The cliffs to the south of Quinsley Citadel were not cliffs in the traditional sense.
They were fractures—enormous gouges in the floating landmass, where the empire's foundations hung exposed like the bones of a dead god. One could stand at the edge of these cliffs and see the soft glowing chains of levitation magic dangling deep below, holding the land together as if it were a cracked plate mended with invisible string.
The fissure itself—known only in whispers as "The Cave of Law's Hollow"—had no stairs, no paths. It had once been sealed off by imperial decree. But someone had removed the wards long ago. Perhaps a noble son testing his father's command. Or perhaps the cave wanted to be found.
They reached it by floating barge, guided by two yawning servants who barely looked at them.
Velric led the group, of course.
There were six of them: Ezekiel, Velric, and four cousins. All royal by blood, none by heart.
"Who wants to go first?" Velric asked, tone lazy as the wind. He pointed to the cave mouth—a black slit in the white rock, surrounded by a pale mineral that glittered unnaturally. The entrance seemed to breathe, like lungs half full of stone.
Silence.
"I'll make it a dare," Velric said. "Whoever doesn't enter is a coward. And cowards owe the rest of us one favor. Anything we ask."
The cousins looked at each other. Then, one by one, they stepped forward, feigning bravery.
Ezekiel didn't move. He stood slightly apart from them, near a bent column that had once held a warning sigil—long since scraped away.
Velric turned to him, smile wolfish.
"What about the Hollow Prince? You don't have enough honor to lose, but perhaps you'd like to prove you breathe."
Ezekiel didn't answer. He simply walked forward and entered the cave first.
The cousins stared. Velric blinked, smile faltering.
One of the boys muttered, "Why did he go first? He never goes first."
Velric's eyes narrowed. "Because he's stupid. And now we follow."
---
The cave swallowed them in silence.
There was no sound—no echo of footsteps, no rustle of breath. Even whispers died in the throat. The walls were white and smooth, like polished bone. There were no markings, no torch scones, no signs of builders. The further they went, the more the path narrowed, and the ceiling rose—unnaturally, as though stretched upward by invisible hands.
Then they reached a room. A great dome of white, where the air itself felt heavier.
Statues lined the circular walls. Dozens of them, standing in perfect stillness. Not men or women. Not quite beasts either. They were humanoid—but wrong. One had no mouth, only a vertical slit from forehead to navel. Another had arms made of quills. One was shaped like a robed figure with no hands, only scales, and a sword embedded in its chest.
Ezekiel felt something shift in his ribs. A pressure. A pulling.
He turned his head slowly—too slowly—and saw the statues were not just statues.
They were all turned toward the center.
A mirror.
A single, massive mirror standing in the middle of the room.
It reflected nothing.
No children. No statues. Only itself.
"What… is this place?" whispered one of the cousins.
But no sound came.
The air thickened. The stone began to vibrate with a frequency that bypassed the ears and went straight to the bones.
Then: motion.
Not sound.
Not breath.
Motion.
One of the statues tilted its head.
Another took a step.
Stone should not move like that. Stone should not breathe.
Ezekiel's heart dropped, and he stepped back—but there was nowhere to step. The walls curved, the room breathing with them, reshaping.
One cousin screamed.
No noise.
Just blood.
A massive, jagged claw shot from the "scribe" statue—the one with arms of quills—and ripped through the boy's chest, lifting him off the ground and pinning him to the mirror that reflected nothing.
Then chaos.
A cousin turned to run—but one of the robed figures moved without moving, blurring across the ground like a shadow trapped in marble, and bisected him at the waist.
Velric shouted something—but the moment his lips parted, his voice was taken from him. A statue touched his neck, and his scream vanished.
He staggered backward, clutching his throat as if it had been stolen. Ezekiel turned toward him—
—and saw the look of pure, seething terror in his brother's eyes.
It didn't satisfy him. It didn't matter.
Nothing did now.
Because Ezekiel could see his own reflection in the floor. Blood around his feet. Half the children already dead. Statues advancing. No way out.
The final cousin—a girl barely thirteen—reached for him, tears in her eyes, only for a silent blade to split her from collarbone to hip. Her last breath came out in a red mist that never hit the floor.
And now, Ezekiel was alone.
Standing in the pale garden of gods that did not forgive.