# Chapter 602: The Cult's Prophecy
The world of ash and silence held secrets in its heart, places where the light of the sun was a forgotten myth and the air itself was a memory of poison. Here, far from the gilded cages of the city-states, lay a temple not built by hands, but burrowed into the petrified ribcage of some long-dead leviathan of the Bloom. The entrance was a maw of jagged, obsidian-like rock, perpetually exhaling a wind that smelled of cold dust and something faintly, sweetly organic, like rotting flowers. This was the sanctum of the King's Voice, the mortal heralds of the world's end.
Inside, the air was thick, heavy with the cloying scent of smoldering shadow-herb and the low, resonant hum of fervent prayer. The main chamber was a natural cavern, its walls lined with veins of phosphorescent crystal that cast a sickly, shifting green light. The light fell upon a dozen figures in simple, grey robes, their heads bowed, their bodies swaying in unison. At the center of the chamber, the floor fell away into a perfectly circular basin, perhaps thirty feet across. It was not filled with water, but with a liquid that seemed to drink the light, a swirling vortex of absolute blackness that stirred with a slow, deliberate life. This was the Oculus of the King, a direct conduit to their slumbering god.
The chanting rose and fell, a guttural, polyphonic drone that spoke of endings and silence, of the holy peace that awaited when the last flame was extinguished. The sound vibrated through the stone, through the bone, into the very marrow of the faithful. They were the King's Voice, and they sang for the day their master would wake and grant them the gift of oblivion.
Leading the ritual was the High Priestess, a woman named Lyraene, though she had shed that name long ago. Her face was a mask of serene devotion, her eyes closed, her hands raised above the dark pool. Her cinder-tattoos, unlike the vibrant, life-affirming marks of the Ladder's champions, were dull, black webs that crawled up her arms and onto her neck, speaking of a life spent in communion with the Bloom's corrosive power. She was the vessel, the one chosen to interpret the King's will.
The chanting reached a fever pitch, a discordant harmony that scraped at the sanity. The robed figures around the pool began to beat their chests in a slow, rhythmic cadence, the sound like massive, dying hearts. The liquid in the Oculus began to churn faster, the vortex at its center deepening, pulling at the dim light of the crystals until the chamber was plunged into near-total darkness, save for the abyssal pool.
Then, a voice slithered into their minds. It was not a sound that could be heard with ears, but a pressure, a presence that filled every thought, every shadow, every mote of dust. It was ancient, cold, and vast beyond comprehension. It was the voice of the Withering King.
*They come.*
The mental impact sent a shudder through the assembled cultists. Some fell to their knees, weeping with ecstasy. Others simply stood, trembling, their faces rapt. Lyraene remained standing, her body a conduit for the divine message. Her eyes snapped open, but they saw nothing of the cavern. They saw only what the King wished her to see.
*The false saviors. The clinging sparks. They believe they can mend what I have broken.*
The surface of the Oculus stilled, the swirling chaos resolving into a clear, terrifying image. It was a vision, projected directly from the King's consciousness into theirs. They saw a city of crumbling towers and canals of stagnant, black water, half-swallowed by the grey sands of the wastes. They saw the skeletal remains of a great dome, its roof collapsed, revealing a sky the color of a fresh bruise. The Sunken Library of Aeridor. The name echoed in their minds, a piece of forbidden knowledge gifted by their master.
The vision plunged, diving through the ruined dome into the darkness below. It passed through flooded halls where water-logged books floated like dead fish, their pages pulped into illegible mush. It descended deeper, past crumbling archways and corridors choked with the crystalline growths of the Bloom. Finally, it settled in a central chamber, a place of profound silence and pressure. There, resting on a stone lectern that had somehow resisted the decay, was a single object. It was a shard of pure, white light, pulsing with a gentle, rhythmic warmth. It was beautiful, a beacon of life in a tomb of death. And it was anathema.
*My fragment. My bait.*
The vision shifted again. They saw figures now, moving through the wastes. A woman with dark, determined eyes, her face set in a mask of command. A prince in practical armor, his bearing noble but grim. An Inquisitor, her features sharp and analytical. They were the leaders of this new affront, this Soren Protocol. The King's voice dripped with contemptuous amusement as it showed them to its followers.
*They seek to reclaim the pieces of the broken hero. They call it salvation. They call it hope.*
The image of the woman, Nyra, filled the Oculus. The King's focus sharpened on her, on the sliver of connection she held to the fragment. The cultists could feel it, too—a faint, golden thread of psychic energy stretching across the vastness of the wastes, a line of pure intent leading directly to their master's trap.
*They will come to the library. They will believe they are the hunters. They are wrong.*
The vision in the pool dissolved, replaced once more by the featureless, swirling blackness. The presence of the Withering King receded, leaving behind a chilling clarity and a single, unambiguous command.
*The library is sacred ground. The final resting place of knowledge. It will not be defiled by their clinging light. Go. Drown them in shadow. Let them find not salvation, but the silent peace I offer all. Let them become one with the ash.*
The presence vanished. The oppressive weight in the chamber lifted, and the cultists gasped, drawing ragged breaths as if surfacing from deep water. The phosphorescent crystals on the walls seemed to brighten, their green light no longer sickly but holy, illuminating the ecstatic faces of the faithful.
Lyraene lowered her hands, her body trembling with the effort of channeling the King's will. She turned to face her acolytes, her eyes burning with a fanatical fire that made the green light of the crystals seem cold. She was no longer just a woman; she was the mouthpiece of oblivion.
"The King has spoken!" she cried, her voice ringing with authority. "He has shown us the test of our faith! The interlopers, the servants of the fading world, march on a holy site! They seek to steal a relic of the King's power, to use it in their futile war against the end!"
She pointed a slender, trembling finger at the Oculus, where the last vestiges of the vision were fading. "They call themselves the Soren Protocol. They seek to rebuild a fallen champion. They speak of hope. But the King has shown us the truth! They are but moths flying to a holy flame, and we shall be the ones to burn their wings!"
A low growl of agreement rumbled through the chamber. The cultists were no longer swaying in prayer; they were coiled with predatory energy. These were not just fanatics. They were the King's chosen hunters, warriors who had embraced the Bloom's gifts, their bodies and minds twisted into potent weapons. Their Gifts were not for spectacle or glory; they were tools of annihilation.
Lyraene's gaze swept over them, selecting her instruments. "Malachi! Kael! Vess! To me!"
Three figures detached themselves from the crowd. They were larger than the others, their robes straining against frames that were no longer entirely human. Malachi, a hulking brute whose Gift had turned his skin into a stony, grey carapace, cracked his knuckles with a sound like grinding rock. Kael, a lithe woman with eyes that glowed with a faint, internal luminescence, flexed her fingers, and the air around them shimmered with heat. Vess, a man whose face was hidden behind a porcelain mask, simply stood, a void of stillness that was more menacing than any overt threat.
"You will lead the Drowned," Lyraene commanded, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Take the fastest wargs. Ride through the night. You will reach the Sunken Library before them. You will not engage them in the open wastes. You will wait. You will let them enter the tomb, let them feel the false hope of discovery."
She stepped closer, her voice a venomous caress. "The library is a maze. A tomb. Let them get lost in its corridors. Let them separate. And when they are at their most vulnerable, when they believe they are close to their prize, you will spring the trap. You will not just kill them. You will erase them. You will feed them to the Bloom. You will make them an example to all who would defy the King's will."
Malachi grunted, a sound of eager anticipation. Kael's smile was a flash of white teeth in the gloom. Vess gave a slow, deliberate nod.
Lyraene turned back to the Oculus, her reflection a pale, ghostly shape on the surface of the void. She reached into a fold of her robe and produced a ceremonial dagger, its blade forged from a shard of obsidian taken from the heart of a Bloomblight. It was not a weapon of steel, but of shadow, honed to cut not just flesh, but the very essence of life.
She raised the dagger high, its edge catching the faint green light and seeming to drink it in. Her eyes, wide and unblinking, gleamed with the terrifying, absolute certainty of the truly fanatical. The assembled cultists fell silent, their hearts beating in time with hers.
"The King's will be done," she proclaimed, her voice echoing through the bone-lined temple. "The interloper will be drowned in shadow."
The response was a roar, a unified shriek of devotion that shook the very foundations of the earth. The hunt was on. The heroes of the Soren Protocol were marching toward a fate they could not possibly comprehend, walking directly into a carefully prepared nightmare, unaware that their every move had been anticipated, their destination already consecrated as their grave.