The moon shimmer in earness. The temple was filled with hurried footsteps and hushed discussion. Apprentice priests, both male and female, scurried across the marbled halls, whispers trailing behind them like shadows. ɴᴇᴡ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀʀᴇ ᴘᴜʙʟɪsʜᴇᴅ ᴏɴ novèlfire.net
"Did you hear? The Saint himself uttered the prophecy—fully this time!"
"They say he even gave a description of the chosen!"
"Could it be true... after all these years?"
Rumors ran rampant like wildfire. Some gazed in awe, some scoffed in disbelief, and some smiled wistfully as if they could see a hero carved out of light.
The apprentices were seated in the prayer hall, the drone never ceasing. A red-haired youth with a fiery thatch and a frown that seemed perpetual slammed his hands on the table.
Preposterous! It’s been decades, and the elders still grasp a half-finished fairytale. And now this nonsense?"
A brunette girl who was sitting nearby scooted in close, voice earnest. "It isn’t nonsense this time. They say the prophecy is complete. Fully spoken, after forty-six years!"
Another girl wandered over, giggling. "And they said there was even a description of him. What do you think he looks like? Handsome? Strong? Tall?"
The brunette flushed scarlet, twirling a strand of hair nervously.
The red-haired boy narrowed his eyes, insulted. "Hah! Handsome? Please. In this entire kingdom, I’m easily the most handsome man alive. No ’chosen one’ can outshine me."
A loud smack echoed as the second girl folded a scrap of parchment and whacked it against his head.
"Most handsome? You? You’ve got the brains of a donkey and the face to prove it. How you ever passed the apprentice trial, I’ll never know!"
The boy yelped, holding his head, glaring at her. The hall erupted into laughter, tension broken momentarily.
A staff was pounded on the ground, and the room fell silent.
All the apprentices scrambled to their feet as the elders entered, twelve of them in white and gold robes, their solemn faces lined by age and wisdom. Among them came the Saint, frail and bent, assisted by two attendants. His staff glittered with ancient runes, each step echoing like a heartbeat through the hall.
All bowed low. "Glory to Father Asmethan."
When he was seated, the elders formed a circle around him. An elder stepped forward, voice grave.
"After forty-six years, at last the prophecy has been fully spoken."
A younger elder unrolled a scroll, the parchment crackling as if it lived. He passed it to him with trembling hands. The hall held its collective breath as the elder began to read.
"Hear, O children of Asmethan, the words carried on the winds of fire.".
When the four seasons mix in one, and the skies bleed red,
the lion crowned in darkness will unsheathe his claws.
On his banner burns the mark of the Dark Lion,
and kingdoms shall kneel or break at his roar.
There shall then come a sword not forged by mortal hands—
its blade blood-red, its shriek louder than thunder.
It shall split the skies as waves split the sea,
breaking oaths, breaking crowns,
breaking all that men hold eternal.
In that era of desolation,
the royal crest shall fall from its height,
trampled in the dust, broken beneath the weight of treachery.
The throne shall be empty,
and the rivers of men shall wither in despair.
Yet from the ashes, a child shall rise.
Not born of lion, nor destined to crown,
but Asmethan’s chosen, branded by fire.
His hair shall shine like silver torn from heaven,
his eyes shall hold the infinite deep,
and around his hand shall dance the burning sword—
not carried, but bound,
not taken, but pledged as surety.
He shall be the stillness in the storm,
the fire in the frost,
the hand that holds the lion’s paw.
Nations shall call him deliverer,
enemies shall call him destroyer.
But beware, O sons of Asmethan—
for always light is accompanied by darkness.
And if the chosen hand fail,
the sword shall turn,
and its flame shall destroy all
until the sun of Asmethan is consumed whole."**
The last syllable fell like a stone down a well.
The apprentices were quiet, their arms breaking out in goosebumps.
The redhead boy was the first to break the silence, sneering. "So... it’s true then. The kingdom will fall. The royal crest ground into dirt. Great."
The brunette hesitated, unsure, then timidly raised her hand. All eyes turned to her, and she nearly dropped it in fright. But the Saint’s kindly smile calmed her.
"What is on your mind, child?" His voice was low, yet echoed through the hall.
"I...." she swallowed. "I wanted to know—how will we know him? The chosen one?"
The Saint chuckled, a mischievous glint in his foggy eyes. "Ah, I thought you would ask that. You do not wish to know how, child. You wish to know what he looks like."
The girl blushed furiously and hid her face, while her giggling friend poked her in the ribs. The Saint’s smile widened. "And I imagine you are not alone. I see more than one blushing face in this hall."
Soft laughter spread, but was soon extinguished when the Saint lifted his staff. His voice became serious.
He will be a man alone. Dressed in flowing black and white, his robes a fusion of shadow and light. His hair will be silver, like moonlight caught in the current of a river. His eyes will hold the depths of the ocean, limitless and merciless. And around him shall fly the blood-red sword—not as a weapon wielded, but as a friend bound to his very soul. Thus shall you know him.
There were murmurs within the chamber. The explanation was divine, godlike even. There were some with hands clasped in awe, others who stared in disbelief.
The prayer hall doors burst open.
A man in elder’s robes rushed in, his face twisted in rage. His voice thundered louder than the storm outside.
"Preposterous! All of it!"
There were gasps in the hall.
You have been all misled!" the elder shouted, a trembling hand accusing the Saint and the council. "That prophecy is false!