The Unmaking Ritual
The forbidden syllables tear from your throat like splinters of bone. Around you, Valdremor shudders — and the Hollow Crown above the obsidian throne begins to crack, dark light bleeding through its fractures like wounds.
Then it strikes back. Shadows pour into you, cold and ancient and hungry, filling every hollow doubt you have ever owned. The rite falters on your lips. The crown whispers that it would be so much easier to simply wear it.