The dawn was a frigid bite, particularly within the sinister castle perched atop the cliff. The relentless waves crashed against the jagged rocks below, their rhythmic symphony a chilling lullaby. A biting wind howled, capable of filling even the hardiest soul.
Despite the inclement weather, a cloaked figure stood upon the balcony, his gaze fixed upon the tumultuous sea. A long, crimson cloak billowed around him, and in his left hand, he clutched a gnarled staff, its summit adorned with a menacing large black gem. A lone crow, a harbinger of darkness, cawed in the distance, drawing the figure’s attention. With a slow, deliberate motion, he removed his hood, revealing a stark visage. A bald head, marked by a crimson strip marked vertically from his forehead back to the top of his neck along his hairless skull, and piercing black eyes radiated a chilling intensity.
A sinister grin crept across his lips as he observed the crow before addressing it. “Time to liberate this weary soul, is it not?” He intoned, his voice a low, ominous rumble. With a deep breath, he exhaled a torrent of flame, consuming the crow in a fiery embrace. Yet, the staff remained untouched, its dark power shielding it from the inferno. As the last vestiges of the crow turned to ash and scattered on the wind, a sense of anticipation filled the air, a promise of impending darkness.
The balding man turned and vanished into the castle’s tenebrous depths. He traversed a grand hall, its echoing silence broken only by the rhythmic cadence of his footsteps. Descending a winding staircase, he halted before a sturdy wooden door, his knuckles rapping against the aged wood.
The door creaked open, revealing a young man who immediately fell to his knees. “Lord Blamore, what brings you to my humble abode?” he inquired, his voice trembling.
“John, you hail from Vidin, do you not?” Blamore inquired, his tone flat.
“Yes, my lord,” John replied, his voice barely a whisper.
“Then I believe your father knows a reliable assassin, does he not?” Blamore pressed.
“Of course, my lord. Simply name the wretch who has dared to cross you, and they shall cease to exist.”
“No, no haste. This time, we do not seek death. This one is the key, the catalyst for our resurgence. The Cragmoore Zealots were birthed for this very moment. The key has been found, and she awaits her destiny as a sacrifice for his grand renaissance. The time has come, John. We are the chosen ones, destined to fulfill our creed’s ultimate purpose.” Blamore’s voice was a chilling promise, a harbinger of impending darkness.
John slowly raised his head, his eyes widening in disbelief as he absorbed his master’s chilling words. Blamore, with a languid gesture, summoned another crow. The black gem atop his staff pulsed with an ominous glow, and the creature materialized before them.
“The message is encoded within its mind,” Blamore intoned. “The Grand Priest received a vision mere hours ago, before I was informed by our insider. Take this creature, show it to every significant Zealot within these walls. Then, dispatch it to your father with utmost haste. She must be brought to us alive, no matter the cost. I care not for the lives of others, only for her. We must secure her before Walt’s minions arrive, understood?”
John nodded, his face a mask of grim determination. “Yes, my lord.”
“Then what are you waiting for? Rouse them all! Now!” Blamore thundered.
John bolted, his footsteps echoing through the corridors. He pounded on every door, his frantic cry echoing through the halls: "Wake up! The key has appeared!” As John disappeared from view, Blamore donned his hood once more and ascended the stairs back again, a sinister smile playing upon his lips.
In a desolate expanse, a stark contrast to the verdant farmlands usually nestled amidst rolling hills, an ominous wind howled. Its icy breath rattled the skeletal trees and whipped the withered crops. A tempestuous sky, pregnant with thunder and lightning, loomed overhead. At the heart of this desolate scene, a solitary figure emerged: a young girl, her fiery hair a stark beacon against the darkening canvas. Clad in a pristine white dress, she stood defiant, oblivious to the encroaching deluge. As the heavens opened, the rain fell in torrents, drenching her fragile form and inundating the barren fields. Yet, in a twist of macabre irony, a malevolent force ignited the very earth she stood upon. Flames, born from the depths of darkness, consumed the once-verdant landscape, painting it in hues of crimson and black.
The inferno intensified, its tendrils reaching towards the heavens. Yet, the girl remained rooted to the spot, her gaze fixed upon the muddied earth beneath her feet. The fire, once a vibrant orange, morphed into an ominous black, releasing a noxious smoke that permeated the air. The once-lush fields were consumed by this infernal blaze, reduced to ash in the blink of an eye.
As the darkness deepened, a horrifying spectacle unfolded. From the heart of the fire, crimson eyes materialized, their malevolent gaze piercing the veil of smoke. These spectral eyes, hungry and insatiable, converged upon the girl, their intent as clear as the flames that surrounded her. A cacophony of otherworldly sounds filled the air, a chilling symphony of dread and despair. Slowly, the girl turned her head, her innocent gaze meeting the horrifying reality that awaited her.
“Please… help me,” she pleaded, her innocent crystal blue eyes brimming with tears of desperation. A captive audience to her silent agony, she stood paralyzed, awaiting a phantom rescuer. As the number of spectral eyes multiplied, their chilling gaze intensified, and the cacophony of otherworldly sounds grew deafening.
“Please, don’t abandon me like the others,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. Her once pristine face was now marred by crimson streaks, and tears of blood streamed down her cheeks. A guttural roar, a sound born from the depths of hell, echoed through the desolate landscape. The girl’s voice, now distorted and menacing, boomed across the night. “You’re leaving, aren’t you? I thought you were different.”
The roar returned, more forceful than before. The inferno consumed the sky, blotting out the moon. The girl’s face, a grotesque mask of blood and despair, was illuminated by the demonic flames. “HELP MEEEEEEEEE!” she screamed, her voice a harrowing cry that pierced the veil of darkness.
A man, his form contorted in terror, jolted awake, his ragged breaths punctuating the silence. His red eyes, bloodshot and wide, refused to close, haunted by the horrific visage that had invaded his dreams. With his hands, he swept his long, silver hair back, his body drenched in cold sweat as if he had emerged from the depths of the underworld. His silver stubble, matted with perspiration, mirrored his internal turmoil.
As he sat on the edge of the bed, a chill ran down his spine. What had he witnessed? Was it merely a product of a fevered mind, a nightmarish illusion? For Jaxith, such dreams were a recurring affliction, a torment that had plagued him for countless nights. But this dream, was it ordinary, or did it carry a deeper, more sinister meaning? A cryptic message, perhaps, from a realm beyond comprehension? Or maybe something he actually comprehends?
Jaxith remained motionless, his agitated breaths gradually subsiding. The stillness was deceptive, a calm before the storm. As he rose, his imposing figure was unveiled – a testament to relentless training. Six foot two, his alabaster skin stretched taut over corded muscles. His serene features, though striking, held an undercurrent of menace, particularly those crimson eyes, a rarity in these lands. His long silver hair, a cascade to the middle of his back, completed the picture of an otherworldly being.
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He donned a simple shirt, a stark contrast to the tempest within. Stepping outside the room, the girl's words were still echoing in the silence. He leaned against his obsidian coloured sword, a silent guardian. The weight of his dark blue coat and other accoutrements was cast aside, a gesture of defiance against the constraints of normalcy.
He calmly moved towards his small house wooden door before opening it, the morning sun pierced through the wooden doorway, its warmth a stark contrast to the chill in his heart. He closed his eyes, a fleeting moment of respite. The cacophony of barking dogs and crowing roosters filled the air, a stark reminder of the mundane world he inhabited. Beyond the house, a small farm hummed with life, a stark contrast to the turmoil within him.
Jaxith stood transfixed, inhaling the crisp morning air as his gaze drifted towards the sky. A plea echoed in his mind, “Help me.” The words, a relentless torment, triggered a throbbing headache and a cacophony of ringing in his ears. A sudden interruption jolted him back to reality.
“Mr. Jaxith, are you alright?” A young boy’s voice pierced the silence, a query from the other side of the fence.
“Yes, David, I’m fine. Don’t concern yourself,” Jaxith replied, his voice steady. He moved towards a water-filled bucket to wash with face, his reflection distorted and fleeting.
“Are you certain? You seem unwell. Father knows an excellent physician if you require his services,” David offered.
“No, I’m quite sure. Don’t worry, young one,” Jaxith assured him, his tone firm. A call from the barn behind disrupted the conversation.
“Go on, your mother summons you. Don’t be rude; attend to her,” Jaxith instructed.
“Alright, coming, Mom,” David replied, disappearing into the barn. A faint smile graced Jaxith’s lips as he watched the boy’s retreating figure.
In the resplendent throne room of Vidin, King Walt Haveron, a paragon of regal duty, was engrossed in his daily sovereign tasks. From the meticulous scrutiny of noble petitions to the compassionate hearing of citizen grievances, His Majesty’s attention was unwavering. As he navigated the intricate tapestry of royal responsibilities, the grand double doors, adorned with intricate carvings, creaked open.
Two stalwart guards, clad in gleaming armor, crossed their spears, barring the entrance to a figure shrouded in a somber blue robe. A second man, exuding an air of military authority, strode purposefully into the chamber, his gait a testament to his rank and purpose.
As the important man passed by, the guards, a bulwark of the kingdom’s might, raised their armored fists over their chest plates in a gesture of deference. This silent tribute, a testament to their stature, underscored the gravity of the impending audience.
The man of distinguished bearing possessed striking features: a handsome visage, silken brown hair swept back and cascading nearly to his nape, piercing blue eyes, and a neatly trimmed light brown beard. His attire was equally striking: formal white trousers, a crisp blue shirt, and a unique silver silk coat adorned with blue stripes. Completing the ensemble were pristine white gloves, lending an air of refinement to his appearance. A sheathed sword, secured at his left hip, was ever present, his left hand resting upon it as if an extension of himself.
The important figure approached the dais, halting before the throne of King Walt Haveron. With a solemn reverence, he knelt, his left knee touching the ground. His left hand remained steadfast on the sword’s hilt, while his right arm rested gracefully upon his knee. His gaze was lowered, a gesture of profound respect.
“Your Majesty,” the soldier began, his voice respectful, “I hope I have not disturbed your royal duties.”
“Not at all, Adam,” the king replied, a hint of curiosity in his tone. “Please, rise and inform me of the matter at hand.”
“Thank you, Your Highness,” Adam responded, ascending to his feet. He fixed his gaze upon the king, his expression grave. “A messenger from the Holy Church of Reldret arrived this morning, summoned forth by the teleporting circle. He bears a message from Grand Priest Zathar himself, a message that is to be delivered solely to Your Majesty’s eyes.”
“Where is he? Is he the one guarded by the royal guards at the entrance?” King Walt pondered, his mind racing. What could be so urgent, so clandestine, that even the Grand Priest himself would entrust this message to no one but the king?
“Indeed, Your Highness,” Adam affirmed. “I ordered the guards to detain him after he revealed the purpose of his visit. I have inspected him personally, and he is entirely unarmed.”
“Then bring him forth,” the king commanded.
“At once, Your Highness,” Adam replied, turning to face the doorway. With a gesture of his hand, he signaled to the guards. “Allow the messenger to enter.”
The guards, heeding the order, lowered their spears with a resounding thud, creating a momentary silence. They stepped aside, granting the messenger passage into the throne room.
The messenger, a figure cloaked in mystery, advanced with deliberate steps. He halted before Adam, his expression impassive.
“You stand before His Majesty, King Walt Haveron, sovereign ruler of Vidin,” Adam declared, his voice formal and his gaze fixed upon the messenger. He stepped aside, inviting the messenger to approach the throne.
“Show due respect,” Adam warned, his hand tightening on the sword hilt.
The messenger, understanding the unspoken threat, inclined his head in a gesture of deference and knelt before the king.
“King Walt Haveron, ruler of Vidin,” the messenger began, his voice humble, “I pray you will forgive any disruption caused by my sudden arrival.”
“No need for apologies, messenger,” the king replied, his tone measured. “Now, what is the nature of this urgent message?”
The messenger fumbled with his bag, extracting a scroll. He rose and ascended a step of the dais, his movements abrupt and ill-considered. In an instant, Adam’s right leg lunged forward, his left hand tightening on his sword hilt, and his right hand beginning to draw the blade. The messenger, startled by this sudden aggression, recoiled in fear, his gaze cast downward. Adam paused, his sword half-drawn, his expression stern and unwavering.
“Is this your customary approach, messenger?” King Walt inquired, his voice calm, yet laced with a subtle threat.
“I apologize, Your Highness,” the messenger stammered, his voice trembling. “I am a mere substitute, the regular messenger being indisposed. The Grand Pontiff deemed this message of utmost importance and entrusted it to my care. Please forgive my inexperience and the resulting insolence.”
“Never presume to surprise a sovereign, especially not one of royal blood,” King Walt admonished, his tone grave yet instructive.
“I understand, Your Highness,” the messenger replied, his voice filled with remorse. “I shall never repeat such a grave error.”
King Walt’s gaze shifted to Adam, who remained motionless, his posture rigid and his grip firm on his sword.
“Adam,” the king called, his voice steady.
“Your Highness?” Adam responded, his attention undivided.
With a subtle gesture, the king signaled for Adam to relax. Nodding in acknowledgment, Adam retreated, sheathing his sword.
“Adam,” the king commanded, “demonstrate the proper protocol.”
“Extend the scroll with both hands,” Adam instructed, his tone calm and precise. “Await a command before advancing, and keep your head bowed in the presence of royalty.”
The messenger, humbled by the demonstration, complied with Adam’s instructions.
King Walt nodded approvingly, a silent acknowledgment of the messenger’s progress. Adam stepped forward, taking the scroll from the trembling hands of the messenger. He ascended the dais and presented the scroll to the king, before returning to his position.
“Red wax, is it?” King Walt mused, his fingers tracing the seal. “I presume even you are ignorant of its contents?”
“Indeed, Your Highness,” the messenger replied. “Grand Priest Zathar was adamant that only Your Majesty should peruse the scroll. He forbade me from entrusting it to anyone else.”
King Walt broke the seal and unfurled the scroll. As he read, his expression grew increasingly grave. His eyes narrowed, and a deep frown creased his brow. Finally, he lowered the scroll and fixed his gaze upon the messenger.
“Inform Grand Priest Zathar that I shall investigate this matter and respond in due course,” King Walt declared, stroking his beard. Though the news was unexpected, the aged monarch maintained his composure, concealing his surprise behind a mask of regal indifference.
“As you command, Your Highness,” the messenger replied.
“You are dismissed, Adam,” the king ordered. “Escort the messenger to the teleporting circle and return to me promptly.”
“Your Majesty’s will be done,” Adam affirmed, bowing respectfully before turning to the messenger. The two figures departed the throne room, the grand doors swinging shut behind them.
“A hybrid of such potent bloodline,” King Walt mused, a sense of unease settling over him. “This portends ill.”