Finn's breath was ragged, like a dying man's. His body trembled with a cold that burned from the inside out. He couldn't think straight. Thoughts were slipping from him, like water through his fingers, leaving behind nothing but a gnawing emptiness. He pressed his hands to his face, as if that might somehow shield him from the endless, suffocating pull of the King's presence.
But the darkness wouldn't let him go. It pressed harder, suffocating tighter, until he couldn't breathe without feeling the weight of it, without feeling it pressing into him, into his very bones.
No, Finn thought, though his mind felt slippery, too slow. He wanted to fight. He wanted to run. But his legs were weak, like they'd been drained of all strength, and when he stood again, he stumbled, his knees giving out.
He hit the floor with a soft thud, but he didn't feel the impact. He barely felt anything. He could only hear the endless, rhythmic pulse of the castle around him, of the King's aura crushing him, breaking him slowly from the inside out.
But then, a thought cut through the fog.
The Hollowed ones. The people he'd seen, with their empty eyes and broken spirits. They had been here, in this place. They had been trapped like him. Hadn't they?
He forced himself to sit up, though his head spun. They had been real. He wasn't imagining it. They had whispered to him—soft, broken words, the remnants of their shattered minds. They were once like him, once whole. Now they were nothing more than husks, their spirits eaten away, swallowed by the King.
But something was wrong.
Where were they now?
Finn's stomach lurched with a realization so cold, so horrifying, it almost knocked the breath from his lungs.
The Hollowed weren't gone.
They were just... silent.
He was in their place now. He could feel it—deep in his bones. The King had already begun to hollow him out. His dreams, his thoughts, his very self were being drawn away, slowly, piece by piece.
A low, guttural sound vibrated in the walls, a deep hum that seemed to echo from everywhere. The King. He was aware, always aware. Even in the stillness, even in the silence.
And Finn could feel the King's hunger—sharp, undeniable. The absence of the Hollowed ones was the King's doing. The King didn't need them anymore. They were merely the scraps, the discarded remnants of what he consumed, and now that they were gone, Finn was the only one left. The only one fresh enough for the King to devour.
He could feel it then, that awful, gnawing feeling in his gut—a deep, empty hole that grew larger with every breath he took. A hunger not just in his stomach, but in his soul. A hunger that reached into him, pulling him apart.
Finn's hands clenched into fists, but they were shaking. His vision blurred, the edges of reality becoming jagged, fractured. He wanted to scream, to fight, to escape. But there was no escape. There was nothing but the King's presence—suffocating, consuming. It was everywhere. It was him.
The walls pulsed again, louder this time, the flesh beneath them shifting like something alive, like something waiting.
And then, it happened.
Finn's chest tightened, and he felt a sharp, sickening tug at the very core of his being. His thoughts—his memories—began to slip away from him. Slowly at first, like the tide pulling back, and then faster, until they were rushing away from him, slipping through his fingers like sand. He tried to hold on, tried to grasp them, but it was impossible.
My name...
It was already fading.
The pain was unbearable. His head felt like it was splitting open. He could feel himself becoming less and less... real. Like his mind was being stretched, pulled thin, until it would snap.
And the King hadn't even moved.
Not once.
Finn's breathing grew shallow, the walls pressing in on him. The absence of the Hollowed ones was starting to make sense now. They hadn't disappeared.
They had been absorbed.
And Finn knew, deep down, that he was no different. His body would remain, but his soul—his thoughts—would be consumed, erased. The King would take him apart slowly, piece by piece. And when he was finished? There would be nothing left but a shell.
He could feel it now. The presence in the room was shifting. The walls were tightening around him, bending inwards as though the castle itself was drawing him into its heart.
It wasn't the King's presence that terrified him most.
It was the silence.
There were no screams. No whispers. No hope.
Just nothing.
Finn's mouth went dry. His throat felt tight, his chest hollow. The pull was growing stronger, and he could feel the King's power—like a storm, relentless and unyielding—sweeping through his mind, his soul, his very being.
But then, in the midst of that crushing, empty silence, a faint voice whispered in the back of his mind.
You are still here.
The words were soft, barely audible, but they struck through the fog. They weren't his thoughts. They didn't belong to him. They were the last remnants of something that had once been whole, something that still remembered.
You are still here.
It was a cry for help.
And it came from somewhere deep inside him. Somewhere buried. Somewhere still alive.
You are still here.
Finn's body tensed, his eyes snapping open, though he didn't know when they had closed. He had heard it. A whisper, not from the King, but from somewhere else. It was weak, fragile, but it was enough to spark something in him.
He was still here. Not completely gone. Not yet.
His mind was slipping, his thoughts fraying at the edges, but there was still a flicker of himself. A flame that had not been snuffed out completely.
He didn't know how much longer it would last. He didn't know how much more he could endure. But for the first time since he'd entered this hell, Finn felt something else—something small, fragile, but undeniable.
A whisper of defiance.
He wasn't completely hollow yet.
And that meant there was still a chance.
The King might be everywhere. The King might be in the walls. But Finn was still here.
And he wasn't done yet. Not yet.