Blood of the first Age Chapter 8

 

Chapter 8  The Inferno Prophet

There were men feared for their strength. Men feared for their cruelty. And then there were men feared because people believed the gods themselves spoke through them. High Priest Za’Rakh belonged to the last kind.

Throughout Baalania, mothers silenced children merely by whispering his name. Soldiers lowered their eyes when he passed. Even hardened warlords avoided standing too close to him for long. Because Za’Rakh did not behave like an ordinary man.He behaved like someone already halfway consumed by divinity.

The Inferno Prophet lived within the deepest sanctum beneath the Temple of the Black Sun. Far below Baal-Azhir. Far below the city noise. Beneath endless stairways carved into volcanic stone where heat rose from cracks in the earth like the breath of sleeping demons. The lower temple was forbidden to commoners. Most nobles never entered either. Only the priests descended willingly. And even they feared what waited in the darkness below.

The sacred chambers resembled an underground hell.

Massive Mosque carved directly into black volcanic caverns stretched endlessly beneath the city while rivers of molten fire flowed through trenches surrounding obsidian altars. Hundreds of giant braziers illuminated walls covered in scripture written with ash, blood, and melted gold.

And everywhere people screamed. Not in panic. In worship. The faithful knelt in enormous ritual halls beneath towering statues of Baal-Zhur while masked priests carved sacred symbols into flesh using heated bronze blades. Incense thickened the air until breathing itself became difficult while drums echoed through the darkness like giant heartbeats beneath the earth.

At the center of the largest chamber stood: The Pit of Revelation. A colossal fire well descending into darkness so deep no bottom could be seen. The priests believed the flames below connected directly to Baal-Zhur himself. And only Za’Rakh could hear what answered from within.

The Inferno Prophet emerged from the shadows slowly. Tall. Skeletal.

Wrapped in layered black-and-crimson robes heavy with chains, sacred bones, and scorched scripture hanging from his body like funeral ornaments. Burn scars covered nearly all visible skin while molten bronze had been permanently poured across parts of his face during ancient rituals, leaving one eye sealed shut forever.

The remaining eye glowed faintly orange. Like dying embers. And his voice his voice sounded wrong. Not weak. Not old. But layered. As though something beneath the earth whispered alongside him whenever he spoke.

Thousands of worshippers bowed immediately. Some pressed their faces against the stone floor in terror. Others wept openly.

Za’Rakh approached the Pit of Revelation while priests dragged chained prisoners screaming toward the altar behind him. Foreigners. Captured rebels. Political enemies. Children of conquered kings. The sacrifices began at moonrise.

The drums intensified. The priests chanted in unison. And the fire answered.

Black flame erupted violently upward from the pit illuminating the cavern in crimson light while heat spread through the chamber like a living thing crawling across flesh.

The prisoners screamed. Some begged for mercy. None received it. The first sacrifice was thrown alive into the fire well. The screaming lasted far longer than physically possible. The crowd below began crying openly in religious ecstasy. Because suffering was sacred in Baalania. Pain purified the soul. And fear strengthened faith.

Za’Rakh raised both burned hands toward the inferno.

“Baal-Zhur sees the corruption of this world,” he declared.

His layered voice echoed across the cavern unnaturally.

“The weak cling to false peace. Foreign kings poison mankind with mercy. The dead walk beneath silver moons while false gods whisper from the heavens.”

The flames surged higher.

The crowd trembled.

“The Last Moon approaches.”

More sacrifices were dragged forward. Women. Men. Even children. The priests showed no hesitation. One by one the condemned vanished into black fire beneath endless chanting. The smell of burning flesh filled the cathedral. And still the faithful worshipped.

Then suddenly Za’Rakh froze. The flames changed. The black inferno twisting upward around the prophet began forming shapes within the fire itself.

The priests stepped back uneasily. Even they feared true visions. Within the flames appeared storms, bats, endless snow and a throne of darkness beneath a crimson moon.

Then a figure. Tall. Armored in black. Surrounded by thousands of shadow creatures. A king standing beneath thunderclouds while cities burned around him.

The fire screamed.

And Za’Rakh began shaking violently.

“The Blood King…” he whispered.

The entire chamber fell silent.

Because prophecies were rare.

And prophecy from the sacred flames meant divine warning.

Za’Rakh’s remaining eye widened with terror.

“He rises from the east…”

The fire intensified violently.

“A king of storms and death…”

The vision shifted again.

A battlefield covered in corpses. Black bats eclipsing the sky. A silver crown stained with blood. And beside the king something worse. A gigantic shadow draped in darkness with glowing crimson eyes. The shape of Mordecai. Watching. Waiting.

Several priests backed away instinctively.

Za’Rakh fell to his knees before the flames.

“The vampire king returns…”

The words spread panic through the lower temple immediately. Because ancient western scripture spoke of only one such figure. A cursed ruler from distant Elyria. A monster. A hero. A king even demons once feared. And according to forgotten legends  he could not truly die. The black fire erupted higher than ever before. Then another image appeared.

A pale child surrounded by snow and frost. Blue eyes glowing coldly beneath falling ash.

Einar.

Za’Rakh recoiled immediately.

“No…”

The prophet’s voice cracked.

“The Frost Heir…”

The cavern shook violently. The priests stared upward in horror as cracks spread through parts of the ceiling. The flames were becoming unstable. As though the future itself resisted being seen.

Then came the final vision. Not a vampire. Not a king. Something above the world.

A figure drifting through endless darkness surrounded by wings and black crows.

Jet black eyes turned silver  staring downward from the heavens.

Tenji.

And behind him something impossibly vast moved beyond the stars. The fire exploded instantly afterward.

Priests were thrown backward. Several worshippers caught flame immediately. Screaming chaos consumed the chamber.

Za’Rakh collapsed beside the altar breathing heavily while smoke poured from his robes.

The surviving priests gathered around him fearfully.

“What did you see?” one whispered.

The prophet slowly raised his burned face toward them.

His remaining eye trembling.

Then he spoke the words that would spread across Baalania like plague.

“The east carries monsters older than our gods.”

Silence.

Then:

“And one of them is coming for us.”