2

The White Palace's Vestibule was a towering and pyramidal room. Silver light filtered through the oculus at its vertex, painting the twisted metal spires embedding its walls. A silken carpet, flanked by standing Lumafly lanterns, ran the length of its floor and branched off in several directions, leading through teardrop-shaped doorways and off into the bowels of the castle.

Across from the vestibule's main entrance rested a jagged throne, composed of swirling alloys in whites and grays and ebony blacks. Upon this throne sat the Pale King, with me beside him. On the floor before us knelt three bugs: massive Hegemol, barbed Ogrim, and another. One I had not seen before.

Unlike Hegemol and Ogrim, this bug bore no armor, no battle-ready carapace. She did not even wield a weapon. Her garb consisted of emerald leaves that clung to her body and imbricated at her waist, forming a sort of skirt. A six-eyed mask encircled her head and sprouted vines from the back like dangling braids of hair. She was far slenderer than the Knights, with long, tapered limbs and a quiescent grace.

No other bug was in attendance, but the rebounding murmur of far-off voices created the illusion that the room was far less empty. There was a gap in the middle of the three bugs, wide enough to accommodate two more. All was stillness, as if we were no more than statues. The Knights did not even seem to breathe.

The King broke the stupor. He swept his cloak aside and placed a claw on the throne's armrest. His glinting digits tapped against the metal in a rhythmic manner, drawing the Knights' eyes.

Hegemol was the first to speak. "Pardon, Lord, but perhaps we should consider postponing the council? Or at least adjourning for a nap? It is not for a Knight to complain," he chortled, "but these recent days have been taxing, and rest is always welcome."

The King did not even glance at him. His look was fixed squarely on the vestibule's entrance.

"I beseech your patience, Pale King," the leaf-garbed bug said. "Dryya and Ze'mer would never deliberately inconvenience your court. I trust that they will arrive soon."

The measured tap of the King's digits did not cease. "Patience is an asset that I do not lack, Kindly Isma. But ill news arrives at inopportune moments, and one cannot stifle the vexation it evokes."

"Of what do you speak, Lord?" Isma asked, her voice hushed. "Do you know something?"

The King pushed himself to his feet. "Offer your reports, my Knights. This assemblage shall not see completion, but your observations are still of worth." He tilted his head. "Isma. Tell me of our buzzing neighbors."

"As you wish." Isma stood and performed a willowy bow. "Queen Vespa of the Hive sends her regards, my King. She continues to ail and no Royal Larvae have yet been birthed, but the strength of her brood remains much the same. They have stockpiled many lifetimes of supplies and sealed nearly all entrances to their domain. From the Queen's tone, she seemed reluctant to accept your offer of formal alliance."

The King nodded. "As predicted. Such aggregated minds cling so tenaciously to routine. But convey her words. I would know her true sentiment."

"Is that entirely necessary, my King?" Isma asked, twining her ivy-like arms. "We are all aware of Queen Vespa's… blunt manner. Surely, she need not be repeated."

Parched laughter escaped the King's mask. It was his first sign of levity that I had borne witness to. "My Knights strive so valiantly toward my protection. In body and ego. But Kindly as you are, Great Knight Isma, the painful truth is ofttimes necessary. So again, I ask you. Please convey her words."

Isma rubbed at the leaves of her skirt, smoothing and pleating them as a Maskfly would its wings. "If that is your will, King, then I must oblige." She cleared her throat. "Before I departed from her audience, Queen Vespa requested that I inform you of your folly… She stated that you overstep yourself. That you are an upstart worm seeking to defile a sacred balance. That you are consumed by delusion and arrogant beyond any living thing. That your goal is unachievable, and failure is your only destiny."

"Insolence!" Hegemol bellowed, half-rising. "What does that pitiful little bee know of achievement? She brands our Sovereign arrogant yet spits assumptions as an Aspid would venom?!"

The King lifted a claw to quiet Hegemol. "The Hive Queen's barb bites deeper with every passing year, it seems."

"But you must not heed these words, my Lord!" Isma said. "Vespa is an ancient creature, nearing her days' end. It makes her scurrilous and ill-tempered. She does not believe what she says, I am sure."

"Ever swift to offer consolations," the King said. "I Knighted you aptly."

Isma averted her gaze and clasped her claws at the waist.

"But," the King continued, "Vespa's dwindling life holds little sway over her voice. You are not the first envoy to return with such a message, and you shall not be the last. The Hive's dogma parallels much of that damnable Light. And Vespa has little desire to feign diplomacy. Although she has yet to aim her stinger at this Kingdom, beings such as her are dangerous in their final days. The alliance, though futile, would have precluded that danger." He descended the throne's short staircase and began to pace. His cloak slithered over the tile. "Mighty Hegemol, tell me of The City. How fares it?"

Hegemol jerked, as if dispersing a coat of snow. "The City still stands, Majesty. At least as of this morning when I last checked. The builder bugs informed me that the construction of Lurien's Spire proceeds as planned. However, the cavern containing our City was too small to accommodate it. Necessity demanded that the ceiling be raised. The builder bugs are quite adept at such tasks, and the stone shaved away without difficulty, but now only porous rock remains. That vast water deposit above The City has begun to seep through. It showers the buildings like rainfall. Mild enough, but incessant. The mender bugs were tasked with its repair, but they claim such a thing is impossible in The City's current state. Some of the more churlish commoners have taken to calling our home 'The City of Tears' now."

The King shook his head. "To fret over something as trivial as rain is a luxury that this Kingdom lacks. Continue. What of my subjects?"

Hegemol rumbled a few decibels lower. "Regrettably, Lord. The affliction brings about more attrition with every passing moon. The City's guard strive to keep the ill quarantined, but the only observable symptom—that deep and overwhelming sleep—also happens to be its last. We are often far too late… And to make matters worse, the affliction is a capricious thing. There is no pattern as to whom it visits. The young. The old. The strong. The weak. Any bug can become infected at any moment. We have taken to hurling the victims that we can find over the battlements at Kingdom's Edge. But even then, from time to time they return, less than what they once were… Mindless. Feral. And as for those that we fail to detect in time… Attacks occur inside The City at all hours. Usually amongst kin in private abodes. Once the afflicted awake from their slumber, they lash out at everyone and everything, like base beasts in the throes of instinct. And there is no cure to offer them but the nail."

"Expected," the King muttered. His pacing hastened. "And what of our might? Should it come to blows with the neighboring kingdoms, do we yet possess enough able bugs to repel invaders?"

Hegemol lifted his head. "Since the affliction began, our numbers have waned. That plague takes from the Royal armies just as it takes from the commoners." He gulped a breath and his voice rose. "But we are not yet bested, Lord! Especially by something so paltry. The Kingdom's armies remain stalwart. I am confident we would weather an attack from any one of the other kingdoms."

"I see. But what of all the kingdoms, Hegemol? The Deepnest. The Mantis. The Hive. Those barbarians that have taken up residence within the Blackwyrm's corpse. Should destiny conspire against Hallownest, would we persevere? Against all opposition?"

Hegemol deflated a fraction. "I… could not say, my King. I lack your foresight. But if such a war were to transpire, then it would bode ill. We Five Greats would bring our utmost strength to bear, but…" he fell silent.

The King ceased his pacing and planted a consoling claw on Hegemol's shoulder. He began to speak, but a different voice rasped from across the vestibule.

"It seems that I am late!"

Light shifted as something rose up to block the main entrance. A silhouette cast a narrow, bug-like shadow over the room. It approached, and its squelching steps trailed a dark residue on the silken carpet. The silhouette bore a slight limp and its arms hung heavily at its sides. The glow of the Lumafly lanterns splashed over its body, revealing silvered armor and the gore of battle. Blood—in greens, yellows, and lurid oranges—dripped from its plated contours. In each claw it gripped the hilt of a broken nail, similarly stained. "The Mantis are at war."

"Dryya!" Isma exclaimed. She rose to her feet and darted to the bloodied bug's side. "Are you injured? It looks most dire! I must retrieve my Soul-healing supplies. Sit. Do not move. I will return as swiftly as I can!" She turned and sprinted toward a passageway.

"Halt!" The King said.

Isma skidded to a stop and whipped about. "But Lord!"

"Do not disparage the prowess of your fellow Knight. Fierce Dryya is unharmed."

"He is right," Dryya said, looking down at her own splattered body. "This blood is not mine."

Isma shuffled back and dabbed at Dryya's pauldrons with a shred of leaf, accomplishing nothing but to smear the blood like paint. "You are certain?"

Dryya nodded and waved the leaf away. She strode across the vestibule and toward the King. In motion, her body was lean and inflexible, like an iron rod. And yet the armor about her flowed so naturally. The faulds at her waist descended like the petals of a bellflower and rustled as though caught in a faint breeze. She stomped to a halt before the King and barked a question. "Where is my White Lady?"

The King took some time to reply. He scanned the blood sullying Dryya, from the top of her three horns to her feet. "Later. Tell me of the Mantis. And Ze'mer."

"You foresee all things, do you not?" Dryya sniffed. "You should know better than I. Now, I ask again. Where is my Queen?"

The King bristled. "If the Mantis intend war, then I would hear of it. So, speak, Knight."

"The Queen is in her chambers," Isma interjected, stepping between the two. "She returned from Her Gardens this morning on a Royal Stag. In good spirits, it seemed."

Dryya's stance slackened. Her shoulders drooped an inch. "Good. I must go to her, she must be informed."

"I am this Kingdom's Sovereign. You shall inform me." The King said. "Where is Ze'mer?"

Dryya did not reply and marched off as if the King did not even exist, moving toward a passageway strewn with hanging, white vines. Ogrim and Hegemol rose but made no move to stop her.

Isma was the only one to pursue, closing the distance with three elegant steps and wrapping her lithe arms around one of Dryya's. "Tell us, please," Isma whispered.

Dryya gave a graveled sigh and planted her feet. "If I must." Her broken nails dropped to the tile with a crash, and she turned back to the group, shouting as if addressing an unruly crowd. "The Mantis do not war with Hallownest, they war with themselves. In-fighting has sparked between their Lords. The strongest amongst them—the one the others have taken to calling the Traitor Lord—has absorbed the affliction within himself to elevate his power. Many of the Mantis warrior caste have thrown their lot in with him and done the same. They assaulted Mantis Village, attempting to stage a coup, but were repelled and have instead retreated into the Queen's Gardens to lick their wounds and defile Her territory with their disease. The Lady must be informed, which is why I have no time to waste on chatter."

Dryya made another move toward the vine-choked passageway, but Isma would not relinquish her arm.

"When did this happen?" Isma asked.

"Hours ago. I, Ze'mer, and our retinue arrived in Mantis Village for the annual Peace Talks, and within minutes the Traitor Lord struck."

"What of that Royal retinue?" The King murmured. "And Ze'mer?"

Dryya scoffed. "The retinue was decimated. Not a bug was left standing after the attack. Your servants are fragile, easy prey without overwhelming numbers. And the Mantis have always been excellent fighters. If the other Mantis Lords had not aided me, then I would be just as dead."

The King looked away, his head bowed.

"As for Ze'mer," Dryya continued. "She deserted."

"What?!" Hegemol roared, "Never! A Great Knight would sooner die!"

"I watched her retreat from the field of battle!" Dryya snarled. "She is a coward, or worse, a turncoat. Just as the tides shifted in our favor, she fled. With the corpse of some female Mantis in her arms."

Isma recoiled as if she had been struck, releasing Dryya's arm. She pressed her claws against her mask, obscuring the six eyes. "No… that can't be…"

Ogrim was at Isma's side in an instant. He placed a claw on her shoulder. "Take heart," he said, "this is a mistake, nothing more. Ze'mer would never do such a thing without reason."

"No, Ogrim," Isma whispered, "you don't understand…"

Once freed of Isma's grasp, Dryya continued on her stubborn path. She spoke over her shoulder as she exited the vestibule and pressed through the hanging vines. "I will return with fresh nails and the Queen's bidding. If you Great Knights plan to join me in the defense of Her Gardens, then be certain not to imitate Ze'mer's failure."

"Halt, Dryya!" The King shouted. "You are to train the newest Vessel!"

Her reply was distant and muffled behind the swish of shifting vines. "I do not have time for another of your puppets. Train it yourself."

The vestibule grew quiet. The King muttered something under his breath and returned to his throne. He fell into the seat and braced the temple of his mask against a fist.

Hegemol slammed the floor with his foot, forcefully enough to send tremors through the Lumafly lanterns. "Of all the arrogant, boorish, quarrelsome behavior! That Dryya! How can you tolerate this from your own Knight, Lord? This is far from her first offense!"

The King waved an arm and stared off into space. "She is not my Knight. Fierce Dryya has forever belonged to The White Lady… To my Queen. Since long before Knighthood, or even Hallownest itself, Dryya has served as the Lady's lone protector and confidante. Thus, my Sovereignty means nothing in her eyes."

"That is no excuse, Lord!" Hegemol bellowed. "Is there not some punishment to be devised? This insult cannot be allowed to stand!"

"Do not overstep yourself, Hegemol. You Knights possess no right to find fault in the actions of your peers. Should judgment befall Dryya, then it shall be at the White Lady's behest, and none other. Such was the deal we struck. If you consider yourself to be my instrument, forged in the fires of my aspiration, then Dryya is but a thing lent and borrowed, nothing more. One takes special care with others' belongings."

Hegemol settled. "You speak fairly, King. But she went so far as to mock your prescience: the very foundation of this Kingdom. No instrument is devised to bite back at its wielder…"

Ogrim spoke up, barely above a whisper. "But did you truly foresee this attack, Lord? Ze'mer's desertion?"

Hegemol wheeled around with a guttural growl. "Watch your words, now."

"But did you?" Ogrim repeated.

The King sat upon his throne, as still as a corpse. Eventually, as if waking from a dream, he stirred. "No. Ogrim. No, I did not." The King rose once again and descended to stand before the Knights. "This conclave is adjourned. Step forth and receive your commands. If this Kingdom is to survive then there is much to be done. Thus, I ask of you Knights—again and always—is your fealty unshakable? Is your conviction indefatigable? If the tasks that I lay before you demand your very lives as tribute, would you see them to the end? For your Lord? For your Kingdom?"

"Of course," Hegemol said.

"Always," Isma murmured.

Ogrim lifted his head, and his horns gleamed in the oculus' light. He stared over the King's shoulder as if it were a lifetime away. "For the Kingdom. Ask, Pale King, and it will be done."

"I expected no less," the King said. He lifted his voice so that it boomed against the irregular walls. "Mighty Hegemol, you shall pursue Fierce Dryya and aid in her purpose. My White Lady is as covetous of her domain as any monarch is rightful to be. She shall not suffer the Mantis within Her garden. You are to assist Dryya in its reclamation. Enlist the service of as many of my legions as you see fit. But take care not to descend into folly. Recall that all strength is finite, even yours. Fight bravely, Knight, and return draped in victory."

Hegemol bowed deeply. "It is a lucky stroke for old Hegemol. I had hoped to soon holiday in the Queen's Gardens. And lo and behold, the opportunity falls before my feet." A wisp of a laugh escaped him, but then his voice grew hard. "You can trust in me, my King."

"But what of us?" Ogrim blurted, sweeping his claw first to Isma and then himself. "Would we not be of use on the field of battle?"

The King nodded at me over his shoulder and I felt his command, even though it went unspoken. My legs were torpid from prolonged standing, and I stumbled while descending the stairs. Isma did not look at me, keeping her eyes locked to the floor.

"Hallownest languishes," the King said, "not due to petty strife and border wars, but as the result of something far more malign." He gestured at me, palm up. "I forged this Vessel, this Hollow Knight to be a weapon capable of striking at that malignancy. In this regard, Loyal Ogrim, Kindly Isma, you two are to take charge over this Vessel and impart your knowledge upon it. Teach it all that you know of the warrior's mettle. And in doing so you shall prepare it to fulfill its ultimate purpose… And mayhap save us all."

Ogrim scratched at his head. "My King, I do not understand. How could this child—"

"Vessel," Isma whispered.

"H-How could this Vessel be of use to us?" Ogrim continued. "What salvation could it possibly offer?"

The King's scrutiny shifted from one Knight to the other. "Isma, you are privileged to certain knowledge regarding this Vessel's nature. Divulge what you feel is sufficient to dispel Ogrim's incertitude. I trust in your discretion." He lifted an arm and pointed toward the vestibule's main entrance. "You pair shall forthwith escort this Vessel to The City's mustering grounds. The soldier bugs and commoners alike must bear witness to Hallownest's newest champion. Now go quickly, Knights. Time is not our ally."

"Allow but one more question, Lord," Ogrim persisted.

The King had already turned to leave, but he stopped at Ogrim's request.

"Pale King," Ogrim said, speaking slowly. "You called this little one 'Hollow Knight'. It cannot achieve a Knighthood without taking part in the Champion's Call. Is that truly your will? I mean no impudence, but… it seems rather young for such things, does it not? Of all the aspirants to take part in the previous Call, only I survived. Is this little one suitable for such a challenge? It does not seem a Knight to my eyes."

The King went rigid. "Your words are ever divested from your intent, Impudent Ogrim. Again, you doubt my Vessel and feign concern on its behalf. But I spy the ignoble truth behind your veil." He let out a scornful laugh, the sound was like a drizzle of needles. "Are you so enamored with your own title? Do you fear that the Great Knights shall depreciate in dignity should this little one be elevated into your ranks? Do not harbor such senseless beliefs. If it will palliate your pride, then think of this thing not as a member of your Knighthood, but merely a tool to be manipulated. It is nothing else."

Ogrim shook his head, violently, as if it did him physical harm. "No, King! It is not my pride in my station that guides me. I simply wish—" He took a steadying breath. "I do not wish to see this little one's broken body cast into that pit."

From the King came a long, drawn sigh. He bent—just slightly—like a proud tree before an eternal wind. "It is not my desire to bludgeon you, Knight, but you must come to understand. Manifesting a vision into reality necessitates sacrifice. That is the economy of this world, and such payment cannot be diverted nor delayed. If you are truly rooted in empathy, and not vainglory, then know that such softness of heart will lead only to pain. You may yet witness more broken Vessels in your tenure. And that fact must not impede you."

"But there is a limit to such sacrifice, yes?" Ogrim asked. "When will such a point be reached?"

The King looked to me. "…Never," he whispered, and then louder. "You speak of matters that are beyond you, Ogrim. You are a neophyte amongst us. Your ennoblement is most recent in memory, yet always are you swiftest to question me. If you seek to hold fast to your title and your chivalry, then also must you hold fast to your faith. Believe in my purpose, and that I strive toward it for the good of all. If you cannot do that, then sever yourself from my service. I have no time to avail of doubt."

With that, the King departed, down a passageway leading deeper into the White Palace. His steps made no sound as his shadow diminished into the distance.

I remained behind, for a fresh command had tethered me to Ogrim more tightly than any worldly bond. I stood before him and waited, but he took no heed of me, instead lost in his thoughts and the King's trailing shadow.

Hegemol, too, tracked the King's withdrawal, until the Palace had devoured the conversation's last, echoing word. Only then did Hegemol close the distance to Ogrim and plant a claw on his shoulder. "You never hesitate to speak your mind. Some would call that noble, but most would call it foolhardy."

Ogrim hung his head. "This was a council, was it not? The King expects us to advise him."

"Indeed," Isma added. "But was it advice you offered, or condemnation? Do not think that you are the first to broach this subject? He is well aware of his own methods. And the price."

"But have you seen that pit, Isma?" Ogrim asked, hushed. "All those bodies…"

"I have," she said. "As has Dryya, as has Ze'mer. And I suspect, as have the other Great Knights that preceded us. And they too must have harbored their own misgivings. How many before you posed your very same questions? The King must grow weary of defending himself, time and time again. Although I sympathize with you, the King's is an inscrutable purpose, based upon distant dreams that we will never see. At times his ways may seem perplexing… even mad, but do we possess the authority to judge him?"

Ogrim did not reply.

"Well," Hegemol said, with a great exhale. "It seems that we Knights must part ways once again. As always, it was a pleasure to share another council with you, Isma. I hope the training of this Vessel proves to be more propitious than the last." Ogrim lifted his head to speak, but Hegemol barreled on. "And as for you, Ogrim. I will offer the same advice that my predecessor, Indomitable Targath once offered me." He cleared his throat. "'A flapping mouth and an attentive mind are an uncommon pair. When in doubt, be silent, the truth will come as it wills.'" He gave Ogrim's shoulder a shake. "Wise words, yes? You should consider heeding them." He then spun his wide body about and strolled off toward the hallway that Dryya had disappeared into. The low ceiling forced him to hunch. "Take care!" He bellowed, already sounding so far away. "We will meet again! One hopes in better circumstance!"

The vestibule stilled like a pond after a storm. Isma clasped her arms behind her back and turned toward the main entrance. "It seems that I am to inform you of the King's… pursuits. And the nature of this creature." She nodded in my direction, not looking. "It is a difficult matter to discuss. Perhaps a walk first? Clear our heads?"