Long Awaited Prophecy

The shrine stank of blood and smoke. Old bones lined its walls like crude decorations, stacked and bound with iron wire. Candles guttered in shallow bowls, their wax stained crimson with offerings poured over them. 

In the center of the chamber sat the altar, a slab of black stone darkened by centuries of sacrifice. Every mark upon it was deliberate, carved into the rock with claw, fang, and ritual blade.

A lone figure stepped inside without hesitation. Heavy robes brushed the floor, dark fabric stitched with runes that shimmered faintly in the firelight. His long dark hair came down to his shoulders like a curtain, and his eyes were hidden behind a strip of black cloth.

The air pressed heavy on his chest, thick with incense and the metallic tang of blood. He dropped to one knee before the altar, folding his hands in practiced reverence. His lips parted, voice a low rasp.

“Great One… forgotten name, eternal power. Show us the path. Reveal to your servants the heir who will rise. Give us the sign.”

He bowed his head lower, the bones of his horns scraping faintly against the cold stone floor. His breath slowed, words falling into silence. And then, as so many times before, he let himself sink into the dark.

But tonight was different.

Darkness became vision.

He saw the ruin first, the castle of the last Demon Lord, shattered towers clawing up at a full moon. Its light fell cold and silver through broken arches. 

The courtyard below was choked with corpses, demons and humans piled together in grotesque heaps. Fire smoldered across them, oily black flames that refused to die.

And there, in the middle of it all, stood a figure.

A silhouette against the moonlight. Horns curved like crowns from their head. Wings vast and leathery stretched wide, big enough to smother the sky, their shadows spilling like ink across the ruin. 

The figure stood still, silent, sovereign above the carnage. Power radiated from them... It was not wild, not uncontrolled, but precise, a crushing weight that promised both awe and annihilation.

The seer’s breath caught, though his body remained rigid in prayer.

The vision held him, refusing to break. The figure shifted. Slowly, deliberately, they turned their head, as though aware they were being watched.

The world narrowed.

Purple eyes burned out of the shadow, bright and terrible, lit from within by something unearthly. Their smirk was sharp, dangerous, a promise and a threat all in one.

The vision collapsed.

The seer’s body jerked. He fell sideways, palms slapping the cold stone floor. His chest heaved, sweat trickling down his temple beneath the cloth. His throat ached with ragged breaths.

For a long moment, he lay there, trembling with the weight of what he had seen. Then, with effort, he pushed himself up, still kneeling, his head bowed toward the altar. His lips barely formed the words, a hoarse whisper for no ears but the god’s.

“…The prophecy. At last.”

Exhaustion clung to him, yet exhilaration cut through it, sharp as a blade. He rose unsteadily to his feet, bowing once more before the altar.

“Preparations must be made,” he rasped. “The Lord comes. The blood of worlds will burn for them. And we must be ready.”

With that, the seer turned and swept from the shrine, his footsteps echoing off stone as the shadows of the chamber seemed to deepen behind him.