The monastery had stood for more than a millennium, carved into the jagged cliffs overlooking a black sea. Once, it was a sanctuary of monks who worshipped the sun, keepers of a forgotten fire. But centuries of storms, war, and neglect had left the halls hollow. The walls whispered of hymns long buried, the stones carried the scars of blood spilled in ages past.
Tonight, the monastery was reborn—not in prayer, but in blasphemy.
Hooded figures entered silently, one by one, each cradling a flickering flame in a clay bowl. The circle they formed glowed red against the cracked altar. Their robes were marked with a sigil older than kingdoms: a spiral sun pierced by a blackened spear—the mark of the Hollow One, a god whose worship had been outlawed over three hundred years ago.
At the center stood High Seer Arin, the last voice of the Cult of the First Flame. His face bore ritual scars, carved into his flesh during his ascension ceremony. His voice was calm but carried an ancient weight.
> "Brothers and sisters, tonight we awaken what kings and empires feared for centuries. The Hollow One, the true giver of fire, was betrayed by men. They chained Him beneath stone and silence, burying His body while stealing His gift of knowledge. But the fire cannot be caged. It waits for the Perfect Vessel to walk among us, and through him… we will tear open the veil."
The circle bowed their heads as another cultist approached, carrying a book bound in human skin. Its pages were filled with glyphs older than the written word, the Testament of the First Flame, said to have survived countless burnings and inquisitions.
Arin lifted it high. His voice rose:
> "The prophecy speaks: One born in shadow, marked by the void, will bear the fire of the Hollow One. Through his flesh, kingdoms will bow, faith will break, and the world shall kneel before the true flame."
A murmur of hunger spread through the cult. They did not dream of mere survival—they dreamed of empire. A world ruled by fire and shadow, where their god's law replaced the withered crowns of kings.
Two cultists dragged a prisoner forward, binding him to the altar. His eyes bulged with terror, muffled cries lost in the chanting.
Arin placed a blackened steel dagger upon the man's chest. His words dropped into the silence like stone:
> "Blood for the veil. Blood for the Vessel."
The chanting swelled. The blade fell. Silence.
The ground shuddered violently. Cracks split the altar, and whispers seeped from the stone, a thousand voices murmuring from beneath the earth. The torches flared unnaturally bright, their flames bending toward the altar as if drawn by unseen breath.
Far from the monastery, in a quiet fishing village, a boy named Kael awoke with a scream. His skin burned with a mark that had not been there before—a black spiral, the very sigil of the Hollow One.
The cult had waited centuries. The prophecy was no longer words in an old book.
The Vessel had been born.