The Burning Spire

The explosion tears through the spire like a fist through parchment. One moment you are running; the next, a wall of scorched air hurls you forward and the ancient stonework simply opens — a ragged wound of smoking rubble leading down into a vault that no door has unlocked in centuries.

You drop inside, ears ringing. The vault is small, suffocating, and utterly still. At its center, cradled on a plinth of black iron, the Hollow Crown waits. It pulses with a cold, slow hunger — like a second heartbeat that is not yours. Around it, corroded tools and shattered ritual vessels line the walls.

Above, the spire groans. You have minutes, perhaps less.