As the castle drew near, the ground continued to tremble in waves. The castle did not waver. It stood above everything—cold and unmoved.

  Inside the throne room, his princess awaited. Beside her stood Sir Draven. At least that was the memory impressed upon him. What the crown had shown him. Clearer than the cave’s whispered secrets—truer in depth and feeling.

  Still, a fire raged within him.

  Before he could complete his quest, the remnant of a half-remembered dream compelled him. Something the crown had shown him, lost in the periphery of resurrection. What the old journal had brought screaming to the surface.

  He walked the perimeter of the castle in search of it.

  Stairs coaxed him to the front entrance, grand and inviting.

  A field of grass, overgrown and wild, beside it. Buried within the overgrowth sat old benches, obscured by the swaying green. He imagined what it must have looked like. How peaceful it must have been.

  Flowers of all kinds bloomed in patches where grass met stone, many gathered beneath a dried fountain made up of geometric stone shafts, cracked and weathered. There was nothing in its basin but dirt.

  Evenly spaced trees, tall and reaching, stood above it all, casting what should have been tranquil shadows. The shade was just as hollow as the kingdom itself.

  A walled area just past it, guarded by a rusted iron gate, hid what he searched for. He pushed the gate aside and one of its hinges snapped. The other hinge groaned under the strain before snapping. Iron crashed to the ground, echoing through the kingdom.

  Beyond that was a large door on the castle wall. It opened freely, revealing a short corridor that led into a kitchen.

  He entered.

  The ground trembled again. Pots and pans hung from racks, clanging together. It didn’t last long before the castle settled again.

  A sound echoed up from below once the quake ceased. Something like screaming, and yet so very much unlike it. As though a kingdom’s collective throats had been stretched and strung—a malevolent bow running across them.

  A chord that screamed for release.

  He followed it through unfamiliar corridors laid out in familiar patterns. Down stairways both stone and wood—straight and spiraled. The further he ventured, the more the unyielding, discordant hum set his hair on end.

  It urged every nerve in his body to turn back.

  Then there was a door.

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  Other than the soft blue light seeping through the bottom, the door was unremarkable. The knight pressed his hand against it, and it vibrated under his touch.

  He opened it.

  The light spilled out all at once, revealing a cathedral-like chamber. Seven rows high, and too many across, bodies hovered along the walls—withered and colorless. A blue symbol burned on their foreheads. He looked down at his sword and the necromancer’s church flashed in his mind.

  At the far end of the long chamber, a man sat at a desk. He did not acknowledge the knight, his attention fixed on whatever he was scribbling.

  On the wall behind the man were two bodies, each preserved in different states of death.

  The first was a boy, one might have mistaken for sleeping if not for the blood that stained his shirt. He could not look long.

  The other was an older man, though no older than the knight himself, whose cheeks had already sunken, and whose hair hung like cobwebs. It was clear to the knight he’d been dead for some time.

  The knight approached with confident strides. Nearing the desk, the old man spoke without looking up.

  “You are here for the false king in white armor?”

  “Yes,” the knight said. “And you. I know what you’ve done, alchemist.”

  “What have I done?”

  “You’ve damned this world to darkness. The lives you’ve taken from this kingdom are horror enough, but they pale beside the suffering you’ve wrought in their wake.”

  The alchemist asked, “And what would you do for your son’s life?”

  “Whatever wouldn’t brand me a monster in his eyes,” the knight replied. Then, as he gestured to the chamber, he asked, “Would your son still have you if he knew?”

  “You know nothing of pain,” the alchemist said, soft and broken.

  “I was immortal,” the knight said. “I know pain.”

  The alchemist looked at him without malice, but with a weary sadness. “If you kill me, the engine stops. The barrier falls.”

  “I require only a horse and a lantern,” the knight replied. “As I understand, the false king has both.”

  The alchemist stood and walked around to the front of his desk. He stood face to face with the knight.

  “Will you acquire them fast enough?” he asked.

  “The kingdom is vast,” the knight replied.

  “Indeed, it is,” the alchemist said. “But are you stronger than the cursed armor of a would-be king? Are you faster than the ravenous hordes that wait outside these walls?”

  “I must believe.”

  “So be it,” the alchemist said.

  “Tell me this. Will the end of this engine put an end to these curses?”

  The alchemist looked around his chamber as he considered. He wore the look of a man with regrets.

  “Perhaps,” he finally said.

  “Perhaps is enough,” the knight replied, raising his sword.

  “Is that your soul?”

  “It is.”

  “So noble,” the alchemist said. He closed his eyes, raised his chin, and waited.

  It was swift, and the knight made sure to cut all the way through. By the time the alchemist realized what happened, he’d be dead.

  The room shook once, as if the ground beneath it had fallen away, and the room settled in the empty space. The hum ceased, and the light dimmed. One at a time, bodies fell to the floor. Slow at first, then faster.

  Hundreds of them.

  The scent of rot and extinguished magic flooded the room. The taste of it lingered with each hesitant breath. It turned his stomach sour, but he swallowed it down.

  The knight stood alone in a silent room, fresh blood on his sword, surrounded by the fallen.

  He left in search of the throne room.