The demon realms were endless shadow and ruin, a place where storms never ceased and the ground itself bled fire. Yet in this wasteland, one being walked unchallenged, her presence feared even by the lords of hell.
The Witch of Black Horns.
Her body was carved from shadow, her skin iron-dark, her eyes glowing molten orange beneath a tangle of hair as black as the void. Twin horns curved above her head, spiraling outward in impossible arcs, marking her as something beyond mortal or demon. She had lived far too long for either name to matter.
The witch hunted alone.
A demon hound roared, charging across the ash plains, its hide bristling with molten spikes. She smiled as black fire rippled from her hand, hardening into a dagger of shadow. The clash was violent, bloody, inevitable. When the beast fell, she fed—draining its essence, letting its strength fuel her veins.
This was her ritual. Her survival. Her growth.
But she did not feed only for hunger. She fed because she remembered.
Five thousand years ago, when the first kingdoms were young and the first demon lords clawed their way into power, she had seen what was coming. The visions had burned into her mind like fire through flesh—worlds colliding, realms breaking, the mortal, demon, and divine converging in one cataclysm. She had spoken the words aloud, her voice thundering across creation, and the prophecy had been born:
"When shadow and flame unite, when the blood of mortals stains the skies, the Chosen will rise to bind the realms or break them forever."
The world had clung to those words for millennia. Kings wrote them into holy texts. Priests twisted them into sermons. Demon lords scoffed, then prepared armies just in case.
But only she knew the truth.
Because she had made the prophecy.
Not as warning. Not as hope. But as a chain—a destiny she herself forged into the marrow of the world.
Every time she consumed a demon, every time her dagger drank blood and her magic tore flesh, the future bent closer to her design. She was weaving it still, feeding her power into the unseen threads of fate, shaping the convergence that would one day bring mortals and demons crashing into one another.
The ruins she came to now were silent, etched with the faint glow of runes she herself had carved millennia past. She crouched in the circle, pressing her palm to the stone, feeling the old wards hum under her touch. Her own handwriting stared back at her, a warning to herself:
"Do not forget: you are the prophecy's mother. And you are its end."
She laughed softly. She had written that while still drunk on power, still swollen from consuming an entire demon legion. Yet even now the words tasted true.
Three demons appeared from the shadows of the ruins, armored in bone, their faces hidden by jagged masks. They spoke her title with venom.
"Black Horn Witch," one hissed, "your prophecy has stirred chaos enough. The masters grow weary of your games."
"Masters?" Her voice was low, dangerous. "Do you not see? I made your masters. I made the fear that binds them. Without my words, your lords would be nothing but beasts gnawing at scraps."
"You meddle in fate. You—"
Her dagger flashed, and the demon crumbled to ash before it finished its accusation. The others fell soon after, torn apart by blade and shadow-fire, their essence swallowed into her being.
She sat upon a cracked throne of stone, the taste of their souls still lingering on her lips.
The prophecy had lived far longer than she expected. Entire empires had risen and fallen in its shadow. Now, she could feel the currents shifting, the threads she had spun long ago beginning to tighten. Somewhere far above, in the mortal realm, pieces were moving. The Chosen she had spoken of would appear soon.
Her smile curved wide, sharp as her blade.
Let them cling to their hope, their destiny, their sacred words. Let them think the prophecy a promise of salvation.
Only she remembered the truth.
The prophecy was a trap. A cage. A war.
She had not spoken it to save the world. She had spoken it to burn it.
And when the Great Convergence finally came, she would be waiting at its heart.