Tobias stumbled back, his eyes wide with shock and disbelief. He had never felt such pain, such raw, unbridled power. The light shield around him flickered out of existence, leaving him vulnerable and exposed. He scrambled to regain his footing, his hands desperately reaching for the chaos energy that had been his lifeblood for so long. But it was too late. The prophecy's dark tide had turned, and the gods themselves had abandoned him.

In that split second of vulnerability, Arteus saw his chance. He had felt the rage of the earth through Ava's touch, the unyielding force that had crushed the creature. He knew he had to end this, now. With a speed that seemed impossible, he swung his axe a second time, the flaming blade a blur in the dim light. The air around the axe shimmered with power, a force that seemed to resonate with the very essence of the prophecy itself.

The axe sliced through the air, a fiery comet on a path of vengeance. It connected with Tobias's chest with a thunderous boom, the impact echoing through the square. The false prophet's eyes widened in horror as the blade cleaved through his body, parting his flesh as easily as a knife through warm butter. A spray of blood erupted from the wound, painting the cobblestone in a crimson halo. The axe's fiery edge continued its trajectory, cutting through bone and sinew, leaving a smoking trail of destruction in its wake.

With a scream that was part agony and part despair, Tobias crumpled to the ground, his once-powerful body now a broken husk. He clutched his shoulder, the force of the blow sending a shockwave of pain that seemed to radiate through his very soul. His knees hit the cobblestone with a sickening crack, and the world around him swirled in a dizzying dance of shadow and flame. The ground trembled beneath him, a silent testament to the power that had been unleashed in this ancient battleground.

Tobias looked up, his eyes wild with desperation. He could feel the prophecy slipping through his fingers like grains of sand in an hourglass, each one a precious moment that brought him closer to his end. His gaze fell upon the pulpy mass that had once been the creature, its lifeblood seeping into the cracks between the stones.

With a snarl that seemed to claw at the very fabric of reality, he reached out a trembling hand towards the creature's remains. The blood, thick and foul, began to coalesce around his fingers, drawn by some dark power that emanated from him. The very air grew colder, the light dimmer, as if the world itself was bracing for the horror that was about to unfold.

"This isn't over," he rasped, his voice a harbinger of doom. "The prophecy... it will not... be denied." His words were punctuated by gasps of pain, each syllable a testament to his unyielding determination. His hand grew stronger, the blood coalescing into a pulsing, malevolent orb that grew larger with each passing second. It hung in the air before him, a grisly counterpart to the fiery axe that still hovered in Arteus's grip.

Tobias reached for the blood, his trembling hand stretching out towards the lifeless heap that had once been the creature of his false prophecy. His fingers quivered with anticipation, each twitch a silent plea for power. The crimson liquid responded to his call, beads of it stretching out from the creature's remains like elastic threads, weaving their way through the air to form a grisly web connecting the two.

But Arteus had seen this dance already, and he sliced Tobias' arm clean through before the false prophet could complete his foul ritual. The limb fell to the ground with a wet thud, still clutching the pulsing orb of blood. The act was swift and precise, a culmination of rage and desperation. The air was thick with the coppery scent of blood, and the light from the axe reflected off the stump where the arm had been, painting the square in an eerie, pulsating glow.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Tobias wailed in pain, a sound that seemed to rip through the very fabric of the night. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he collapsed to the ground, writhing like a serpent whose tail had been crushed. The blood orb hovered in the air for a moment, unsure of its master's fate, before it too fell to the cobblestone, dissipating into a fine mist that was swallowed by the shadows.

"You... you fools!" he screamed, his voice a tapestry of anger, desperation, and pain. "You dare to defy the will of the gods?" He coughed, blood bubbling up from his throat like a fountain of scarlet despair. His one good hand clutched at his chest, trying in vain to hold in the lifeblood that was soaking the ground beneath him.

Arteus strode forward, his boots squelching in the crimson pool. His gaze was cold, his eyes as unyielding as the stone of the ancient square. "Your gods are as false as the hope you've brought to these people," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate with the very earth beneath their feet.

Above them, the sky had grown darker, the clouds churning in an angry dance. Above the roar of the battle, a single, thunderous boom rang out, a sonic exclamation that seemed to punctuate Arteus's words. Ava had finished her grim work, the last of the corrupted soldiers and priests lay still, their life's essence snuffed out like so many candles. Her form had returned to that of a mortal, but the power that had fueled her remained, a palpable aura that clung to her like a second skin.

Her eyes searched the chaos, finding Arteus and the crumpled figure of the false prophet. With a grace that belied her newfound power, she approached them, the ground seemingly parting before her as if in awe of her presence. Each step she took echoed through the square, the very air seeming to hold its breath in anticipation of her arrival. Her eyes, once filled with doubt and fear, now burned with a fierce determination.

"Are you done?" Ava's voice was a whisper that seemed to carry the weight of the world. The question hung in the air, a stark contrast to the cacophony of battle that had just filled it. Arteus, his axe still smoking, looked down at the writhing figure before him, then back up to Ava. His eyes searched hers, looking for the answer she sought. The rage that had fueled his attacks had not yet abated, but the desire to save his friends, the city, and the innocents that had suffered under the false prophet's rule was clear in his gaze.

With a grim nod, Arteus bent down and grabbed a handful of the false prophet's hair. "Your reign of terror ends now," he growled. He brought the axe up, the blade gleaming in the flickering light of the dying torches. With one swift, brutal motion, he brought it down, cleaving through flesh and bone as if they were but paper. The head fell away, rolling into the bloody pool that had formed around them, the eyes staring up at the morning sky in lifeless accusation. The body twitched once, twice, and then lay still.

Arteus rose to his feet, the axe slipping from his grasp to clatter against the cobblestone. He looked around the square, his heart heavy with the weight of what had transpired. The buildings that had once stood proudly now leaned precariously, their stones cracked and blackened by the creature's touch. The air was thick with the smell of burning wood and the acrid tang of magic. The cobblestones were stained a deep crimson, a grim mosaic of the battle they had just fought. The city that had been a bastion of hope in a world of prophecy-driven chaos was now a mere shadow of its former self.

In the sudden silence that followed the false prophet's demise, the only sounds were the distant wails of the dying and the soft patter of rain that had begun to fall. It was a mournful melody that seemed to weep for the lives lost and the innocence stolen. Arteus and Ava stood frozen, each lost in their own thoughts, their breaths coming in ragged gasps as the gravity of their victory settled upon them.

It was then that they heard a door creak open at the side of the square, breaking the solemn silence. The hinges groaned in protest as if the very walls of the building were disgorging the foulness that had once been contained within. Out of the shadows stepped Kathleen, her eyes wild and desperate, dragging a limp form behind her. It was Sam, his eyes vacant, his body limp. Her hand was clamped over his mouth, muffling any sound he might make.

Well that was... something.

-To Be Continued-