His light flickers as he Focuses, pushing his fullest weight to the task-

He flinches slightly as something curls around his shoulders, Isma revealing herself hanging just beside him.

He hears, but does not understand her words. He hears the creak of stone as it shifts under his hands, closing shut. He hears the dull roar of his own blood in his shell, the beats in time with his hearts.

His shine flickers, then gives out as he completes his work.

He surrenders himself to his Knight’s grasp, trusting her to see him safely to the ground below.

























It steps out of the cage, surrounded by city guards.

It steps forward-

“Halt-!”

“Do not allow unnecessary damage upon your form.”

It slashes, knocking the raised nail from the guard’s hand.

The rest draw back, some gasping, others raising their nails in defense.

Void drips down its legs, pooling and staining the floor below it.

It takes a step.

The guards move back, weapons and shields raised.

It sees one pause in the action, squinting their eyes at it.

“...Is this the Hollow Knight?”

It takes another step.

“It can’t be- the Hollow Knight is dead!”

“It looks only half- dead!”

It takes another step, Pure Nail dragging against the stone floor.

The guards flinch back at the noise, making space for it. They crowd to the sides, giving it a clear path past them.

It continues forward.

“The Hollow Knight wasn’t alive to begin with- it was just a machine!”

“So it couldn’t die- did it just take too long to do its job?”

“Where is it going?”

“Do you think-”

“The Palace!”

“Someone needs to inform the Pale King!

It hears movement rushing towards it.

It watches a guard rush past it, wings buzzing as they leap through the elevator and vanish below.



It steps inside the elevator.



It steps out, dropping beside the glass window.


It lands solid in a crouch, Infection and void splattering the ground under it, across the glass beside it.

It gags, putrid light spilling from its mandibles.

Its chest burns.

It forces itself upright with its nail, taking another step.




Another.




It marches onward.







The second drop jars less of the Infection from its chest. It clears it with a single heave.








The next barely phases it.








It kneels before the next, sliding its legs over the edge.

It drops down to the platforms of the King’s Station.

Screams fill the station as the bugs around it cower.




It steps down the worn metal stairs, its nail dragging with each step.



It sees several guards rush in from the lowest level of the station, looking about for the infected threat. They look upon it and flinch.

“That’s a big bug…”

It is.






It takes the final step off the stairs.

The guards flinch back from its void and light stained form.

“No glow- it’s not infected! Just injured! Come with us, we’ll get you to medic-”

A breeze catches its cloak, pulling the fabric back. Exposing its side. The guards flinch back as one, one’s antenna drooping down.

“...Pale Light that looks bad. It’ll be okay big guy, we’ll- Hey, stop, where-”

It steps past the guards and into the rain.





It feels the water running down its form, the burning in its side soothing as it is washed clean by the rain.

“You must remain presentable- a Knight of the King cannot be unsightly! Especially within the Palace!”

It is not within the White Palace.

It must be presentable, regardless.

It cannot be, it is damaged.

It does not respond to the guards tugging at its cloak, nor its exposed arm, leaning upon its nail.





It tilts its mask up slightly, letting the rain pool and run down the stained trails below its eyes.











It stares at the pale white stone covering the roof high above the city in scattered and jagged lines.









It continues towards the Palace.

It pulls away from the hands of the guard without effort. Even damaged.





The stone is still slick under its feet. It is easier to walk with its nail.

There is more water in the canals, nearly overflowing into the paths. It sees vines and plants spread across the canals in their entirety, submerged below the water’s surface.

No mind to think.

The sound of its nail hitting the metal of the short bridge reverberates through the air.

The air shifts subtly, a dim light coming from the doorway above its path downwards.

It steps forward.




“...Pure Vessel?”

It stops.


















Isma had spotted a commotion as they approached the ground, directing them towards it.

She had likely hoped the Pale King’s presence, alongside her own, would be enough to stop any fighting or looting from breaking out within the City.

He had required several moments to recall his strength and stand without aid, his soul reserves significantly diminished. His Pale Light was softer, more restrained without the necessity to hold it back by his own will.

He had taken the lead, as would be proper, towards the King’s Station.

A loud sound, metal on metal, had drawn his full attention ahead, fearing a fight or further damage occurring.

“...Pure Vessel?”

Now he stands atop a ledge, staring down at the destroyed form of his Pure Vessel.

He catalogues the injuries damage he can see from this angle. The wilt to the Vessel’s form. Low on soul, cannot Focus to heal its lesser injuries. Leaning upon its nail like a crutch, significant damage to its body or legs.

Browning orange stains its tattered and frayed cloak, tears evident where the harsh blight had thinned the material the most.

Black void stains the front of its cloak to match the Infection along the side. Both mix along the bottom.

The armor adorning its shoulders no longer glows with soul. It looks dulled, eroded. There are patches of either rust or dried Infection staining the metal.

It had fought a god and won. Its own battered and blood-soaked form proves it.

He takes a single step, extending his wings.

He sees its posture forcibly straighten, moving into its typical standby stance.

He ignores the guards standing at attention beyond it.

His wings carry him down easily, the sound of his steps upon the stone seeming grander than he expected. The City has grown silent around him-

Of course. The King is addressing the Savior of Hallownest after all. No bug would dare to interrupt this moment.

Not even his Kind Knight, kneeling on the raised path behind him.

He measures his steps, drawing upon his decades of practice in presentation. He tucks his wings near his sides, letting them hang just outside the folds of his robe. He clasps his hands in front of him as his robe drags, pulling the front open just enough to expose his body.

He stops before the Hollow Knight, letting his Pale Light glow slightly brighter.

“You’ve returned to me, Pure Vessel.”

He speaks it fondly softly, preparing to offer any number of commendations, to grant it an order to rest and allow him to repair it.

He does not expect it to drop to its knees, laying its blade down on the road beside it.

His breath and light stutters as its head lowers, pressing its mask to the ground before it.

Groveling.

Submitting.


He hadn’t ordered it to do so.


His hand trembles slightly, unable to find his voice as he reaches out towards it.

He hadn’t ordered it to slay the Radiance.

The Pale King stares at the Pure Vessel Hollow Knight as it surrenders itself to his Judgement.






As it had witnessed bugs do within his court.





Bugs who had admitted to committing treason.







“...My Hollow Knight…”

He can see void and blight pooling beneath it, washing away with the rain.







“...I… I don’t fault you.”

He sees it twitch.




Sees its body go slack, collapsing into the pool of its own blood.
















He is dimly aware of Isma grasping his shoulder.

He does not hear her.













He wonders if the Vessel is crying out. If that is why he’s submerged in such deafening silence.













He moves forward slightly, his soul flickering at his fingertips.





“Get it to the Palace. Now.”

He speaks, but does not hear his own voice.



He sees Isma wrapping its body in her vines, securing its cloak to its wounds.




He sees her carry it past him.




He walks forward.





He kneels.

He grasps the handle of the Pure Nail.

He stands.








He turns, moving towards the Palace.




























Dryya rises from her crouch, planting her foot against the over-bloated idiot who had challenged her.

She looks out across the garden, watching as the few remaining mantises fall into a bow.

The rest lay dead on the ground, dead by either her nails or the end of the infectious light that had died out.

She had killed their Lord, and now they are bowing to her.

She gives a small nod, turning towards the White Lady’s mound.

“Guard the grove. Let none who trespass with intent of harming the Lady live.”

She hears a bustle behind her, likely the remaining mantises taking up positions.

She enters the white roots sequestering her Lady from the world, shuffling through the narrow corridors. She moves carefully to avoid causing damage to any of her Queen’s growth.

She emerges into the main chamber, kneeling before her god.

“My Lady, the invading mantises have been defeated. Their remaining numbers have shifted their loyalty to me as the victor, and I pledge their service to you.”

She looks up, awaiting her Queen’s directions.







“...What has become of the Infection?”

“Many of the infected mantises collapsed at once, and I witnessed the plague’s light drain from the corrupted Lord’s eyes.” She pauses, tasting the words in her mouth before speaking them. “I have reason to assume that the Infection has… Receded. Possibly been wiped out.”









Dryya shifts slightly, moving her knee into a more comfortable position.

Her Queen has never complained if she shifts while waiting.









“Cut my roots and branches.”


Dryya blinks, tilting her head up to meet her Queen’s eyes.

“Where?”

“Near to my core. I must return to the White Palace.”

Dryya rises, drawing her nails. Her hands are swift as she cuts through the growth, watching as what she cuts away dims and dulls without her Lady’s light.

“I must know what has happened to the Pure Vessel.”

Dryya does not correct her Queen- not on this matter, never.

If her Queen must think the Hollow Knight empty to bear what has been done to it, she will protect her Queen from any who would shatter that belief. If she must believe a lie to have the strength to continue, Dryya will never correct that lie. She will live it, even if it pains her to do so.

“Of course my Lady. We will depart as soon as I have you freed. Would you like the mantises to help escort you?”

She leaps high, nails singing as they cleave the branches ingrown with the ceiling above.

She pushes off a wall, keeping her height as she moves through the branches of her Queen.





“...Yes. The Kingdom will be in upset. It will look good for me to return with a full guard to watch over me.”

Dryya drops to the floor, kneeling before her Queen. “Of course. Would you like to open your retreat, or shall I?”


She is startled by how quickly the vines pull the wall open, splitting the roots into a wide rift. She rises as her Lady does, leaping through the gap to ensure no threat exists outside.

Apparently the Queen is quite motivated to return.





























Hegemol moves slowly but steadily through the crossroads, searching for any injured bugs.

He had thrown the Gates of Hallownest wide for the fleeing citizens, only for the tremors and screams of battling gods to silence.

Nobody had known what to do, where to go.

Had known how to react when an infected bug stumbled towards them from the other side of the gate, stumbling and dying on the ground as the light in its eyes drained.

There had been arguments. Conjecture. Claims that the Infection was gone. Shouts that it had killed every bug it could before they all ran away.

Hegemol had turned from the gate, marching back towards the well leading down into the Kingdom. He chose to learn the truth of the matter in the clearest way possible.

He found the Infection dead or dying.

Now he searches the cavern for still-living bugs, pain mounting with each still body he finds.

The main roads lay bare of life, only a few mindless bugs to be found crawling on the walls.

The Temple lays open.

There was no body inside.

A trail of infection and black stains lead deeper into the crossroads, so deeper Hegemol goes. Past the drops of ledges and a large pool, deeper into the tunnels. Past the cleanly bisected bodies of uninfected wild bugs.

He hears voices and diverts from the trail, ducking into the stag station.

“Oh! Another Knight- look!”

Hegemol dips slightly to nod his head, turning his gaze across the small cluster. ‘Another.’ Three bugs, a cicada, a mite, and what looks to be a maggot or grub. “Any injured?”

He sees one flinch slightly at his voice- it is unusually deep and booming for a bug, after all- but the cicada answers with a raised arm. “Cracked my shell, apparently I can’t ride the stag.”

Hegemol nods his head, turning away from the group before lifting the edge of his helmet, reaching past a curtain of silk and down into his armor for his medical supplies.

He can’t let these bugs see that one of the Great Knights is a beast, after all.

He pulls forth a small glass jar of sealant, securing his helmet and turning back to the group to help apply it. He would continue to follow the trail after he has ensured these bugs will be safe.

The Kingdom must come first.
























Hornet kneels beside the plinth that her mother, Queen of Deepnest, had been put to sleep atop.

She hisses and clicks as she fights tears, pressing her hands to the glowing spellwork over the stone.

Herrah the Beast still lays sleeping, unreachable. Whatever the result of the battle that had taken place in the Kingdom of Hallownest, the Dreamers have not woken.

She wonders if her cursed sibling survived.

A soft sound, a bug creeping up behind her- she twists and throws her needle at the source.

The blade buries in the thick web just above the weaver, the spider having ducked to the floor at her motion. “Queen Hornet.”

The title burns in her chest. It stings in her eyes.

“Speak.” Her voice does not waver, no matter what any rumor that spread may say.

“The badly infected in the caves have died, the lesser appear to have survived, but… Injured, severely in some cases.” Their voice sounds young- where are the elder weavers, the other spiders of Deepnest at this time?

Had they sent a young spider to her because they still see her as a child? Immature?

She chooses not to recognize that she’d been crying over her mother until they’d arrived.

“Gather the wounded, bring them back to the nest. We must know for certain our numbers, but quarantine those who were infected. We cannot risk a resurgence devastating us.” They bow- “If anyone is able, have them collect the soul-rich water from the spring near the tram station. If Hallownest’s guards are there, learn what we can of the state of things.”

The weaver stares at her, clearly trying to memorize the instructions in order to pass them on.

“I will… I will prepare to go to Hallownest to meet with the Pale King. Only once Deepnest is secure and safe.”

She draws her needle back to her hands by a thread, straightening her mask. Smoothing her cloak. She checks her pockets for traps, counting the number that remain.

She reaches under her mask, wiping the tears from her face.

“Let us go, then.”

































The Pale King stands in his workshop, leaning over the body of the Pure Vessel.

His pale steel instruments litter the worktable, stained with void. The table’s stains grow with each moment as the Vessel’s body continues to bleed.

Its armor and cloak lay discarded on the floor in a heap, waiting to be burned.

Its shell is cracked where it has swollen with blight, the damaged pieces having to be pried away to allow access to the wounds below.

He presses soul into its shell, Focusing as he weaves it deeper into its void-slick body.

Sickly sweet smelling orange forces its way out through the incisions, browning where it makes contact with the air. He sees streaks of black tainting it, the Vessel’s void attempting to subsume the plague’s light.

He draws forth one of his glass instruments, drawing void from the wingmould on the table into the syringe.

He presses the needle into the largest incision on its chest, injecting the supplement of void into the wound.

He has repaired it time and time and time again in this way-

But it isn’t working. Not enough.

The Vessel still continues to drain void and light upon the table, one of its arms so thinned out he’s shocked that it still holds form, hardly more than a hollowed shell.

Ironic.

He draws another supplemental injection, pushing it into the damaged shoulder. He presses soul in to aid with the absorption- he hopes, he’s never tested the rates or effectiveness, never needed-

This isn’t working.

His teeth grind as he slams his hand down-




He now needs a new syringe.




The King draws a breath slowly, deeply, as he looks over the Vessel. He needs a better plan.

The Void is powerful and dangerous, the substance stains his shell in a way he cannot remove. It continues to fight the Infection remaining in the Vessel’s body, diluting and subsuming it.

He needs more.




His gaze turns to a large glass jar in the corner of the workshop, soul swirling inside of it.

The Sanctum had sent it as a demonstration of their studies.

They had promised him the containers were capable of holding void within them, allowing him to move his production of moulds from the abyss to the Palace.




He draws the jar across the workshop with the glow of soul, lifting the pale steel cap from the large container.




He lifts the Vessel very carefully, lowering its form into the container as the soul diffuses into the air.

He leans its mask backwards against the lip of the glass, ensuring it is settled.


He lifts the wingmould over the jar, splitting its metal shell, breaking the binding spells inside it, and letting the void spill over the Vessel’s damaged form, pooling in the bottom of the glass.



The glass does not shatter. It manages to hold the mostly-inert void, at least for now.




He needs more. Much more.

Hopefully there are enough moulds left in the Palace to fill the container. Enough contained void left to combat what remains of the Infection.

He stands, looking down upon his void and Infection stained cloak.





He steps out of the workshop, setting off down the halls to collect as many constructs as he and his magic can carry.

Chapter Text

Awareness.










It is damaged.














It is inside of the King’s workshop.









It is alone.









A knight must be aware of its surroundings.


It tilts its mask, looking down instead of straight up.

It is submerged in a container of void.






No mind to think.










It has access to soul.

It is being replenished very slowly by the soul-rich air and the void soaking its form.



















The void it is submerged in cannot be its own.




















It would be irreversibly destroyed if it had bled this much of its construction substance.

















































It hears the door open.

It turns its head towards the sound.

The King has entered the workshop.







It watches its creator struggle with dragging a kingsmould towards it, his Pale Light so dim he could be mistaken for-

No mind to think.












It sees him flinch when he looks upon it.

“Vessel, are you awake?”

It stares.




“Right- of course- very gently tap the wall of your container if you are currently aware.”

It shifts its arm in the void, finding the wall of the glass container. It uses the sharp tip of its finger.

Tap.

“Excellent. If you have enough soul, attempt to heal.”

It Focuses.

It feels void in the container shift and rise around it.

It feels heat press out of its chest, running down its shell.

“Good, perfect. You are doing excellent.”

No mind to think.


No mind to think.



No mind to think.





It does not move when the kingsmould is laid across the top of the container, just in front of its mask.

“When you molted for the first time, you devoured a wingmould in my workshop.”





Its creator cracks the magic sealing the kingsmould, allowing its void to spill over the vessel and fill its container.





“I was concerned for a short time that it meant you still had some manner of instincts. That they could become a weakness that the Radiance could exploit.”

It does not tense.




“I see now how wrong I was. Perhaps drilling you to ensure no ‘lingering instincts’ could impact your… Actions had indeed proved beneficial in your final confrontation. Perhaps, if I had foreseen your ability to defeat the Radiance, I would have focused instead on training you further to ensure a… More lossless victory.”




It watches the kingsmould be pushed aside, spilling and breaking across the floor.

There are other scraps of moulds nearby.




“...I do not know how you managed it, Vessel. I…”

No mind to think.



Do not think.







“Thank you.”






It curls its fingers where its creator cannot see.






“Right- I’d lost my point. When you molted, you devoured the mould. You consumed the void inside of it. I assume this was an instinct relating to your growth. Your body was in need of a greater supply of void, and so you consumed more of it.”



It watches its creator turn, looking across the workshop.








It watches him leave, the door banging as he shuts it.








It waits.











Its body cools slowly.
















Heat still throbs in its chest, focused in a point.




















It hears the door open.



Its creator grunts.

It turns, watching him carry a wingmould towards it.




Its King sets the mould on the edge of the jar in front of it.

“...If it- Hm.”

It waits.






“I have a test in regards to your healing. You consumed a wingmould to replenish your void after growth. Your void is currently depleted. If you are able, without causing further damage to yourself, please feed on the void in this mould as you did then.”

Without further damage.

It lifts its arms, carefully grasping the wingmould in front of it.




It pushes with its legs, raising its mask higher.


It unfolds its mandibles from its mask.

It tastes the soul-rich air, tastes the faint traces of sour Infection.


It pries a plate open with its stronger hand, ducking its mask into the body to bite into the void structure at the core. It lifts the mould above it, tilting back its head as void begins to ooze into its mouth.

It consumes the void inside, shifting its grip as the frame slowly loses structure.



“...Interesting. I wonder if it would have aided your recovery time during training to prepare capsules of inert void for you to replenish yourself with.”






It retracts its mask from the metal frame as it shifts and collapses into a pile of plates.

“Right. Just place that on the floor, I’ll… Repurpose the material later.”

It shifts its arm over the lip of the jar, carefully setting the materials on the floor.

Do not just drop things- you could damage something.





“Vessel.” It tilts its head toward him. “Please position yourself inside the container however causes the least strain upon your body.”

It retracts its arm, lowering it inside the container. It untenses its legs, letting its body smoothly sink down into the curve of the glass. Its mask bumps against the lip of the glass.

It pauses.




It leans its mask backwards on the edge, allowing its weight to settle.

It does not feel strain from this position.





“Good. Do what you are capable of to prevent further damage to your form.” It watches its creator walk around its container and out of view.




It hears its creator stop near the door.

“I am going to search for more moulds to draw void from across the Palace Grounds. So long as it continues to produce positive results, heal yourself whenever you have absorbed enough soul to do so.”





It hears the door shut.
























“Using this gift, from time to time, you may look upon the kingdom you have saved.”











It sees Knight Ogrim, arguing with a scholar of the Soul Sanctum.













“Due to the volatile and fragile nature of our work, we cannot allow outsiders inside.”

Ogrim nods his head, gesturing to the Sanctum above them. “Of course my friend, of course! But surely the tremors that shook Hallownest have damaged much of your work! And if it truly is as volatile as you say, it could prove a danger to the City if anything… Gets out?”

The Knight tilts his head, angling his antenna to indicate concern, carefully folding his claws in front of himself to appear non-threatening.

He can see the bug fumbling as they try to find a worthwhile retort.



“...I will fetch the Master.” The scholarly bug does not await a response, simply vanishing in a flash of soul.

Ogrim does not trust these bugs.

The denizens of the City of Tears require aid, though, so he will enlist whoever he can.

He takes advantage of his time alone to pace the room, looking over what objects are visible.

The decorations are rather sparse, a few piles of broken glass throughout the room to match the two containers swirling with contained soul. There’s many tablets scattered about as well, various notes about soul use and… He assumes those must be about the results of old tests.

He picks a tablet up, quickly reading over the information. Details regarding how long a material contains soul, what materials can prevent it from passing through. Pale steel is an excellent means of stopping soul from moving through, but it absorbs soul and turns it to light naturally.

He carefully sets the tablet down, discreetly glimpsing what others note as he steps through them and towards the back window. Other notes that look similar, likely dozens of materials tested.

He notes a shelf that likely held these tablets before.



He chooses to right the shelf, sliding it slightly to the side. He won’t assume to know their organization methods, but he can tell furniture shouldn’t be strewn about the floor.

He picks up a lumafly cage, righting a small table and setting the cage atop it.

The wall decorations are quite nice, actually. A simple repeating pattern, similar in design to the King’s Seal. The core looks to be more akin to the soul containers littered about. Perhaps a Sanctum Seal?




They’re certainly keeping him waiting a while. He could be outside right now, searching the alleys or buildings for-

No, that is likely what they want.

Ogrim heaves a sigh, righting a chair beside the window to wait in.


The rain is soothing, the droning sound on the glass an excellent piece of background noise.






























It sees Knight Hegemol, helping clear a path to free miner bugs in the high caves.

















Hegemol grunts, pressing his back into the large shard of crystal, slowly rising from his crouch.

A few of the gathered bugs cheer as the large blockage is moved, opening a small path for the trapped workers to begin to crawl through. He shifts his stance slightly, pushing the weight further to the side. He won’t let it fall on the bugs or those now helping them through the gap.

The crystal mines had been damaged badly by the tremors, with the chaos of machinery running wild as operators who were infected collapsed adding to the mess. Several areas now being dug out by the healthy, bugs being carried and guided to the crossroads where stability is more assured.

He encountered one of those bugs, their pleas quickly leading to him abandoning his search for the Hollow Knight. Surely such a large bug wouldn’t go unnoticed moving through the Kingdom, as injured as they likely are. Someone would have found them by now, and led them to help for their wounds. The King would know by now that his Knight had survived.

As the last injured bug is moved past the rubble, Hegemol signals for the gathered group to give him space. He twists, dumping the large crystal on the ground with a heavy crash, shattering it into smaller pieces.

He waves off the thanks with a small gesture, moving deeper into the Crystal Peaks.

They can clear the tunnel now that the trapped bugs are free without risking anyone, but there are surely more bugs trapped elsewhere.

The work of a Knight is never done.


































It sees…











… ?


























It sees light. Blinding, hot- too much presence-





It stumbles as the weakness of its body is made known.




Its vision solidifies.



It is back.


It digs its claws into the golden platform below it, head swiveling as it searches for its nail.

Its Pure Nail is not present.

It has lost its weapon.





It staggers as it rises, watching the sun unfurl into blinding light.








The Vessel screams as its body is pierced by blades of light, its void boiling inside it.







































The Pale King hefts the second kingsmould over his shoulder, giving a small nod to the guard alongside him.

“-just glad I found you at all, this place is so large it's almost like a maze! It truly showcases how great your mind must be to keep track of so much within your own home!”

Their worship of him is made clear through their single-minded need to shower him in praises.

The truth is he has gotten lost in his own Palace more than once.

The truth is the Palace is simply too big, and he planned the early expansions to it poorly. He didn’t leave enough room for clear main hallways in later expansions, meaning that the paths must coil and twist around necessary spaces to reach new areas. He had created a maze, and had once lied that it was built such to dissuade trespassing in more sensitive areas.

“-wonder how the Knights must keep track of it all, have you granted them some sort of gift? Your most loyal Knight shines with your Pale Light after all, the others must have received gifts as well for their service. Or would they need to earn such a thing through feats, to not waste your-”

He had panicked when speaking to Ogrim to give commendations for the Knight’s loyalty to service. He realized his starting statement made the scene feel too grand and important, and had panicked to come up with something to make the reward seem more tangible.

Blessing Ogrim’s armor with the same enchantment used in a nightlight had been quite spur-of-the-moment.

Both his wife and the Knight had realized this, and he had been on the receiving end of several jokes from both parties for it.

“I’m sure I’ll be quite popular with the nymphs now, as I’ll be able to ward off the monsters under their beds!”

He turns another corner-

He stops.

He makes a show of looking down the hall. Staring at the rubble of the collapsed roof and the stones from the cavern ceiling as though he can see past them.

“Mm, the moulds seem to be destabilized in this hall.”

He turns and continues down the path they had been walking.

He takes the next corner, of course, to continue his way back to his workshop.

“-far your sight must reach inside your Palace. I imagine you must have more awareness here with how much of your power is in the air and-”

A small blessing of divinity. Many who are nervous in his presence tend to ramble to fill the silence. This leaves him with no obligation to respond, as they will continue to talk in his absence.



“-many guards left in the Palace now, are you going to wait for the Hollow Knight to get here? Or are you going to lead a search youse-”

He stops before the door of his workshop, reaching out with his third set of hands to open the door. “Set the wingmoulds on the table, please.”

He steps inside, moving towards the large glass container behind the table.

“Of course sire! Is there any-”

He hides his smile as the guard catches sight of the Vessel half-submerged in void, already inside his workshop.

“...Oh. I uh- I suppose I shouldn’t assume to know what you’re… Working on…”

He dumps one of the kingsmoulds on the floor, setting the other over the glass container’s rim.

He tilts his head at the lack of movement from the Vessel.

“...Are they okay? They’re not-”

He reaches up, gently moving the Vessel’s mask so he can peer into the holes serving as eyes for its void. He lets his light shine a bit brighter, giving more illumination.

He sees the void inside twisting in slow, rhythmic patterns. Only an occasional flicker of agitation striking through it in response to some stimuli- likely its damage.

“It is only unconscious, not dead. I’m not particularly surprised, given the extent of its…” He pauses, glancing to the confused guard. “...injuries. If you would be so kind, as you noted, I am low on guards in the Palace. Would you mind taking station near the main entrance and informing any of my Knights or… Other important parties that I can be located in my workshop? If they cannot find it on their own, they aren’t worth my time.”

He waves his hand in dismissal, granting the bug the chance to flee with his permission.



He reaches into the plates of the kingsmould, summoning forth a small Pale dagger, cutting through the spells weaving it together. He pulls his hand back quickly as the blade dissolves, void spilling through the rupture and into the container below.



He turns, staring at the Vessel’s mask.


He squints, leaning a bit closer. He reaches up, running a finger over the pale white bone, gently running a claw across a spot near the middle, a bit above the eyes.

Scrtch.

Scrtch.

Scrt-

He blinks, carefully working his claw up and down, feeling out the slight… Fracture in the Vessel’s mask.

Not deep, nor wide- he can barely feel it with the fine tip of his claw. Possible that the Vessel has already healed the damage, if it was worse before.

His dark fingers glow softly, soul dripping into the white mask, seeping into the bone. He weaves it slowly, carefully, shaping the fragile bone back together, mending the slight seam. He can feel the way the Vessel’s soul swirls and flows through the mask, shifting and influencing the void below.

The seals he had woven inside it would have held regardless, but he sees no reason to leave his Vessel with an imperfection. Not when he has the power to right it.

There is so much damage that he may not be able to fix. Anything that he knows he can, shall be.


He pushes the emptied kingsmould to the floor, dragging the second over to begin emptying as well.



The void has raised nearly to the Vessel’s chest now, with the rest that he’s collected it may make it to the shoulders.

He lays the limp body across the container, draining it of its precious animating fluid with the plunge of his knife.


A disturbing mental image- if the void is capable of sustaining life, this is almost akin to bathing the vessel in the blood of its kind.



Considering every part of its body is some form of modified void, it may be more akin to a base element. An antithesis to most- yes- but even such a thing could be made to fulfill a role if merged with other similar antithetical elements. Perhaps, then, the void is more akin to a form of water?

He leans on the kingsmould as it drains, the legs beginning to tumble apart as the void is drawn away from it. The Vessel looks almost peaceful within the container, as though it has merely fallen asleep rather than lost…

He hums, shifting the kingsmould away as he ponders that. Can consciousness be lost without the presence of a mind? Perhaps if the meaning is stretched, as the Vessel does possess a physical body that echoes the functions of a normal living bug. He’s long noted that its body responds to physical conditions and stimuli in similar ways to a mortal bug, though much more subdued.

He shifts over to the table, hefting one of the wingmoulds over to the jar.


Perhaps the Vessel would prove immune, or at least resistant to poison or venom if exposed.


He slips a blade into the spellwork, letting void spill.

Perhaps Hornet would be willing to help him learn such a thing in a controlled environment.






























The scraping sound reverberates through her mask, grating at her senses.




The door does not move, even when she braces her full weight against the top of the frame, straining to force it apart by even a margin.


She continues to grind her chelicerae together, scraping them against the edges of her mask. Her small claws scratch the surface of the door as her grip slips and falters, a hiss building in her throat as she struggles against it.


She had hoped to rush through the mantis village while they were distracted by the chaos. Had hoped they were still struggling to respond to the situation. Had hoped to save nearly a day’s travel through the Gardens, Greenpath, and the Fungal Wastes by cutting straight through.

She had hoped something could make up for the collapsed tram tunnel between Deepnest and the Basin.





Hornet stills, panting where she hangs nearly upside down from the top of the doorway.


Her claws bite into the stone door, leaving grooves. Her lower hands ball into fists in her cloak, straining the fabric.


She is the Queen of Deepnest. Daughter of the Pale Light and Beast.



Glowing silk draws itself into the air around her, coiling around her form.


She is half-wyrm and half-weaver, one of the most powerful magic users in the whole of this land.

She was trained by the Pale King himself, one of the few things he’s ever managed to do for her.



Threads curl around her limbs, weaving itself into the cracks of her chitin and across her plates.

Her limbs stretch out to press against the door, glowing white silk pressing along her shell with ever greater force.

She will not be bested by a door.




There is a thump as the door shifts, light spilling through the small gap.






Her shell cracks and begins to mend under tight bands of thread.




Something squeals in the walls as the door shifts slightly more.












The mechanism breaks before her body, the door abruptly dropping down with a tremendous crash.

Threads pull at her, catching her before she can fall with it. She tugs herself upright, then vaults past the gap and to the floor beyond, needle whipping to her hand from her back.


One of the three Mantis Lords stands before her, weapon bared at the intruding spider.





The air is tense, but none move.

To move means to attack or defend.

To fight now would mean war.





“Why have you forced your way into our village, spider?” The second-oldest of the lords, but her name…

Hornet tilts her head just slightly to the side, noting the additional mantises at the edge of her vision. “Surely you noticed the mayhem that has befallen every kingdom. I intend to make my way to the Pale King-” her mask tilts down slightly, baring her horns towards the Lord, “-my father, to learn exactly what has transpired.” If any notice the venom in her voice, they wisely choose not to comment.

“I am well aware you have a more direct route to his Palace. Why have you come this way?”

“The tram has crashed inside its tunnel and led to a collapse.”

The Lord twists her blade, the edge catching the light. “Are the routes up through the Queen’s prestigious Gardens collapsed as well, then?”

The spider bares her fangs with a low hiss, threads shifting under her cloak. “I do not have the time to waste on such a roundabout path. Surely in such a crisis as today has become you have better to do than spend this much effort to stop a solitary spider.”

The Lord takes a single step forwards, tip of her long blade raising towards the Queen.

Soul silk flashes to life in the air, twisting like a maelstrom around the weaver.

“You break into our home in the midst of a disaster and think we would simply allow you to pass through? If you make even a single step further into our territory, I will cut you down. I will give you a final opportunity to leave here alive- only out of respect to our treaty with the wyrm who spawned you.”

For a mantis, she could certainly spit venom of her own.


Hornet draws herself upright, needle held almost carelessly at her side. She draws her threads in, twisting them into a spiral around her, billowing up in slow, flowing motions from her feet. She tilts her mask to look the mantis dead in the eyes, a small flicker of light shining in her own.

“Make another threat such as that at your own peril. You know my lineage well, and you must know what it would mean to kill me. Can your tribe hope to survive a war on two fronts, splintered as you now are?” She sees the mantises around them shifting. “I am well aware of what your kind value. Drop the act and the threats; summon your sisters.”

She raises her needle, allowing soul to spark down its length as she aims it towards the Mantis Lord. “I, Hornet, Queen of Deepnest and heir-apparent to Hallownest, challenge you for honor and right of passage.”




















































A red six is laid atop a red four.

A blue six is laid.




Lurien draws. Another. Another. Another- he plays a blue three.

Herrah places a white three.



Monomon places a draw four. “Red. How long do you think he’ll keep us waiting?”

Another draw four is played. “Green.”

Lurien draws eight cards from the deck.

Herrah plays a green draw two. “You assume he’ll do it at all. I’m betting the spells will fade before he does anything.”

Monomon draws two cards. “If the Hollow Knight survives at all, surely we’ll come to mind.”

A green five.


Draw. Draw. Green skip.

Herrah hisses quietly.

Monomon places a white skip. “Perhaps a week. I’m sure he’s quite busy with the Infection’s end.”

Lurien places a white four.

Herrah plays a white skip. “I’d love to know why we didn’t wake up when the seals vanished. He thought to include a check for his Pure Vessel but not for us?” Her chelicerae grind together below her mask, head shaking slowly. “Now we’re trapped in this miserable darkness- at least the clouds and sky gave us something to look at.”



A low, raspy chuckle meets her outburst. White two.

Lurien plays a white draw two.

Herrah throws down a blue draw two. “Uno.”

Monomon flicks down a green draw two. “Uno.”





Draw. Draw. Draw. Draw. Draw. Draw.

Lurien sighs, pressing his gratuitous hand together into a stack. “You’re both wrong, because you missed a few crucial details. The White Lady is going to return to the Palace to investigate what has happened to the Vessel. We all know how she’s longed for a child, and she suddenly has great reason to suspect.” He nods his head towards Herrah. “She actually likes you, and she adores your daughter. Either Hornet will reach the Palace demanding the King’s head or your freedom, or the White Lady will ask after the two of you and he’ll be reminded. A day at most.” He plays a green skip.

Monomon plays her last card- color change.

Herrah throws her card down- also a color change.

Their fourth lays his remaining cards out, a collection of multiple draw fours and a single reverse. “I do wish we were playing with jump-ins allowed.” His gaze turns into the endless darkness, a slight breeze washing over them from the direction. “I think I’ll have to leave you now, though. I sense something that may need my attention.”

The Teacher inclines her head to the Nightmare King. “I don’t suppose you’ll answer a question before you leave?” She does not flinch under those burning scarlet eyes turning upon her, despite the rush through her body at the instinct to flee or hide. “Why have you come to Hallownest?”

The god smiles at her, tilting his head slightly at the question. “Is it so odd to wish to see the birth of a new god with my own eyes?”

The Watcher barely has the chance to make a sound before Grimm vanishes in a pillar of flame and smoke.










“...Did he really need to put out the lantern for that?”

Chapter Text

The light carves its shell apart, boiling its void inside it.



The Seals hold, trapping its shade inside.








It blisters.





It bleeds.





















It suffers.


































It staggers to its knees, void and infection spilling from its mandibles to the ground. It burns, it hurts, it hurts deep in its void, its shade writhing in agony inside its shell. It is fragile, unbreakable. It is too weak to fight, too strong to die.

Its claws scrape uselessly at the ground as she laughs at its crumpled form.

She has broken it, the Infection shall run free-

That isn’t right, is it?






Its mask lifts slightly, looking past the platform, into the clouds beyond.

Heat is bathing it, boiling it from inside-

The heat it’s feeling now is unfamiliar.




You’ve done this once, haven’t you?



It… It has.

Hasn’t it?

Do not trust your senses. Take your blade.

It is unarmed-

Do not trust. She is capable of illusion, of tricks. Sickness of the mind. Magic must match. It has been taught to expect magics in its opponents.

It closes its claws around its Pure Nail.

Good. Show me how you killed her before.

Return to me. Come back to me alive.






































Needle meets shell with a spray of hemolymph.

Lance strikes cloth, threads curling against the flat of the blade to drive the strike away.

The crowd jeers and shouts as they exchange blows; necessary witnesses to combat.

The Lord leaps to the cage wall, drawing forth-

Hornet hisses sharply as she leaps up, evading the spinning blade. It slices through the air below her, whistling as its travel slows, then reverses back to the Lord.

Boomerangs. Wonderful.

Threads draw her in a sharp dive towards the Lord, needle-first. The Lord leaps before her blade finds shell, arcing through the air above her. She draws back her needle, kicking off the cage and back to the solid floor.

The Lord dives at her, nail-lance aimed to skewer her.

Soul flares along threads, forcing her body to move aside faster. She lets thread loose, lashing against the mantis’s shell as they pass, carving deep lines through chitin.

The Lord stumbles, falters, then falls to a knee. Hemolymph drips from each of their wounds, coloring the floor.

The Queen of Deepnest draws herself up, raising her blade to point at the fallen Lord. She tilts her mask just slightly.

Will you yield?

The mantis forces themself up with their lance- then leaps back to the thrones.

Hornet turns to face the thrones fully. It wouldn’t be that easy. It never was. She slides her needle out to the side, drawing thread up around her.

The remaining two Lord respond by rising from their thrones, grasping their own limb-

The injured Lord rises, abruptly, with a hiss.





The three lords let loose a battle cry as one, leaping into the arena with blades bared.





Fuck me de-shelled with a poleaxe.

The voice in her head sounds distinctly like her mother.






































Its nail carves through Her, spilling golden ichor across the ground.

It flicks its blade to the side, sending what clings to it spraying in an arc.



She cannot rise.

Nothing to fear anymore, is there?





She was never alive to begin with, was-

No mind to think.

That isn’t true, is it? Not anymore, at least.


















It tilts its mask slightly, watching the struggling moth dissolve into Essence.

It concedes the point. She broke it open, filled it with something. Its chest pulses with heat, seeping through its shell, twisting in its void.




Something instilled.

Something consumed~?










It turns, facing towards the empty air.

Its void pulses in time with something, a steady rhythm.

Th-thmp. Th-thmp.

“He took so many things from you- Your heart.”





Something is there. Watching. It is not alone.


A flame flickers on the ground, twisting up into a column. Smoke billows out, solidifying into a form- deep red, thrumming with power. White faced, curved horns, red markings around its… Not its face, a mask. It can see the shallow grooves carved around the eye where paint is laid. The black lines are cut in as well.

A carved mask, likely bone. Prone to shattering, highlighted weak points.

The thing laughs, raspy and rumbling, sharp and hot. “It would benefit no creature but myself to break this mask.”

It tilts its mask slightly, acknowledging. An advantage surrendered. Non-hostile.

“You’ll need to be able to distinguish between a threat and not. Some may be dangerous without intention to harm you- these are not threats, but you must remain on guard.”

“I wonder whose words those are. Certainly not your own?”



The world has tinted to red, darkened at the edges of its vision. The thing is leaking into the…

No.

“You’re doing well. Indeed, this is not the Dream. You fell into my domain, the Nightmare. Equal parts an antithesis and a compliment, sundered apart long ago.”















Its grip tightens on its Pure Nail, staring down the second god to enter its mind.


The god laughs again, dipping in a bow to it. “I will dance with you, if that is what you choose.”


It-








It has no orders, nothing to prepare it for this situation.



It freezes.
































The Pale King streaks through the halls of the White Palace, the air thrumming with his power.

He was not subtle- no attempt at slipping past the wards around the Palace. The feeling was more like someone kicking a door open- announcing themself, drawing attention, forcing their way in regardless.

An insult.

He draws whatever ambient soul remains in the air to himself, dulling the corridors in his wake as he approaches his workshop. At least there are no retainers or staff present to witness the Palace in such a manner.

The door to his workshop wrenches open before he reaches it, nearly torn from its hinges. He twists inside, curling around the frame and flaring his light as he slides into the room.





He is alone- only the Vessel is in the workshop.


He still senses-

His eyes snap to the Vessel, weaving his soul as he approaches. He sees it as he nears, red Essence faint where it rises from the Vessel’s mask.



He places a hand upon its mask, forcing the foreign god from its…


He swallows thickly as the presence fades, the faint sense of something knocking against his spells on its way out.

He can still sense him- still dwelling within range of Hallownest, circling its outer boundaries.

He should have expected the Nightmare King to arrive, given the Radiance’s apparent demise. The scavenger is likely scouting for scraps left behind, perhaps even seeking to claim the fallen god’s domain for himself. To seek out the Vessel- that is most likely.



He’ll need to reinforce his wards, perhaps weave something anew for protecting the Vessel more directly.




His eyes draw over to his worktable, mandibles clicking as he thinks over the book shoved to one side. Perhaps a modification, a trap. Simple and escapeable, but a warning.

He’s already been slighted. It would be well within his right to embarrass the arse.



The vessel hasn’t stirred, its container-

He leans down, checking.

The void level has receded slightly. Perhaps the vessel is absorbing it to heal- he’ll need to go back to retrieve those moulds from the East Wing.



He heaves a sigh and rises, throwing up a few additional alarms around the Vessel. Unlikely to make a reappearance after being ousted, but a warning for physical intrusion is a good idea regardless.


He sets off, letting his soul permeate the air as he goes.






























She kicks off the floor, threads dragging her sharply to the side to avoid the lance coming down at her.

She manages to lash one of the Lords with a thread as they pass.

The third only misses skewering her due to her cloak.

Needle meets lance in a parry.

A second lance follows- tangled by silk, wrenched aside.

Third comes down- she ducks aside in a roll, stabbing out. She’s parried by the first.

Fair play.

The battle is fast-paced, not giving her room to breathe. She throws out a few traps, letting them lash the bars of the cage and suspend themselves in the air.

One snags a mantis leg- the injured Lord. She takes the space to summon more silk, catching an open back with a thrust. Not deep- but a wound.

Spinning blades cut through the air- she forces herself low, ducking under them. Throws her needle upwards the moment they pass, forcing the third to abort her dive.

Parry.

Roll.

Take a hit, return with a spiked trap to the abdomen.

Roll.

Parry.

Parry.

Over the blades this time, threads yank her aside-




She hits the floor hard, head ringing from the blow.

She can’t see, eyes won’t focus-



Half of her mask hits the floor, stained with hemolymph.

A Lord lands in front of her. Another should be behind-

The third will be the one to strike her, then.



She can’t move-



Everything feels slow. She feels her pulse in her head- why is it so slow? Why haven’t they struck her down yet?





Her head feels hot, her shell too tight.


She can’t be infected- she isn’t close to another molt, if she even still has one.










She can’t die here.





Deepnest needs her- until her mother awakens, she is their Queen.












She needs to know if it's truly over, if the Infection has ended for good.






















She needs to know if the Hollow Knight survived.









Her grip on her needle tightens.






The threads around her body tighten, flaring with soul.


She needs to win.

She needs more-

More power? More speed? More strength?



She needs to be more, right now.

She isn’t just a spider.




Her head dips down, mask sliding off her left horn towards the ground.

She pulls.








The lance buries in the ground beside her, the Lord slamming into the ground beside it.

Hornet rises, scattered and cut threads drawing into a tempest around her, staving the other two off.

She raises her needle, letting soul thrum through it as she aims it at the downed Lord.



The Lord retreats to their throne.




She breathes in deeply, letting the power flow under her shell. Her horns flare with pale light as she looks to the remaining Lords, flanking her. The stark contrast of pale white shell against stained black makes her face frightening to behold, as many of the White Palace have said when they thought she could not hear.

Her chelicerae scrape as she rises to her full height, a horrible grinding sound in the silence the arena has become.


Second wind. Don’t waste it.


She lets her silk loose, carving the arena floor apart around her, short threads thrown out like needles at her opponents.

They dodge to the walls- her needle follows one, coiled in silk, as she dives at the other.



They should thank her for the mercy that she hasn’t chosen to shred them apart yet.




























The Palace staff are proving quite helpful in coordinating efforts in the City- a blessing, given the apart damage to the number of guards caused by the Infection.

Isma speaks soft assurances as she lifts another injured bug from the netting of vines covering the canals, handing them off to a cook to help them to…

She isn’t even sure where the injured are going anymore, where isn’t full?

She needs to put in the effort to find out, lest she flounder the moment she finds herself without aid.



Injured but mobile to the Pleasure House to make use of the springs. Badly wounded to the King’s Stations for aid.







The Stations are full- another aid area has been set up just east of the Fountain.




She carries a bug in her arms- they’ve lost their legs to the Infection, feverish but cold, not entirely lucid- and hands them off to… A large beetle wearing a Sanctum robe.

“Isma! There you are!”

She jerks her attention around, smiling tiredly as Ogrim rushes up to her. She returns the embrace, leaning more heavily on her fellow Knight than intended.

When did she get so tired?

“I’ve worried for you since we separated! I heard you found the King after handling the ceiling?” He guides her under an awning a bit out of the way, freeing up the hall entering the building. “There was mention- rumor really- the Hollow Knight.”

“Yes, I saw… Oh, Ogrim, there was so much blood. Black and orange were soaking their cloak, they were limping- and prostrated themself before the King- we had to carry them back to the Palace, His Majesty rushed me out of the workshop but I saw… I don’t know if they will survive.” Her shoulders slump as she falls onto a seat, head hanging as she scrubs at her face.

An arm lays across her shoulders, squeezing her softly. “Our King has the matter at hand. If… If it could handle the source of the Infection, surely…”



She lifts her head slightly, looking to him. “How have you managed to get your armor so filthy despite the rain?”


He makes a choked sound before letting out a booming laugh, leaning back to let it fill the air. “Ha! Do you think I could call it a talent? Or would that be too crass?”

She allows a small smile, leaning her side into him. “Only for you, dear.” She purposely chooses not to indicate which question she’s answering.

Her eyes roam, watching another group of bugs carry yet more injured inside. “Did you manage to enlist the Sanctum, or did they volunteer?”

“Ah- they kept me waiting for a while, but I managed to meet with the head. The ‘Soul Master’ as he calls himself- he graciously donated several of his staff and researchers’ time to help. At the least, they have been truly helpful with the wounds of those recovering from the Infection especially.”

She hums softly, nodding her head. That certainly aligns with what she’s heard of the place.

She’s done her best to avoid interacting with it to date, the air around the bugs who come from there simply doesn’t… Taste right. It’s rather off-putting.



She lets out a small sigh, breath fogging the cool air as she begins to stand. “I suppose we should get back-”

Ogrim pulls her back down, gentle but firm. “Isma, please. Rest- no, you’ve done more than enough to earn it. I know-” She pouts as he cuts off her attempt to protest again. “You sit down, recover your strength. You’re cold, dear, and you look nearly dead on your feet. I’ll take charge of everything for now, and once you’re recovered you can relieve me so I can go take a nap. We can handle this in shifts, no?”

He tilts his head at her, antenna twitching, eyes so full of warmth- he’s being cute and he knows it.

“Fine- fine. You have the first watch, my most loyal nymphsitter.”

It draws another laugh from him as he rises and stretches. “Perhaps if you allowed yourself to slow down, I wouldn’t need to! You’ve already saved the entire City once today, leave a bit of the glory for little ol’ me, hm?”

He leans down, wrapping her in another embrace.

She leans herself into it fully, squeezing him in her vines.

“I’ll find you later, alright? We shan’t be apart long.”

“Yet it shall feel like an eternity.”


She watches him go off into the rain, bounding towards the residential slums.



























Hemolymph dyes her silk blue, digging into the Lord’s shell as she restrains them.

Her needle swings through the air to fend the other off, giving her the space to sink her fangs into the mantis’s side.

She dumps the body to the floor as the second Lord locks up, venom paralyzing them.


She chooses to move away from them slowly, making her action clearly deliberate. Gives the slightest nod to the Lord who has already retreated.

She does not move as they leap into the ring- staggering, weak, prey- as they gather their sister and return to the thrones.

She bats the spinning blade aside with barely a thought, threads lashing out for the mantis hanging off the wall.

She drags herself into the air, throwing her needle to intercept their path as they leap away.

She scores another hit.

She parries a lunge- silk carves the mantis’s shell open.

She watches an arm hit the floor, splattering her cloak with blood.


She’s going to need a new cloak at this rate.


She makes a show of it as the third Lord attempts to lunge forwards at her, snaring the lance and throwing it aside.

Silk pulls her limbs like a puppet, forcing her to move as she grasps an arm. Drives a blow into their abdomen, forcing them to double over.

She pulls her needle back to her hand and into a swing in the same motion, the flat side cracking across the Lord’s face and sending them sprawling to the ground.

She lifts her needle, setting the tip against the fallen Lord’s side. Lets soul spark down its length, drawing a flinch where it runs across shell.

The mantis bows their head in defeat-


She ignores them, stepping steadily towards the broken pieces of her mask. Gathering the pieces and binding them in silk, lashing across the dull bone to secure it.

She slips it back on, ignoring the gaps and holes along the splits.

It rattles on her right horn. She cinches the thread tighter.


It doesn’t help.



“Queen of Deepnest.”

Her eyes draw up to the thrones, taking in the sight of the injured Mantis Lords. They managed to drag themselves back onto their thrones, even if one is currently immobile and another is lacking the correct arm to salute her.

She draws herself up to full height, leaning her head back slightly to look up at them.

“You have bested us in combat… and earned the respect of both ourselves and our tribe. You may pass through our lands freely, and none of our tribe shall raise a claw against you.”

The cage is lifting, allowing the surrounding mantises access to the floor. One marches towards her with purpose, bowing their head as they present a charm.

“So long as you bear our Mark, our tribe will recognize your strength and your honor.”


She lets a thread snap loose to pull the charm to her, affixing it to the collar of her cloak.

The Lords and mantises around bow as one.


Something warm bubbles in her chest at the display. Something fitting, stoking some instinctual urge.













She makes it eleven steps from the arena before collapsing to the floor.




































It is alone.







It drifts in the darkness, at home.



Pale Light shone through it in a scouring wave, forcing it out of the Nightmare it had fallen into.


Forcing it into nothingness.








Forcing it into what it should be.















Its chest pulses with heat, thrumming below its shell.











Something pulls within it, an urge.












No mind to think.






No will to break.












No suffering to endure.



















No gods to devour.

















It feels… absent. Removed from itself.
















It feels both within and without its shell.


















It allows itself to fade quietly in the dark.
























It allows itself peace, even if just for a moment.