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A soul dagger whistled through the air.
Isma’s Nail swung in a swift arc, deflecting the attack with practiced ease. She didn’t need to look—she knew exactly where it would come from. Lower right, just out of her field of view. The same opening. Again.
‘It’ had not changed in a month. Since the Pale King stopped coming to watch it’s training—the final portions of the Vessel Plan were put into motion.
As the Pure Vessel retreated, raising its hand, Soul flared to life in its palm. Three daggers streaked toward her this time. Isma leaped, twisting mid-air, landing softly without a single scratch. She lashed her whip downward. Vines struck the floor in a display meant to intimidate. Some cadets observing the match flinched at the sound.
The Pure Vessel remained unmoved.
Fine. Isma huffed internally, gritting her teeth together.
She called upon her reserves, Soul crackling as it surged through her weapon. The whip’s spikes grew long, taking on a whitish glow, glinting viciously. She met the Vessel’s empty gaze, the endless void within its mask as impassive as ever.
Her arm snapped. The whip struck the ground once more, sending a flurry of spikes flying outward. She anticipated the Vessel’s reaction—teleporting behind her. Predictable. The whip whistled through the air, spiraling around its form before it could fully materialize.
Focusing more Soul into the weapon, spikes reformed and bit deep, carving through the Soul-infused layers of its carapace. The Pure Vessel struggled free, teleporting once more—but not before she counted the damage.
Four layers down.
Isma exhaled sharply. As expected, the Pure Vessel landed in its usual position, a mirror of every sparring session before. Frustration simmered in her chest, hands balling into fists.
Why? Why had it changed? Why had it regressed? It fought better than this before. This wasn’t a real battle—it was a mechanical routine. A soulless performance.
The Vessel moved. A jump, a downward strike, Soul sigils carving into the ground below—preparing to summon Soul Pillars. Isma was already moving. A spiked ball launched from her hands, uncoiling mid-air and releasing a deadly spray of white thorns.
The Vessel couldn’t alter its course once the spell was cast. Three spikes tore into its carapace before it plunged downward. Isma had already mapped out where each Pillar would rise, and she danced between them with ease.
The moment the last one dissipated in motes of Soul, she was upon it.
A quick spin, a clash of steel—her Nail met the Vessel’s in a perfect parry. Her whip curled once more in her left hand, twisting around its body, Soul-infused spikes digging in. Isma yanked.
The Vessel came crashing down to the ground.
Void motes drifted into the air like dying embers.
“Match!” A sentry’s voice rang out, confirming her victory.
Isma stepped back, breathing hard. “Hollow Knight. Go heal.” Her voice was cold, clipped with frustration, and imbued in Soul.
The Vessel silently and methodically freed itself from the vines, compelled only by the Royal Commandment. She turned on her heel and strode away, leaving her whip behind.
She was done for today.
“I don’t know what is going on!” Isma gripped harder at the silk cloth she was using to clean her Nail.
“You know the Vessel always had difficulty winning against you. Maybe it is a ‘glitch’ or something? Like when some of the Kingsmoulds tried to walk through a wall?” Ogrim proposed, cleaning away at his Pale-Ore Armor.
“That is not it and you know it. You know what is truly wrong” She huffed in annoyance, scrubbing harder.
Ogrim sighed and put the armor down.
“Isma, my dear, we have done all kinds of tests. The God-King Himself has also done so. We have tried our best, but all we have proved is that the Pure Vessel is a construct and nothing more” He said slowly.
Isma also let go of her Nail. “I just can’t believe it! Th-” She sighed looking around the room, her hands gripping her face in frustration, breathing deeply in and out before letting go.
The Castle Walls could be very thin.
“‘It’ acts as if ‘it’ is stressed. I’ve seen enough cadets do the same thing time and time again” She finally said quietly.
“Maybe it’s like what the God-King said once. You are projecting yourself into ‘it’. Giving ‘it’ what you would feel in ‘it’s’ situation because of your compassion” He offered, but she could only shake her head.
She knows the King has said the same thing to all of them. That they are giving an object emotion because of how ‘it’ looks like a bug and how ‘it’ can mimic a bug with such precision.
But she can’t agree with it. That explanation has always left a bitter taste in her mouth.
Ogrim approached her and opened his arms invitingly.
“Come here” He whispered after a moment of indecision on her part.
Isma approached slowly; letting herself be enveloped in her beloved’s arms. She loved the feeling of his body hiding her away from her worries and fears.
He patted her back slowly, rubbing alongside her spine “You need to let it go. The plan is going to happen soon. There is nothing more to be done”
She shook softly under his touch at these words.
After a few minutes of silence, Ogrim offered another answer “Maybe ‘it’ has a mind, and if ‘it’ has a will ‘it’s’ decision is made. We need to respect it”
She felt tears gathering in her eyes. She nodded slowly—heart clenching.
“I know. It’s just that they look like they are suffering so much Ogrim” She bellowed, her voice cracking under the weight of her protectee mission.
The little Vessel is not her first trainee, but they have been together for so long now. It is difficult to imagine that in a few more months they will be gone forever. Locked away and in pain. Containing an infection no mortal bug could fight against.
Ogrim nodded as he whispered comforting words into her ears. That everything would be fine. It was for the better of Hallownest—an end for The Infection.
Isma turned again in her nest.
She has lost count of how many times she has rolled around. She desperately wanted Ogrim to be here with her, but the Great Knight’s rooms have been separated around The Castle Grounds since a few years back.
An incident where sentries, who had recently arrived after patrolling areas rumored to be demonstrating physical manifestations of the Sickly Sweet Infection, turned into Husks while separated in various portions of the White Palace to be interrogated—creating a great ruckus.
Since then they have been divided to guard different sections in case of an emergency, rotating the Great Five into three rooms.
Currently, Dryya and Ze’mer were out and about, leaving her, Ogrim, and Haegemol with the task of guarding the different sections.
Isma stared at the ceiling.
She cannot comprehend why they have all given up on The Vessel.
That little thing she has been training since ‘it’ was a grub—Nail bigger than ‘it’s’ body. Vividly remembering how quickly ‘it’ learned. How eager ‘it’ was to win against one of the Great Five, and how much fire appeared inside ‘it’s’ hollow eyes when ‘it’ finally won against Ogrim.
How each challenge lit a bigger flame in ‘it’s’ soul. A flame she remembers seeing in her colleagues all too well when they all were young, stupid, and aspired to be the greatest knights of the Kingdom.
Isma knows that the Vessel cannot be Pure.
Even after the Pale King had assured them time and time again how there was no way for ‘it’ to have a Soul of ‘it’s’ own, she could not believe it.
That exact topic has been a constant fight between The Monarch and His Great Knights for a long time.
Not one of them believed—that’s quite not the right word, they could not accept The King’s words: ‘The Vessel was a mindless corpse that could only follow instructions. A modified version of Kingsmould that could learn from repeated actions and correction from ‘it’s’ failures. A thing devoid of mind and soul. An object like any other that could not voice any opinions or take any actions without guidance.’
But she never liked the way ‘it’ would follow orders from Royal Commandments as opposed to simply talking to ‘it’. How ‘it’s’ body would grow rigid in a Commandment in opposition to ‘it’s’ usual fluidity.
Or how much difference there would be when ‘it’ was ordered to take a sparring session from when ‘it’ was asked to take a sparring session. Nowadays, they would not act upon words that were not imbued in Soul—something they had done plenty of times before. And this has been nagging at her, making her stress all over again.
She had defied the Pale King’s words at first, alongside all the other four Great Knights, when that little grub arrived and they were told it was a construct.
But The Vessel never flinched.
Not with promises of a happier life, to be a Great Knight, or even of freedom by offering to let them run away after taking them outside; far from the Palace Grounds into an area where they could just vanish.
They all relented, one by one. The Vessel was simply a tool—something to help fight The Infection. To seal away an intangible enemy.
Isma was the last one to give in.
She could never let go of the small inconsistencies.
The way they would look up to the Great Knights. The fluidity of their movement. The discovery of opening during sparring without being instructed previously to use said openings.
Finally, three instances when she felt pain from a plant being coming from the general direction of their room. Once after their first molting, and twice after some intense training sessions. The pain disappeared as soon as she got close—before she could pinpoint it to be coming from their room.
A thing cannot feel, thus it cannot project pain into the root system. If ‘it’ can feel pain...
Yes, it could be from someone of the Castle Staff, but she never truly believed it to be such. The pain was intense; as if consuming her from the inside, her body feeling drained, cold, and empty.
She shuddered at the memory.
In the end, even with all her doubts, she did end up like all the other Four. She stopped her displays of sympathy and care at the bequest of The Pale King, as such could instill impurities in The Pure Vessel, which would in turn make the plan fail.
“‘It’ is an object” She mumbled under her breath, hiding her head underneath the blanket. “‘It’ cannot feel. ‘It’ cannot think. ‘It’ does not have a soul” She repeated the empty words, ‘what ifs’ flying around in her head.
If they are impure the plan is a bust.
If they are impure they will be sealed away in a glorified coffin with a raging Goddess inside their head with no one to help.
If they are impure they are going to suffer with The Infection.
If they are impure the plan is going to fail—their death excruciating and their sacrifice for naught.
Throwing the blanket away Isma got up from her bed. Rules be dammed!
Isma looked at the door in front of her. This is a bad idea. She should go back to her room. Walking away she turned around and came back. She felt like when she was a grub scared of the darkness underneath her nest; going to her parent's room to wake them in the middle of the night so she could spill her woes.
Sighing she finally touched the handle and slowly opened the door. Soft snores greeted her and immediately her mood shifted, a soft smile gracing her lips.
She closed the door behind her and approached the nest. Sitting close to her beloved Isma touched his shoulder lightly and shook “Orgim, dear” She said.
He kept on snoring and she laughed a little, putting a little more pressure on his shoulder she called out for him again.
The pressure did wonders and his snores stopped.
“Isma?” He whispered amidst a yawn “Is it morning already?”
“No,” She said, kissing his cheek “But I wanted to speak with someone”
“Is it about-”
“Yes,” She interrupted him with a haunted voice.
Ogrim grunted when he lifted himself from the nest, pulling Isma close so he could hug her while sitting down.
“Well?” He asked after a moment of silence.
“I just can’t sleep thinking of what could go wrong if-”
He pulled her closer when her voice cracked. “Shhhh” Ogrim said softly, rubbing her arm and back, pulling her even closer.
Isma sobbed uncontrollably, babbling away ‘what ifs’ to him. Speaking how the Vessel would have a horrible death for nothing.
“Dear, my love, what if it’s their choice to do so?” He questioned softly, his lips gracing her temple gently to try and comfort her.
“What do you mean?” She asked quietly after a minute of silence, tears falling silently from her face.
He positioned himself so he could look directly into her eyes “I don’t understand well how those machines work, but if they have a mind like any other bug in Hallownest they could have escaped. We gave them ample opportunity”
Ogrim lifted his claws and caressed Isma’s head “If they have not escaped, then they might have come to terms with the plan—with their role in it” He said slowly, touching his forehead into hers.
Isma lifted her hands to her mouth and sobbed silently, shaking her head in denial.
“How could anyone want such fate?” She inquired, tears flowing freely from her eyes once more.
“Someone full of love for this world, my dear” Ogrim answered and simply hugged her tighter.
They stayed like that for a long time. Just holding each other in the confines of the room. Feeling the other’s touch and care.
Isma finally calmed down enough for her tears to have dried up; now simply leaning against Ogrim as he hummed quietly, brushing her head slowly. Her eyes started to droop down.
“Ogrim?” She broke the silence with a whisper when his humming stopped, his breathing starting to even with sleep.
“Hmm?” He answered, forcing his eyes back open to look at her in the dimly lit room.
“If they want to escape, would you do it?” She asked almost fearfully “Would you abandon everything you have ever known to help them? To help us?”
He felt a shiver in his spine. To betray The God-King? Such a preposterous thing! He has always imagined spending his life as one of the Great Five alongside Isma, living under His gracious rule.
She might not have the same attachments as him to this Kingdom, coming from Unn’s Land, but to ask him not only a betrayal to the crown but also to betray Hallownest? The place he has called home from since he came to be aware of the world? To spat at his Knights oath just like that? Abandon every last bug to The Infection and flee with their last hope?
As he looked at Isma’s eyes; her eyelids fluttering in the way he came to love, his heart melted.
He loves her just so damn much.
Ogrim breathed heavily, and answered with the tiniest of nods; as if afraid to make a bigger confirmation and bring down the judgment of The God-King Himself upon them.
“Thank you” She uttered softly “I love you” Her lips graced his;
“I love you too” and he accepted her gently.
Isma looked deep into those hollowed eyes, staring into the abyss hidden behind. She knew she was staring directly into them, and they knew that she knew.
It was dark, their door had been opened outside of schedule in the middle of the night. Their body had been curled in the nest and rested peacefully. The noise woke them up, and they changed instantly from relaxed to robotic.
“Hollow Knight. Follow,” She said, words imbued in Soul.
The Vessel got up from bed, without arranging their cloak or doing anything to look as pristine as the King Himself. A habit they had previously that also has stopped since the Pale King stopped showing.
Isma led them through the empty halls of the White Palace, the echo of their footsteps swallowed by the vast stillness.
It is infuriating.
The Pale King spoke of the Vessel as a machine, a tool, a soulless construct. But Isma saw the flickers—the moments that defied that claim. The way He watched them, longing buried beneath a mask of indifference. The trembling of His hands when the Vessel was severely wounded. The way the Vessel itself once moved with fire in its step, before it started breaking under the weight of its role.
She still remembers vividly the day The Pure Vessel learned how to Wield Soul Magic. The King had thought such a feat impossible and yet, they managed to mimic Him after a demonstration to Monomon. The proud happy flash of His wings and the proud tone in His voice were not lost to anyone. He demanded none to speak of what happened that day, and since then, things have gone downhill.
The King distancing from His creation.
Isma could never understand this. If He is a God, why it is so hard for Him to believe He has created life? Is that not something common to Gods? Unn created every plant being in Her Garden, so why can’t He believe He has done the same and treat the Vessel as an ordinary bug?
Isma glanced back towards them ‘a tool alright’ she spat in her mind.
As she looked ahead, she overlooked the Kingsmoulds. The structures were arranged to allow her unrestricted movement throughout the entire Palace Grounds at any time, which meant there was nothing to report during her stroll in the middle of the night.
The Vessel had the same freedom, as they would sometimes be stuck in the King’s lab into the late hours of the night, or would arrive from a field training session at random hours. As long as she did not approach the Staff Quarters, the Royal Suites, or the front gates The Vessel could walk freely everywhere inside the Palace at any time without the King being warned, or the Kingsmoulds interrupting their path.
So, she kept on walking.
Making turns here and there Isma finally arrived at a big window with a strange view of the wall. White Vines decorated the view; compared to other windows it was rather barren. But if one were to jump this window, they could go over the huge gaping hole that led Wyrm knows-where and grip at the White Vines. From there one could climb the ledge into an alcove.
And maybe she, as one of the Great Five, knows that the alcove has a hidden entrance to an emergency tunnel that leads to Kingdom’s Edge. The exit of the cave is hidden with sigils that can be broken from inside if ever needed, acting as a door to the outside that would not let anyone in; unless they are the King and know how to dismantle those sigils from outside.
The Pale Castle has been built over a huge hole, with a single bridge acting as an entrance and exit. Not having a second exit point would be insanity in an emergency.
And she will be dammed if this does not count as one.
Isma finally turned around and stared deep into the black holes of their mask.
“You won,” She said flatly. “I am now going to play this game by your rules”
She circled behind them, placing a firm grip on their shoulders “Hollow Knight. Stay” She laced her voice with soul.
Their legs grew rigid, freezing them in place. They are now unable to leave even if they want to. That is the power of a Royal Commandment.
“If you are truly a tool, then I can simply take you.” Her voice was steady, unwavering. “I will give the command, and we will walk out of here. I will steal you away from this place and take you far beyond Hallownest. Ogrim will come with us. We will run, erase our tracks, and vanish into the Wastelands. I will give you a new life. A real one.”
“I just need to order you to follow me” She explained her plan slowly, but they kept unmoving. Not even a flinch.
She tsk’ed in her mind.
Isma stepped in front of them, lifting their hands into hers. “You don’t have to do this. We could be a family. Me, you, Ogrim.” Her voice softened. “I don’t care what you are. I just want you to be free.”
“Fuck this kingdom and its rules. Fuck its rulers. And finally fuck these Gods” She growled with equal amounts of venom and sweetness interlaced.
The Vessel still kept unmoving, unflinching, and seemingly uncaring.
But she could feel in the roots, a slow building anger. So far away and hidden she could barely feel it. In the corners of her imagination an echo of a feeling.
But it was there, even if quietly controlled. Something that was not hers, and that could not be from any staff.
She exhaled, her grip tightening. “As long as you don’t deny me, I’ll take it as consent.” A sharp smile curved her lips. “Because tools don’t get to have opinions, do they?”
She turned around and smiled maniacly, feeling the hollowed eyes boring into her skull from behind. She has rilled them up enough. She waited a full minute, counting to sixty in her mind.
Finally, she slowly turned around and opened her mouth, Soul infusing in her voice from a sigil the King had branded in her arm. “Hollow Knight-”
Then—a flicker of motion.
A Nail lifted, the tip grazing her throat, drawing the thinnest line, white sap escaping from her skin. The weight of the Royal Commandment shattered from her voice, its invisible chains crumbling into nothingness on the unused Command.
Isma inhaled sharply, her heartbeat loud in her ears. Her lips parted in a whisper, a confirmation of what she always knew.
“You are impure.”
The Hollow Knight trembled.
Their form collapsed to the floor, long, inky limbs curling inward, clawed hands pressing against their mask as though they could hide from her words. Their head shook a silent denial.
Isma knelt beside them, one hand resting gently on their shoulder. “Please,” she whispered, her voice softer now. “There’s nothing wrong with that. You are not a failure.”
Their hands twitched. Their body flinched.
“I will tell no one.” Her arms wrapped around them, drawing them close. Cold void pressed against her warmth. “Shhh,” she hushed, rocking them slightly, like she did all those years ago in that horrible—horrible experiment. Putting an inexperienced grub to fight two of the Great Five while also avoiding a plethora of Soul daggers to test their capability to multitask failed horribly.
Ogrim still has nightmares about how their shell had cracked under Haegemol’s mace when he pressured the little grub too much, pushing them right into the incoming mace with a ball of dirt.
The Pale King had insisted that the Vessel’s trembling body was caused by it getting exponentially colder than normal after their strange revival and consecutive fight against a shadow of themselves.
Isma never believed it.
The hesitation melted. Slowly, uncertainly, they lifted their arms and clung to her.
A first.
Isma felt the breath leave her lungs. She held them tighter.
“I knew,” she whispered. “I always knew.”
“I never stopped knowing” She spoke softly, caressing their head slowly “I could feel your pain; through the roots,” She said softly, tears streaking her face.
She hugged them closer. Letting them feel her heat, her beating heart, her rocking motion, and her soft hush. ‘Everything will be fine’s and ‘No one will know’s leaving her mouth in a mantra.
Isma held down a sob “I’m sorry” She said, voice breaking. She repeated her apology over and over.
“I did not want to scare you like this” She nuzzled their head slowly, her roots reaching out, trying to comfort and to ask for forgiveness.
She felt the smallest of nudges back. Something cold and dark, hidden in the farthest corners of the root channels—diminished to the point of a comatose seed.
It felt so alien but, at the same time, so familiar.
“I never meant it,” She said “I almost did it. But I never meant it” She repeated, their presence moving slowly in the roots channels, nuzzling back slowly. Tendrils left their body and carefully wrapped around her, desperately wanting to feel more of that heat; of the comforting presence and calming hushsing. To do more of this wonderful thing that is called a hug.
Their body relaxing for the first time in a long time.
They kept like that, hugging in the dark hallway for a long time.
Isma felt drained. She has been an emotional rollercoaster for a long time, but this has been one of the few days she has cried so much in such a short span of time.
Once both had calmed down, and The Vessel had collected their tendrils back into their carapace, her body started to shiver from the cold.
Isma gripped their hand on her own, and she sighed deeply “I’ll allow it” She said with a nod, grinding her teeth behind a soft smile.
She felt them inquiring slowly from the root channels. It was hard to feel them in there, almost as if they were a ghost—an echo of something more. Something she could not grasp.
“But I can only do so after you listen to me” She warned “You need to know you will ultimately fail”
Their head had turned toward her when she started speaking again, but their body grew rigid as those words were uttered.
“You know you will fail” They nodded slowly. “So why? Why are you letting yourself be locked away just to suffer for God knows how long?” She questioned, looking at their not-so-hollow face.
She felt a slow nudge from the echo in the roots, a blurry image of Hallownest appearing in her head for a split second. Isma blinked. She knew the roots could convey emotion, but images? That was new.
She furrowed her brow. “For Hallownest? But why? No one has treated you well and frankly, everyone treats you like an object. So that makes no sense to me” She said.
They shook their head and pointed to her.
“But I don’t want-” Another blurry image popped into her head, of Ogrim, Haegemol, Dryya, and Ze’mer.
Isma tried to shake her head again, but more blurry images popped up. Of the sentries, castle staff, Lurien, Herrah, the Gendered Child, Monomon, Quirrel. Of bugs they have seen on the street. Bugs they have seen from high up in the Watchers Spire.
None of the images showed them interacting with those bugs per se, but showed their smiles, laughter, creations, dances, songs, and performances. It showed every bug simply living their lives as in any other day.
“Is it because... Because we are alive?” She questioned softly.
They nodded.
“But you are alive as well! You have the right to live just as anyone else!” She could not help the confrontational tone of voice.
“You could leave with me and Ogrim right now. If you want to live I can do it. I know I said I did not mean it, but if I can give a life-” They shook their head.
“But after all we did with you? The extreme training? The pain? Those experiments that I cannot even phantom?” She questioned, and for every question they kept nodding their head.
“Why?” Isma could only ask, still flabbergasted.
They pointed to her again.
An image of her and the other Great Knights posing in an official event around the King.
“But you can be a Knight. We can do the oath if you show yourself-” They shook their head pointedly.
The Knights oath scroll appeared in a blurry image on her mind.
“To serve and protect this Kingdom but, above all, its life—the life of its people” She whispered. They nodded.
Isma got up.
“Hollow Knight,” She said and they got up.
There was no Soul imbued in her words, this was not a command, just a way to address them. Isma got her Nail and lowered it slowly to their right shoulder. Once they saw what she was doing they nodded and kneeled on the floor.
The same they had done when they received the title of The Hollow Knight officially a few months prior.
“As one of the Great Five I, Isma the Kindly, accept your pledge to serve and protect this Kingdom but, above all, its life—the life of its people. From commoner to our God-King you will treat all as equal lives in your eyes and thus Hallownest will be safe by His decree” She moved her Nail from their right arm to the left one “Your Nail shall only act as a shield from henceforward.”
“Hallownest will be safe under our care, friend” She extended her hand, and they accepted it, letting her help them to be on their feet.
Hallow bowed graciously to her, just as one would do when being accepted into the Great Knights.
“I accept you... Hallow, into the Great Knights” Isma ended the pledge, giving them a name. Hallow of Hallownest.
Their protector.
Their Knight.
