Blood of the first Age Chapter 5

 

Chapter 5 The Great Salt Sea

Winter arrived early that year. Not the gentle winter of silver snowfall and quiet forests. But a dying season. A cold, starving thing that crawled across kingdoms like a funeral shroud. The skies above Vahsravia darkened further with each passing week while the storms over the Great Salt Sea became increasingly violent. Merchant routes vanished beneath monstrous waves. Entire ports fell silent. Ships that had crossed the black waters safely for generations simply disappeared without trace.

At first, the royal court dismissed it as coincidence. Then the corpses began washing ashore. The fishing village of Velmora discovered the first wreckage.

Fragments of blackened ships drifted into the harbor beneath freezing rain while villagers gathered silently along the shore. Splintered wood covered in scorch marks floated among bloated bodies tangled in torn sails.

The dead sailors looked horrifying. Not drowned. Burned. Their skin had split open like cracked charcoal while mouths remained frozen in expressions of unimaginable terror. Some corpses still smoldered despite days spent drifting in seawater.

No ordinary fire could do that. The villagers immediately sent word to Castle Vahsryn. By nightfall, General Zerafin Lumina personally rode to the coast alongside royal investigators and priests.

What they found unsettled even him. Entire trade vessels had been melted almost beyond recognition. Not shattered by storms. Melted. Steel anchors warped like wax. Stone cargo cracked apart from impossible heat. And on one ruined mast someone had carved a symbol in black ash: A burning eye surrounded by crescent moons. None recognized it.

 Father Lucian did. And the old priest turned pale immediately.

“The western scriptures mention this symbol,” he whispered while rain battered the ruined shoreline. “Ancient desert faiths.”

Zerafin frowned.

“Explain.”

Lucian stared toward the black sea uneasily.

“It belongs to the cults of old Molochia.”

Even the wind seemed quieter after those words.

Because Molochia was not merely a kingdom.

It was a place spoken of in fearful legends.

A land of endless deserts where ancient gods were worshipped through fire and blood.

A place civilized nations avoided for centuries.

And according to history

its fractured tribes had never once united.

Until now. More ships vanished.

Then the refugees arrived.

The first caravan appeared outside Noctyra at dawn beneath freezing rain.

Hundreds of survivors stumbled through the eastern gates guarded by exhausted soldiers barely able to remain standing. Their wagons were broken. Their clothing burned and torn by desert winds. Many carried children wrapped in bloodstained blankets.

Some had no eyes. Others muttered prayers endlessly under their breath. Most never spoke at all. The city fell silent watching them enter. Because refugees arriving from western lands was rare. Refugees arriving by the thousands meant kingdoms were dying.

Prince Dragun ordered the cathedral sanctuaries opened immediately.

Human healers and vampire physicians worked side by side tending to the wounded while priests distributed food through overcrowded halls filled with smoke, coughing, and whispered prayers.

But no medicine eased the fear spreading through the survivors. Especially at night. Because many woke screaming. Not from memory. From sound. They claimed they could still hear the burning.

Father Lucian spent hours speaking with survivors beneath candlelit cathedral chambers.

The stories became increasingly horrifying. Cities erased overnight. Entire armies swallowed by sandstorms glowing with fire. Black banners stretching across horizons. Gigantic beasts carrying moving fortresses through the desert. And everywhere the same name. Repeated over and over like a curse.

Baalaniah Mehmeth.

The Sultan of Molochia.

The Black Sun King.

The Conqueror of Ash.

One survivor in particular terrified Lucian more than the others. A little girl no older than eight. Found wandering alone near the shoreline after her refugee ship drifted into eastern waters half-destroyed. She never blinked. Not once. Even while speaking.

Lucian sat beside her gently within the cathedral infirmary while candles flickered against stone walls.

“What happened to your city?” he asked softly.

The child stared ahead silently for several moments.

Then:

“They burned the sky.”

Lucian frowned slightly.

“What do you mean?”

The girl slowly raised trembling hands.

“The soldiers wore black bronze armor. They carried fire in chains.” Her voice cracked weakly. “The priests prayed while people burned alive.”

Nearby nurses stopped moving.

Listening.

“The streets melted,” the child whispered. “The fire wouldn’t stop.”

Her breathing became uneven.

“They locked the gates so nobody could escape.”

Lucian felt cold.

Even the candles seemed dimmer around her.

Then the girl finally looked directly at him.

And the old priest saw reflected flames inside her eyes.

“They said the world belonged to Baal now.”

Silence filled the room.

Then she whispered one final sentence.

“I heard them screaming for three days.”

That night, thunder shook Castle Vahsryn continuously. The royal court gathered beneath stormlight while reports from western coasts piled upon black marble tables. Destroyed trade routes. Missing kingdoms. Burned ports. Vanished armies.

General Zerafin stood before the throne grim-faced.

“We’ve confirmed at least seven western nations have fallen within the year.”

Murmurs spread through the hall. Impossible. No empire expanded that quickly. Not without sorcery. Or apocalypse.

One noble scoffed nervously.

“Desert tribes cannot threaten Vahsravia.”

“They are no longer tribes,” Zerafin replied sharply.

Father Lucian stepped forward carefully.

“The survivors describe organization unlike anything the west has seen before.”

“Led by who?” another noble demanded.

Lucian hesitated briefly.

Then answered.

“Baalaniah Mehmeth.”

Lightning exploded beyond the cathedral windows.And for the first time in centuries fear spread visibly through the vampire court. Dragun remained silent throughout the discussion.

Listening. Watching. Thinking. But inwardly  something unsettled him deeply. Not the war reports. Not even the burned cities. It was the pattern.

Kingdoms were not merely being conquered. They were being erased. Cultures destroyed completely. Survivors branded with religious symbols burned into flesh. Libraries burned first. Priests executed publicly. Entire bloodlines hunted to extinction. This was not conquest. It was purification.

And men who believed themselves chosen to purify the world were often more dangerous than monsters.

Later that night, Dragun stood alone atop Castle Vahsryn watching lightning crawl across the Great Salt Sea far beyond the eastern cliffs. The storm winds carried distant salt and ash together unnaturally.

Then black feathers drifted quietly onto the balcony stones.

Tenji stood behind him.

Silent as moonlight.

The pale celestial figure gazed westward toward unseen deserts.

“The fires are spreading quickly,” he murmured softly.

Dragun did not turn.

“You know this king.”

Tenji remained quiet for several seconds.

Then:

“I know what follows him.”

The Blood Sovereign’s crimson eyes narrowed slightly.

“And what is that?”

Far beyond the sea—

lightning illuminated the horizon blood red for the briefest moment.

Tenji’s silver eyes reflected it coldly.

Then he whispered:

“The beginning of the end.”