Grayson walked into the house the Prophet had stormed into, a cold disdain bubbling in his chest. He had sent men in to bind him as per procedure, but he wasn’t exactly cooperative. After a struggle, however, they finally managed to restrain him. As Grayson walked down the hallway, he could hear muttering from the door at the end. He swung the door open, and the Prophet visibly jumped before settling back into his usual scowl.
“The hell do you want, Windfel,” the Prophet snapped, causing Grayson to take on a scowl not unlike his. He pulled out a chair and settled down in it, crossing his arms on the table and glaring at his old friend. “Oh, let me guess, answers? You’ve always had a ridiculously thick skull, so I doubt anything I say will work its way in there,” the Prophet growled, his words burying themselves into Grayson like daggers.
The words that came from Grayson’s mouth surprised even him and caused the Prophet's hateful look to drop almost completely. “I’m glad you’re here.” It wasn’t a lie. Grayson had missed his old friend, even though they hadn’t left off on a particularly good note. Despite that, however, he still couldn’t forgive him. He had abandoned Grayson and their group when they needed him. He had abandoned Vale when she was at her lowest, and while Grayson had tried his best to comfort her, he could tell it just wasn’t the same. It only got worse once she found out he was still alive and instead of returning to the one he swore his life to, he decided to go galavanting with murderers in the woods. If Grayson hadn’t been there, he was certain Vale wouldn't be here today.
Seemingly reading Grayson’s mind, the Prophet spoke. “How is she?” The expression on his face was riddled with genuine concern, and tucked behind it was a somber longing. “Better, now,” Grayson responded. The tension in the air, still thick as it was, seemed to lessen a bit as Grayson spoke. The Prophet let out a relieved sigh and looked up at the ceiling. Grayson thought he could see tears brimming in the corners of his eyes, but they vanished as he turned his gaze back to him, and the cold disdain settled back over the Prophet’s face.
“I don’t intend on lingering here any longer than necessary. I left this life behind me a long time ago. I’m not the same as I once was, and I doubt you expected me to be. I don’t expect forgiveness, nor do I care to explain why I did what I did.” Grayson expected this, but it still left a bitter taste in his mouth. His hopes of reconciling were all but dashed, but despite that, he nodded calmly. “Okay.”
° ° °
Huojin grit his teeth and stared in terrified awe at the thing encased with flame as the Prophet and Grayson came running out of the house next to the one Huojin was tied in. “What the hell is that?!” Grayson shouted, his eyes locked on the figure now walking towards them. The figure's form flickered, and it blinked into the center of the town, marching down the street. Its head swiveled and locked to where the Prophet was standing. The thing shot its arm out to its side, and a sword materialized from thin air. The sword was made of entirely charred metal, giving it a very aged, brittle look.
Some of Grayson’s men flooded from the houses and took up arms, readying to fight this new unknown. “It’s no use,” the Prophet said, taking a step back. Grayson barked orders to his men, and they got into formation accordingly. “Well, it’s not like we can beat that thing in an all-out sprint. Did you see how fast it moved from that hill,” Grayson said through clenched teeth. “I wasn't just referring to fighting it,” the Prophet responded, choosing his next actions carefully.
“Fine, whatever,” he decided, holding his hand out in front of him. An estoc appeared in his hand and he pulled the sheath off, revealing a Damascus pattern on the blade, the dark leather handle fitting snugly in his grip. “Sword’s new. Didn’t figure you the type to use toothpicks. What happened to your old tome?” Grayson asked, eyeing the Prophet’s sword.
“Toothpicks? Is that what you call swords now?” the Prophet asked, turning towards Grayson with a baffled and somewhat disappointed expression. The commander smiled in response. “About the spell tome, I memorized it a while ago. Damn thing is too big to carry around so I just leave it in the carriage.” The Prophet turned back to the flaming knight as Grayson let out a dry laugh. “Can’t say I’m surprised about that one,” he mumbled quietly enough that the Prophet couldn’t hear.
Their attention was drawn to the figure as he traced a symbol in the air with his first two fingers, creating a trail of fire hovering in front of him. “Shit, move!,” the Prophet shouted, but only a few heard him. The rest of the men rushed at the knight, but before they could get within range, the knight finished writing. He snapped his fingers, and beneath every mercenary that had charged him, the ground began to glow. With a thunderous crash, the ground exploded open and pillars of fire engulfed the men. The few who had listened weren’t hit directly, but the ones that were still close to the flame suffered severe burns.
The Prophet had to shield his face as ardent air hurtled towards him, threatening to scald his skin even at this distance. He looked over his arm to see each pillar shooting into the sky and coiling into one before hurtling towards the group. Before it could hit them, however, it fanned out as if there was an invisible shield protecting them. Not even the heat was hitting them, and the Prophet found the cause as he turned his head to see the Pyromancer holding an arm out in front of him. The look on his face could easily be mistaken for strain, but the Prophet noted it was more confusion than anything.
“If you can buy me just a bit of time I can get us out of this. Hold out. You don’t exactly have a choice,” the Pyromancer spat, not even glancing at the others. “Loud and clear,” the Prophet responded. Woden nodded before letting out a yell and shoving his arm forward, dispersing the flames.
The Prophet waved his hand over his sword and purple energy burst forth from the hilt, coiling around the blade and making it appear longer than it was. Grayson pulled his axe from the ground; It had a massive head the size of the Prophet’s torso, with the shaft being taller than Grayson himself. “Still toting around that oversized hunk of metal?” the Prophet said, looking at the axe with familiarity in his eyes. “No better weapon for me,” he responded in a flat tone, letting the head drop to the ground with a crash.
The tension in the air was palpable. Not just because of the beast marching toward them, bloodlust leaking from its very being, but also from the strain in the words of both the Prophet and Grayson. They had clearly come to an agreement of sorts, but what they had discussed was a total mystery. Huojin made a mental note to ask the Prophet when they made it out of this.
If they made it out of this, he reminded himself.
A shout of belligerent rage from behind Huojin rang out and he turned to see the woman who had been interrogating him walking to them with a fire in her eyes that almost made the knights look dim in comparison.
“Vale! Gather the rest of the men and retreat to the horses. Try and get out of here while you can, we’ll regroup later,” Grayson shouts. The woman who had been interrogating Huojin, apparently named Vale, responded with protests that were difficult to hear through the rain. The name made the Prophet turn his head and look at her, a somber look in his eyes that was unfamiliar to Huojin. She refused to make eye contact with him as she continued to protest what Grayson had commanded.
“Nor can I or do I want to hear your reasons for staying! That was a direct order, I suggest you follow it,” Grayson roared, making her flinch. With one more begrudging glance back at Grayson and a swift sideways look at the Prophet, she started down the road, checking every house and gathering the remaining men who hadn’t been obliterated.
Everyone turned their attention to the thing, but it had stopped marching. There was something off about it. Its bloodlust noticeably increased when it looked at Vale. Its attention snapped back to the group, and it let out a puff of smoke from the slots in its mask. “Well, I suppose there's no more delaying it,” Huojin said with a shrug, finding his staff leaning against a nearby building. “It would seem that way,” the Prophet agreed.
The tension built to a crescendo as time seemed to slow once more, everyone's breath coming out in huffs until the frightened neigh of a horse acted as a starting bell. Grayson rushed forward, followed shortly by the Prophet, and brought his axe down in an overhead swing at the unflinching knight. The ground shook as the axe burrowed deep in its shoulder, an attack quickly added upon with a small ethereal blast from the Prophet, sending the axe deeper still.
The figure of flame responded by wrenching the axe from his body and slamming a fist into Grayson’s chest. A stomach-churning crunch resounded as Grayson flew back, landing in a heap forty feet away. The Prophet scoffed and swung his weapon up at its extended arm, slicing clean through. Its hand flew up and spun through the air, but before it could hit the ground the armored figure grabbed the limb and batted the side of the Prophet’s head with incredible force, making a small crater where he got spiked into the mud. The figure slammed the severed appendage onto the stump, and in a burst of flame, the limb reattached.
“What the hell is your game here-” the Prophet attempted to push himself up only for his arm to slip in the mud, sending him splashing back down. “Svarog,” he said gratingly. Huojin’s eyes widened in alarm: “Gods, what the hell is today,” he groaned. "Sorry… what?" Grayson asked, struggling to stand. "We can explain later, right now we need to focus on getting out of here alive," Huojin responded, eliciting a confused but understanding nod from the wounded commander.
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
A sudden heat behind Huojin made him spin on his heel, and he saw the old man shooting a pillar of crimson flame into the air. Before Huojin could question his strange behavior, the sky wrenched open once again, sending a sense of deja vu washing over Huojin.
“Does the sky open up every time you say or do something weird?!” Huojin shouted as a thin trail of blue flame darted toward the ground. “Just when this group is involved,” Woden answered, his voice riddled with exhaustion. Huojin blinked in confusion. He had only ever heard of Svarog from the Prophet. Group?
The blue flame collided with Svarog’s chest, making him lurch back as a sword appeared from the flame, embedded in his shoulder. The attack was subsequently followed by seven more swords slamming into him, sending Svarog stumbling before collapsing to one knee. Svarog threw his head back and the metal of his helm shredded apart at the mouth, the rage raw and uncontained as he let out a roar that shook the earth. A figure slammed into Svarog, causing a shockwave that sent the Prophet sliding across the ground, coming to a stop in front of Huojin. The figure kicked off of Svarog’s chest and waved its hand, causing the swords to tear out of Svarog’s chest before it charged forth once more, locking blades with the flaming knight.
“The hell are you doing back here?” the Prophet coughed out. “Making sure there’s someone who can drive the carriage,” Huojin responded, wrapping the Prophet's arm around his neck and hoisting him to his feet. “Get off of me,” the Prophet mumbled, trying his damnedest to push himself away from Huojin until he eventually relented and allowed his friend to half-drag him back to the carriage. “Damn good thing you’ve got those weird-ass healing abilities. Don’t know if you’d make it otherwise,” Huojin commented, receiving an annoyed look from the Prophet
“Woden, you got enough life in ya to drag the big dude?” Huojin shouted, turning to see Woden already helping the mercenary commander to his feet. Woden gave him a nod, and Huojin started down the road, hoping he was going in the direction of his vehicle.
Soon enough, Huojin was able to find the carriage and hoisted the Prophet into the back before helping Woden lift Grayson and place him in as well. Huojin glanced back at the ensuing fight, catching a glimpse of Svarog straddling the other figure and repeatedly slamming his fist into its head, blood flying everywhere and creating a crater that got wider and deeper with every punch. Deciding it’d be better to get moving before Svarog could come after them again, Huojin pulled himself into the driver's seat and thrashed the reins just as Svarog and the figure disappeared into a tear in the sky.
° ° °
Huojin let out a relieved sigh as the town slowly disappeared on the horizon, and finally, the rain began to clear. It left just as suddenly as it came, leaving the dark of the night sky peering down at the group as they raced across the road, Huojin’s path only illuminated by the moon’s light shining on them. The serene scene and cool wind whipping through his hair took his mind off of everything they had just experienced, letting him calm his racing thoughts for a moment.
He should have known to get out of there the minute he saw the cloth on the wall. It shared the same design as the chest plate of Svarog, or at least what Huojin could make out of it, but he had forgotten. He had forgotten the armored figure that emitted flame. You don’t just forget that. Based on what Vale had said, it seemed like everyone’s memory was shot. Even thinking about it gave him a headache.
It didn’t matter. What mattered was that they had gotten away. Huojin’s limbs felt heavy as the last bits of adrenaline drained from his body, and as the sun peeked out from behind the distant mountains, Huojin began to realize how long this night had been. He was exhausted, and his eyelids began to droop when a hand on his shoulder jolted him awake. It was the Prophet.
“I’ll take over for the night, get some rest,” He said, pulling himself from the back and sitting next to Huojin, gesturing for the reins. “After that head injury you got? Absolutely not,” Huojin said with a poorly-masked yawn.
The Prophet rolled his eyes, “We both know it takes more than that to keep me down. Go rest. Now,” he said with a strong sense of finality in his tone. Huojin let out a tired laugh before relenting and climbing into the back. “Just don't crash us. Helluva time trying to repair this thing the last time you did,” Huojin mocked. “That was a year ago, come off it,” the Prophet scoffed, but he couldn't help the smirk that spread across his face.
“Just saying. I don’t wanna wake up to us flying off into a volcano or something,” he said with a shrug as he ducked into the back of the carriage. “Bastard,” the Prophet chuckled as he turned his attention to the road ahead. When he was sure Huojin had fallen asleep, he let out a deep breath. It felt wrong keeping this from Huojin, but no good would come from telling him. The more people knew what he was, the greater the target on the Prophet’s back. He brought his hand to his chest where a scar remained from when the cult had carved their runes into his body, and chanted the words that had been drilled into his mind for years.
“Angnis Ignis Morticûm.”
The world around him became greyscale, and time crawled to a stop as his communion began. The cult he had been dragged into after Cinris ‘died’ had ultimately betrayed him, but they couldn’t take away what he had gained with their so-called help. The abilities of a Divine Prophet.
It was what had driven them to torture him for years, unbothered by the thought of killing him due to one of the powers he gained being regeneration, until they realized their efforts were fruitless and strung him up on a tree in the middle of nowhere. He had been significantly weakened in that time, losing all of what made his divine abilities so sought after, but after all these years with Huojin, he had finally awoken a Divine Rune. Maybe the presence of Svarog himself had something to do with it, but he had given up trying to understand a long time ago.
He didn't quite understand what Divine Runes were. All he knew was that by activating one, he would gain more power than he could possibly gain by normal means by, in effect, borrowing it from a higher power. It had something to do with the Gods of the Cataclysmic Creation. The creation of everything from a destructive battle between a group of Gods. Each God had their own fanatics, but the Cult of Svarog was especially foul.
Communion was, according to the cult and the few books he could find on the subject, the act of tying yourself to a realm separated from the rest of the world. A soul link between the caster and a God chosen at random, at least in most cases. In the Prophet’s case there was only ever one God he could link to, and that meant he had to get this done quickly.
He dropped from the carriage, the slick mud stopping mid-splash. Three thrones sprouted from the ground atop a nearby hill, and the Prophet walked to them cautiously. Fire burst from the one in the center, and in it, an empty suit of armor sat. It looked rather unassuming, but the material seemed to swirl and move in response to the Prophet’s thoughts.
On the next throne, a ball of ethereal energy formed, and from it dropped a book. The Prophet looked it over, the cover in a language he had never seen before with what seemed to be a closed eye in the center of it. He reached out to the book, and the eye shot open before locking onto him. The pupil turned to a deep shade of purple before the book opened and ethereal magic coalesced around the Prophet.
His mind was flooded with information, and when he came back to his senses he was kneeling on the ground with blood dripping from his nose. He looked back to the book, only to notice where the eye used to be there was a mirror-esque surface. He gazed into the mirror and blinked, and when he saw his reflection again his pupils were that same shade of purple as the one on the book.
He jumped back, startled by the sudden change when the last throne began to crack and chip. It suddenly burst, revealing a sword embedded deep into the ground made of what looked like obsidian. There was a hole in the center with a spinning polygon that seemed to be constantly shifting between shapes.
As the Prophet got closer to the weapon, it shot from the ground and split into several swords, each the same size as the last. They gathered behind him, pointing wherever he faced. As he backed away, however, they all combined once more and the sword sank back into the ground. He also noticed after he had walked away from the book, the eye had returned to its original position.
He had to pick which power to gain. He contemplated for a moment, but a flicker of crimson flame in the distance prompted him to hurry, and he reached for the book. As his hand touched its cover, everything that had happened before repeated. The flood of knowledge, his pupils turning purple, everything, but for some reason it felt less complete now. He was forced back into his seat on the carriage as he was dragged from the greyscale realm.
He held his hand out in front of him and flexed his fingers. He could see the movements before they happened. He could feel the ether coursing through him like his own lifeblood. The Prophet’s previous concerns vanished as he retracted his new power, and even without it, he felt a significant boost in his abilities. If just a weakened Divine Rune could give him this much strength, he could hardly imagine what the rest would do.
“How like a Prophet, taking that book,” a gruff voice came from the back of the carriage, prompting the Prophet to spin around, coming face to face with the old Pyromancer. “How-” he started, but Woden cut him off. “If I revealed all my secrets now there wouldn’t be any fun in it. And if you wanted to know how you couldn’t sense me, that’s because the unfortunate downside of Divine Prophecy is it takes a very focused mind to predict the soul of someone like me. It gets easier with practice, but I’ll make a wild guess and say you haven't had much of that.”
The Prophet grit his teeth and glared at the old man. “And don’t worry, I won't tell the others. I didn’t exactly choose to be this way and I’m assuming you didn’t either,” he said with a sly smile before ducking back into the carriage. “And keep your eyes on the road,” he finished before promptly passing out once more.
The Prophet scoffed but listened, and returned his attention to driving; following the road ahead, never once looking back at the town. He let out a heavy sigh, hardly believing what had just happened to them. They had been hunted by Svarog. The same beast that had taken the Prophet’s freedom all those years ago. And now it seemed like he wanted to yet again.
🜎