The Prophecy
As ash rains upon the holy lands,
Fissures will pierce the celestial veils.
The pitied be damned, the Hollow's awake
March the trumpets, for the Earth will break
From blood of Veyrants, cast aside,
And Exorcists, whose oaths have cried,
A blade shall bloom in sacred ground—
March the trumpets, peace shall be found.
The Fallen stirs in Eden's bone,
A kingdom wails, no prayer to atone
The sins and cries where angels fell,
The crowd shall sing the hymns of hell.
So mark the hour, and steel your breath—
When the fourth moon rises, with two decades left
Praise that fool who will twist the fate,
And reach beyond the Heaven's gate
Of Glyphs and Exile
"I wish the world would just end right now."
The air smelt faintly of burnt copper and prayer ash, remnants from a ritual long outlawed. The faces of saints on the towers looming over the church bore a quiet sense of sorrow in their eyes. Damien hadn't left his chambers since the early morning sun first peeked through his curtains. Though only a few hours had passed since he awoke, to Damien it felt like no time at all, just a seamless blur since his gaze first locked with the ceiling above. The arid concrete looked down on him with the same emptiness he carried in his own eyes; it felt almost comforting to share the gaze with a like-minded and equally inanimate object.
The steps and rattling of the street-vendor pushing his trolley past the stone-paved road could be heard from the attic. Leaning onto each other like gossiping young ladies, the slanted roofs that shaped the cityscape would often whisper into his ears secrets too old for scripture. Some spoke of a prophecy, already set in motion as the church awaited the arrival of its Messiah. A prophecy that would disrupt even the damned silence of bleak nothingness in this exiled land. Others spoke of a boy not born of grace, but fracture instead. A child not named in the prophecy, yet doomed to walk its path. His very breath disrupted the path the heavens had long carved into stone.
Damien knew of this all too well.
"The inevitable marching of the oracle has already begun, and someone like him won't be left untouched for long."
Motionless alleys didn't leave room for the cries and laughter of children playing. Damp corners hosted faces no-one could look to. A labyrinth trapped in time unknown, the city of Gravenreach was a place even an angel would hide their halo– out of shame or as courtesy– paying respect to the abandoned sinners of the capital.
The lantern that illuminated this wooden carcass still flickered silently from across the room. Without any sort of urgency in his movements, Damien pulled himself up with his hands placed across his hips. Now sat, the boy looked around to try and figure out what time it was. The light piercing through the northern window shone across his slender figure, casting a tall shadow in front of him. His pitch-black hair fell neatly in front of his eyelashes, hiding the scar above his eyebrows. With each tired breath, the dust particles reflected in the corner of his face danced in an even more drunken frenzy than usual.
Afternoon was nigh.
Despite a sharp headache making him consider otherwise, Damien forced himself to stand up.
Suddenly, with a rather horrifying and violently distracting ring, the speaker on top of his doorframe screamed his name.
"Damien, to the Warden's Sanctum," it called.
"Tsk."
Following a bothered sigh, he walked towards his pile of clothes to pick out something fancy for the occasion. The Sanctum was where only those summoned personally by the Warden would find themselves in, so the venue indeed called for a get-up worthy of facing someone of his stature.
It was unusual for someone to get called into the main hall, even a piece as bright as Damien didn't find himself facing the Warden often. Once a captain of the Third Special Calamity squad, he was a familiar face to the elites of this house. However, the Warden was different.
The only time he would call upon him was when the prophecy was going to be involved in the conversation.
Damien could hear the amused hummings of a young girl echoing throughout the long hallway. It was playful, distinctly different from the usual ethereal tone that flowed throughout the chambers of this house. It soothed the harsh aching near his temple. Calling it angelic would probably feel sacrilegious to everything this house and these hallways stood for. Yet, that was the only word Damien could come up with to describe the tune currently providing him a sanctuary of comfort.
The Warden's Chamber was largely empty in the centre, surrounded by pillars spread all throughout the place. In the center, there was a long, richly textured and artistically crafted carpet leading to the throne upon which sat a man of unparalleled grandeur. A testament to what the Veyrants once stood for throughout much of their history, this room and the man served as an example of their forgotten glory.
After all, heis a man from the golden age of Veyrants.
On the day the fissures first started opening the gates to hell, mankind understood the purpose of the Awakened. They were individuals gifted with a metamorphosis aligning their very souls to the two primal forces that ordain the fabric of this world, Solence and The Witherflow, for to awaken is to carry a sigil of the prophecy itself. It connects one to the day the earth will welcome the chorus that will shatter existence itself, the worst of the sinners, the Fallen Angel. Those awakened to Solence within the church, fought under divine blessings, whereas the ones born to The Witherflow, the Veyrants, sacrificed the very essence of their sanity and earthly selves to channel the infernal through fractal wounds, rewriting and transforming literal sin to manifest their powers. Though polar opposites in nature, under the leadership of the two Wardens of the Awakened, they managed to create a blueprint of a future worth fighting for.
However, unity was not what the church chose to move forward with. After being crowned as the royal emissaries of the divine, something within the Exorcist Order had changed. Rumours of corrupt Veyrants bathed in infernal rage echoed through every corner of cities far and wide. The people's trust in the nature of The Witherflow slowly crumbled. Burdened by its infernal tendencies, they were seen as nothing more than an abomination, synonymous with the very fissures that called upon the Calamities.
They were branded as emissaries of hell. cast aside. Exiled from the lands with only the glyphs in their eyes glowing dimly in the shadows. All that was left of their past glories were memories of those who once fought to protect the people of their nation, the same people who now hunted them.
The glyph in his own eye dimmed in response to the gloom, aching like branded frost. Lucien, The Light-Bringer, Warden of this city of Veyrants stood in front of Damien.
Standing under the ceiling's murals, and being looked down upon by his ancestors of eras past, Damien had always felt a sense of unease whenever he entered the main hall. The stained glass windows carried the faces of Veyrants whose names have already been etched upon in legends and folktales—stories told to inspire the young. The boy felt slightly overwhelmed. His gaze shifted forward briefly, with frowned eyebrows and an unamused smile he tightened his fists.
"To what do I owe the pleasure of having my very existence be trodden beneath your feet?"
An unfazed Lucien, without turning, responds,
"You speak the same way you did as a boy, Damien."
"Look, I know I went a little too far when I tried to-"
"That's… not why I called you here."
With an idle swipe the lapis mask covering the face of a worn-out warrior finally came off. Lucien, the man whose name was not to be uttered in vain throughout the holy empire, was but a weary soul. The throne upon which he sat was one of obsidian molded wood and ancient prayers etched upon it, yet the back that rested on it was weak and frail.
After a moment of reaching enlightenment through contemplative pessimism, Damien decides to ask:
"Oh? Did the great Warden call me in for idle chatter?"
Lucien smiled, but the brewing storm in his eyes betrayed anger.
"You speak too freely for one whose blood stains both altars."
Silence captivated the room with an awkward look now vividly present on Damien's face. Hesitantly, he speaks,
"Funny. I never saw that look in your eyes. Not even when the crucifixes held the blood of our brothers. If this is just another sermon then make it short?"
With his palm now placed on his face, that ever present grin widens.
"Not everyone here has the pleasure of sitting on a chair that weighs heavier than what your shoulders can bear."
He stares deeply into Lucien's eyes and says,
"They used to call us saints, now they spit when they say our name. Tell me, who is truly to be blamed for our 'stained altar'?"
With a snarl, he turned around and marched. As if in response to his walk towards the exit, the archaic runes around the large iron door set themselves ablaze in azure light. Its hinges groaned with a roar that continued to converse into its own echo, sealing the tomb with a deafening hum. Behind him stood a man with a gaze that could pierce the heavens, with the sinner's insignia chiseled into his cornea, growing brighter than the constellations that comfort the darkness of night.
Lucien, finally lifting his gaze from beyond the podium, in a gravelly voice, spoke:
"There's a rumor in Edenheim,That glyph was sighted on a child's pupil."
Damien paused.
Lucien continued, "A sin that only you are burdened with isn't a sin at all. You are an anomaly made of flesh. It is about time you made some use of that."
Damien finally raises his head in curious confidence.
"So they kept him alive?"
"I'm afraid so." He deflated,
"You are the blade I've sharpened with my will, forged for the storm that awaits us…, yet my hands tremble when wielding you."
Damien smirks.
"Touching, are you actually worried about me? or is your age making you more sentimental?"
Lucien, unmoved by his wit, continues,
"Like in eras past, if we await the truth, the church will pen its own gospel. Enroll alongside the child we suspect of being born 'Sainted'. It is about time you unearth the secrets that led us here."
The old man's gaze softened, as if in plea to the young man stood in front of him, and spoke thus,
"You who can channel both of the arcane forces, find the rot beneath their divinity. The fracture hidden below their sanctums. Use Him if you so please, but remember his necessity. You are but a wound– fissured up by his very existence. You're not the prophecy, so make sure He happens."
Damien's breath caught. He could hear it now–the chorus they spoke of in the scriptures–not sung by angels, but by something older. And far more hungry.
Damien turned, shadows swallowing his silhouette. A wound born to bleed, yet the knife in hand was his own.
Lucien bid his final farewell,
"From now on, you are to pretend to be one of them and unshackle what hides below the depths of their churches. This will be your final mission, and when the day of the prophecy arrives, I hope you will stand beside us."
Outside, the bells began to toll-faint and distant- as if they had long forgotten why they rang.
Damien didn't look back. There was no need. Behind him stood a man who once carried the future on his shoulders; ahead lay the edifice of a lie so old it had fossilized into faith. He would walk its polished halls, wear their crests, kneel before their altar.
But he would not pray.
For Damien was not a child of prophecy. He was the knife left behind in its shadow. And the wound still bled.