Swallowing their revulsion, Castrol and Millie exchanged a look that spoke volumes—a silent promise to each other and a vow to bring the truth to light. They took a step forward, their hearts in their hands, each beat resonating with the weight of the prophecy's dark secret. The cobblestone path beneath their feet felt like the cold, unforgiving face of betrayal.

Tobias Kingg's silhouette danced in the flickering torchlight ahead, his robes billowing like a shadowy specter as he led them through the corridors of the grand estate. The air grew thick with anticipation and dread, as if the very stones of the mansion were holding their breath, waiting to see what the night would bring. Castrol's hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, the metal cold and reassuring against his palm. Millie's steps were measured, her thoughts racing, as she weighed their options and the potential consequences of their impending confrontation.

They emerged into the grand hall, a cavernous chamber that stretched high above them, adorned with gilded chandeliers and tapestries depicting scenes of mythical battles. The nobility of Sovereign had gathered, their faces a tableau of greed and anticipation, each one a reflection of the dark deal they had all made to cling to power. The murmur of their conversations washed over the group, a cacophony of whispers and secrets, a symphony of self-interest that seemed to resonate with the very air itself.

The guards that had flanked Kingg during their conversation now fell in behind Castrol and Millie, escorting them down a crimson carpet that led to the base of the dais. The two of them walked in silence, their footsteps echoing through the grand hall like the tolling of a funeral bell. With every step, Castrol could feel the weight of their impending revelation grow heavier, a burden they were about to share with the unsuspecting throng.

As they approached the dais, Kingg raised his glass high, the crystal catching the light of the chandeliers and casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the room. The sound of it striking the podium was like a thunderclap, and the murmur of the nobility's voices fell away, leaving nothing but the sound of their collective breathing. All eyes were upon the Pontiff, hungering for his words, eager for the promise of power that danced upon his lips.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Kingg announced, his voice booming like the call of a battle-hardened general, "I am thrilled to inform you that the first phase of our divine prophecy has been completed. The time has come for us to take our rightful place as the rulers of this realm, as the chosen ones granted eternity by the gods themselves."

The nobility murmured among themselves, their eyes wide with excitement and greed. Castrol's stomach churned at the sight of them, their hunger for power so palpable it seemed to stain the very air. Yet, amidst their whispers, there was a current of unease, a sense that the tapestry of their world was beginning to unravel before their very eyes.

"But," Kingg continued, his voice dropping to a dramatic whisper, "the gods are not so easily satisfied. To claim your immortality, one final phase remains." The hall grew still as a crypt, all breaths held in anticipation of the words that would follow. "A test of your loyalty and your worth."

He turned to Castrol, his gaze intense, and said, "You must first accept me as your lord, your personal savior, the embodiment of the prophecy itself. Only then will the final ceremony proceed, and the power be yours to claim." His voice was like a serpent's hiss, coaxing them to take a bite of the forbidden apple, promising knowledge and power beyond their wildest dreams.

The nobility watched, rapt, their eyes glinting with greed and hope. Castrol could see the desperation in their faces, the willingness to believe in this twisted truth if it meant escaping the clutches of mortality. It was a show of power, not just by Kingg, but his faith—a grand illusion woven of whispers and shadows that had ensnared an entire city.

As if on cue, robed figures emerged from the shadows, their crimson cloaks billowing like the flames of a funeral pyre. They moved with a chilling precision, their eyes hidden beneath the shadows of their hoods, their hands wrapped in intricate patterns of silver thread that glinted in the candlelight. Each one took a position around the gathered lords and ladies, creating a circle of silent judgment. The room grew colder, the air thick with a sense of foreboding that seemed to cling to the velvet curtains and the very stones of the hall.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Tobias Kingg's smile grew, as if he could feel the power of the moment coiling around him like a serpent, ready to strike. "Now," he said, his voice ringing through the hall like a clarion call, "I ask you all, as the chosen ones, to proclaim your love and belief in me, your savior." He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in, watching as the nobility shifted uncomfortably, their eyes darting around the room.

Then, from the far corner, a single hand rose tentatively into the air. It was a minor Lord, Lexington, his eyes gleaming with a fervor that seemed almost feverish. "I believe," he called out, his voice shaking with emotion. "I believe in you, Kingg, and the prophecy that has guided us here."

Like a wave crashing over the shore, one by one, the other nobles followed suit, their arms shooting upwards as if pulled by invisible strings. "I believe," they echoed, their voices a cacophony of desperation and hope. Castrol felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach as he watched the spectacle unfold. This was not the unity he had hoped for, but rather a terrifying display of mass manipulation and blind faith.

The chant grew louder, each voice joining in a crescendo of "I believe!" The words seemed to pulse in time with the very heartbeat of the room, resonating through the chandeliers, vibrating the very air. The floor beneath them trembled, the stones shivering as if in response to the power of their collective delusion. The crimson carpet looked like a river of blood leading to the altar of the prophecy, and the dais loomed like a gallows, a silent testament to the price of power.

Millie and Castrol watched in horror as the robed figures reached out, their hands gliding over the raised palms of the nobility like the caress of a lover. But instead of comfort, they brought pain—sharp and swift—as they pulled out daggars and sliced into the flesh. The nobles didn't flinch, their eyes glassy with devotion as their blood welled up, spilling into the waiting cups like a macabre libation. The metallic scent of it filled the air, a coppery perfume that mingled with the cloying sweetness of the candles and the musk of fear.

"With your faith," Kingg shouted above the chanting, "the second phase of our divine prophecy is now complete!" His voice was a thunderclap in the hushed hall, a declaration that seemed to resonate through the very fabric of reality itself. The air grew thick with a dark energy that made Castrol's hair stand on end, and he could feel the very stones of the mansion vibrating with the power of the ritual.

The robed figures retreated into the shadows, their task complete, leaving the nobility standing in a daze, their hands outstretched and bleeding. Kingg took a sip from one of the cups, the crimson liquid staining his teeth, and then handed it to Lady Catherine, who took it with trembling hands. One by one, the other nobles followed, their expressions a mix of euphoria and horror as they drank the sacred offering.

Tobias Kingg turned to the assembly, his smile wide and triumphant. "Now," he said, his voice once again calm and composed, "we can truly begin our celebration." He gestured to the double doors at the far end of the hall, which swung open to reveal a masquerade ball in full swing. The sound of music and laughter flooded the chamber, a stark contrast to the grim ceremony they had just witnessed. "The festivities await," he said, his eyes sparkling with mirth. "Let us revel in the promise of eternal life!"

The nobility, still in a trance-like state, began to file out, their murmurs of excitement growing louder as they approached the ballroom. Castrol felt the tension coil tighter around him, a noose of dread tightening with every step they took towards the revelry. He couldn't believe what he had just seen, the Tobias' dark truth laid bare before his eyes. The applause grew louder, the claps echoing like the beating of a funeral drum in his ears, as the nobles embraced their newfound belief.

He turned to Millie, her eyes reflecting his own horror and disbelief. The mask of the masquerade ball lay discarded on the floor between them, a symbol of the façade that had shattered to reveal the grotesque reality beneath. She met his gaze, and he saw the storm of emotions playing out across her face—the anger, the fear, the determination. It was as if she was looking straight into his soul, and in that moment, their silent conversation was louder than any shout or cheer.

"We have to go," Castrol murmured, his voice barely audible over the crescendo of the music and the cacophony of the celebration. Millie nodded, her eyes never leaving his, a silent understanding passing between them. The weight of their decision pressing down on their shoulders like an invisible mantle of responsibility.

-To Be Continued-