The Hollow Crown Awaits
The throne room opens before you like a wound. Obsidian walls drink the light, and there — hovering above a cracked throne — it pulses. The Hollow Crown. Dark radiance bleeds from its iron curves in slow, rhythmic throbs, like a second heartbeat layered over your own.
You feel it before you take another step: a cold pressure behind your eyes, something reading you, cataloguing your fears, your hunger, your loneliness. It whispers in a voice that sounds disturbingly like your own.