The Prophet marched westward, and the faithful followed her. There were hundreds, but they soon became thousands as they passed through the villages of Cirilia.

 It was in one of these nameless villages that Grego saw her cross the town square, escorted by a ragged crowd. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his short life. He had never seen a princess, but he was sure they must look like this, perhaps not even as beautiful as she was.

 She had sat on a rock by the village well, and her followers knelt at the same time. Grego followed the other curious villagers who gathered to see what was happening. In an instant, the town fell into complete silence. The summer wind gently waved the Prophet's golden hair as she spoke in a sweet yet clear voice. Her words flowed softly and low, forcing everyone to fall even quieter and gather closer to her.

"I have seen death. Sons, fathers, grandfathers, maidens, kings, and knights marching dead, putrefied under a sky stained with blood, brothers. A vision of children impaled on stakes and hung on trees, dying, hills ravaged and populated by black demons flying through the sky. I have seen it with my eyes, not with the eyes of dreams, no. These are my blood eyes, the ones with which I look now. I saw it through the blood of a pure man... The blood of a king is powerful, and my God granted me the gift to see through blood."

 The silence remained tomb-like. The faithful remained kneeling, still as stones, their eyes wide open, expectant.

"I left the palace of Piedrasanta with nothing but this dress and my bare feet to warn the world of the coming storm. Piedrasanta is the kingdom I lost, at the hands of treacherous serpents who craved my father's throne. I could have stayed under their fist, living comfortably in the palace, but I chose to warn you, brothers, that death will ravage as no war ever has, as no plague you have suffered in your flesh. I do not crave any throne, nor castles, nor knights to guard my back. I want to save you from the hell that will be unleashed."

"She's crazy," murmured a woman behind Grego. "Shh, quiet, woman," replied another. Soon a murmur spread through the entire crowd of onlookers, but the Prophet remained seated, her gaze fixed on the ground. She seemed tired, but her expression was that of one who has done this hundreds of times.

"What God gave you that power, girl?"

 A man's voice rang out in the silent morning. He was a tall man, dressed in dark robes. He was bald, and a long gray beard fluttered in the summer wind. Everyone fell silent. Grego moved closer to the front row of onlookers to see Tenth Bigorio stand before the girl, beside her, seeming like a dark shadow, imposing.

"I do not know his name," replied the Prophet, looking him in the eye. Her eyes were dark, completely black and pure. "I do not know his face, nor his voice. But he was a god, one knows, one feels."

"Then it was not the Cantor, the one of The Twelve Sacred Songs, who gave us life with the melody of his heavenly flute..."

"No... It was not the one they call the Cantor, nor do I believe he is one of his Singers. He was an ancient God, capable of speaking without voice or melodies. I feel his power leading me west, and north where his light awaits, his saved paradise."

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

"What you say, girl, is nothing but madness, blasphemy, and nonsense. In the north, there are nothing but barbarians who worship the Demons of Salt and Ice."

"Of course! She's a madwoman, or maybe a witch of the savages," shouted a man, and the crowd echoed him. Tenth Bigorio raised his hand for silence, and they fell quiet.

"Perhaps you are just a confused girl lured by those demons. Perhaps they want to use you for some barbaric ritual. Tell me, girl, are you still a maiden?"

"No," she kept looking him in the eyes. "When Piedrasanta fell... they..."

"Very well. You are nothing but a traumatized girl," declared the Tenth, turning to the crowd, raising his arms. "We have abandoned our daily tasks to listen to meaningless ramblings. The Horns of Judgement have threatened to sound before, sometimes from the mouths of mad decans and other times through plagues, but we have prevailed because we have always believed in the Cantor, and thus we have postponed his Final Song. I assure you that following her will only provoke the wrath of our God, The Cantor of The Twelve Celestial Melodies."

"No! You don't see it! Like a storm that comes without warning, something approaches, something without a name. It will not come with the sound of any horn, it will come with the screams of mothers giving birth to twisted, swollen, worm-infested spawn, but with hearts still hungry for blood and flesh. Whatever creed you profess, it will devour you in a night without end. Kill me if it brings you peace and joy, kill me and you will sleep peacefully in your beds, but the night will come when you are dragged from your mattresses by faceless demons. It is your will to live that will make you follow me or not. Walk with me, not behind me."

"It is nothing but fear that drags these poor souls to follow you, girl. These followers you have... They are nothing but fearful lambs."

"They are not lambs. They want to live, to inherit the New World, hand in hand with the God who saved them."

"A God with no name or face."

"A God does not need a name or altars to pray to, nor does he need melodies to be loved. He only needs to save and to love."

"Enough of these senseless words. Follow her or not, I do not care to save you. I am old, and I have seen many charlatans in my life. I will let you go, girl, but you are confused, perhaps cursed, but it would not please me to imprison a poor lost girl. Go, march to the frozen north with your God."

 Without saying a word, the Prophet stood up, and her followers silently imitated her. They were old, women, children, and common men, and they wore no symbols or distinctions. The Tenth wore a wooden necklace that hung in a circle enclosing a fan of strings, twelve strings that whistled in the summer wind.

 When the Prophet was about to leave, retracing the path she had come, only the serene melody of the necklace could be heard.

 It was the last time Grego heard that melody.