Blood of the first Age Chapter 7

 

Chapter 7 The City of Ash and Gold

The sands themselves carried heat so intense that travelers crossing the outer dunes often discovered melted glass beneath their feet where lightning and sacred fire had fused the earth into black crystal. Ash storms rolled endlessly across the horizon like oceans of smoke while distant thunder echoed through the wastelands despite there being no rain in Baalania for generations.

The people of the desert called it:

“The Breath of Baal-Zhur.”

The exhale of the Black Sun God. And somewhere deep within those infernal lands an empire was awakening.

The western deserts burned beneath a black sun. For twelve days the armies of Baalania marched across the dunes without rest while ash storms rolled endlessly across the horizon like living walls of smoke. Entire caravans moved beside the military columns carrying priests, slaves, engineers, and sacred offerings toward the growing capital of the Black Sun Sultan. And at the center of it all rose Baal-Azhir also called Baal-Zhur

The City of Ash and Gold. The capital appeared long before travelers reached it. First came the smoke. Gigantic black plumes twisting into the heavens from temple furnaces and volcanic fissures beneath the city. Then came the sound distant war drums echoing endlessly across the dunes beneath the roar of chained siege beasts dragging entire fortresses through the desert.

Finally the city itself emerged from the sandstorms. And even hardened warriors fell silent at the sight of it. Baal-Azhir was not built like eastern kingdoms.

It resembled something ancient. Something conquered from giants. Colossal obsidian walls stretched for miles across the desert while black pyramids towered over labyrinths of golden domes and fortress-temples glowing beneath rivers of molten fire. Massive chains connected elevated towers where burning braziers swung above the streets like artificial suns.

Everything shimmered beneath heat and ash. Gold. Black stone.Firelight. Blood-red banners. The city looked less like civilization and more like the entrance to some forgotten underworld.

For twelve days the armies of Baalania marched westward beneath crimson skies.Entire military legions crossed the dunes in disciplined silence: thousands of armored infantry and mounted dune riders along with sacred priests and chained laborers dragging siege engines through sand.

The ground trembled beneath the weight of empire itself. Gigantic black banners depicting the symbol of the Black Sun whipped violently in the furnace winds while war drums echoed endlessly across the wastelands like the heartbeat of some colossal beast beneath the earth.

No birds flew above the marching armies. Even scavengers avoided them. At the center of the procession rode Baalaniah Mehmeth.

The Black Sun Sultan.

His massive war beast moved slowly through the desert surrounded by elite royal guards clad in black-gold armor glowing faintly with sacred fire scripture. The Sultan himself sat upon an obsidian throne mounted atop the armored beast’s back beneath layered crimson canopies that shielded him from the burning sky.

Even from afar he radiated heat. The air distorted around him like invisible flames surrounded his body constantly. Entire caravans traveling nearby stopped to kneel as he passed.

Some out of worship. Others from terror. Most no longer understood the difference. Then finally through curtains of ash and smoke the capital emerged.

Baal-Azhir.

The City of Ash and Gold. Even seasoned generals fell silent at the sight of it. Because Baal-Azhir did not resemble a human city. It resembled the capital of hell itself.

The metropolis stretched endlessly across the desert carved directly into volcanic cliffs and black stone canyons surrounding enormous geothermal fissures burning beneath the earth.

Colossal obsidian walls rose nearly three hundred feet high lined with gigantic braziers that transformed the outer fortifications into rivers of living flame after sunset.

Massive chains connected elevated towers between the walls where armored watchmen patrolled beneath burning lanterns large enough to illuminate entire districts.

The city glowed. Not from sunlight. From fire. Every structure reflected: gold and black volcanic stone , molten bronze and crimson flame.

Gigantic black pyramids towered above labyrinths of streets and elevated bridges while rivers of molten metal flowed through massive industrial districts beneath cathedral-sized foundries.

Smoke permanently covered the heavens above the capital. The sky itself appeared wounded. And towering above the entire city  stood the Temple of the Black Sun.

The Temple of the Black Sun. A monstrous holy structure carved directly into volcanic rock overlooking the entire capital. Gigantic statues of armored kings lined the staircase leading upward while sacred flames erupted continuously from braziers large enough to swallow houses whole.

Thousands climbed those steps daily. Some seeking blessings. Others punishment. Most seeking survival. Because in Baalania religion ruled above kings. And faith was enforced through fire. The Inferno Priests controlled much of the empire beside Mehmeth himself. They were feared even among soldiers.

Tall figures draped in layered black-and-gold robes stitched with holy scripture, their faces hidden behind bronze masks shaped like expressionless suns. Sacred burn scars covered their exposed skin while censers chained to their waists leaked crimson smoke into the air around them.

They believed pain purified the soul. And every priest bore the scars to prove devotion. Some carried staffs burning with black flame. Others wielded hooked ceremonial blades used for sacrifices and executions.

Children lowered their eyes when priests passed through the streets. Even generals spoke carefully around them. Because the priests alone interpreted the will of:

Baal-Zhur. And questioning divine will often ended at the stake. Far below the temple district, the lower city stretched endlessly beneath smoke-filled skies.

The streets overflowed with life despite the brutality surrounding them. Merchants shouted beneath black silk canopies sellingbronze weapons, sacred oils,spices, relics,beast hides and forbidden narcotics.

Slave markets stood beside military forges where engineers crafted siege weapons from obsidian steel while chained prisoners hauled supplies toward the war foundries. Everywhere people prayed. Before meals. Before trade. Before speaking the Sultan’s name aloud. The people of Baalania had been raised to believe conquest itself was holy.

War was not merely survival. It was worship. And at the heart of that worship marched the armies. Endless armies. The military districts outside the city dwarfed entire kingdoms. Rows upon rows of black war tents stretched across the desert surrounding massive beast pens and training arenas filled with roaring crowds. Thousands of Zhurakhim soldiers drilled beneath the burning sun in perfect formation while fire priests walked among them reciting scripture through smoke.

Each warrior wore black bronze armor engraved with sun sigils and sacred verses. Each soldier had sworn to obedience to Baalania, obedience to Baal-Zhur and death before surrender.

Fanaticism had become discipline. And discipline had become empire.Yet the most terrifying sight waited beyond the outer walls. Far out upon the dunes the war beasts moved. Gigantic shapes emerged slowly through ash storms beneath thunderous drums shaking the sands themselves. Travelers often mistook them for mountains at first. Then the mountains began walking.

The Dreadhorns. Sacred siege beasts of Baalania. Massive rhinoceros-like creatures the size of castles with obsidian hides thick as fortress walls and enormous curved horns wrapped in bronze armor plating. Their eyes glowed like furnace embers while steam and smoke escaped constantly from beneath armored breathing masks forged directly into their skulls.

Entire fortresses had been built upon their backs.

Towering siege citadels carrying soldiers, catapults, priests, and black flame artillery moved slowly with each colossal footstep across the desert. Giant chains hung from their armor while sacred banners whipped violently in the burning wind overhead.

The ground trembled when they marched.

Children cried at the sound. Entire enemy cities surrendered without battle after seeing them approach through the dunes.

One evening, Baalaniah Mehmeth stood atop the western walls of Baal-Azhir watching the Dreadhorn legions crossing the horizon beneath the setting sun.

The desert glowed gold and crimson around them. An empire in motion. Behind him stood High Priest Azrakar. Old. Blind.

His face hidden behind a cracked bronze mask burned permanently into flesh through ancient ritual.

“The eastern kingdoms remain divided,” Azrakar rasped. “Weak.”

Mehmeth watched the war beasts silently.

“They will unite eventually.”

“Then we strike before they can.”

The Sultan remained quiet for several moments.

Wind carried ash across his black robes.

Far below, thousands knelt in prayer as temple bells echoed through the capital.

“You know why kingdoms fail?” Mehmeth asked suddenly.

The priest tilted his head slightly.

“They forget fear.”

His glowing amber eyes drifted toward the horizon beyond the deserts.

Toward Elyria.

Toward Vahsravia.

Toward lands untouched by Baalania’s holy fire.

“For peace to survive,” Mehmeth said softly,
“the world must first learn terror.”

That night the Temple of the Black Sun burned brighter than ever before.

And beneath the crimson skies of Molochia

the war drums continued without end.

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.”

 

Blood of the first Age Chapter 9

 

Chapter 9  The Sandstorm Throne

The first map arrived wrapped in human skin. It was delivered to Baal-Azhir at dawn by a silent rider whose horse collapsed dead beneath the city gates moments after arrival. The rider himself had no tongue, no eyes, and the symbol of Baal-Zhur burned across his chest. Yet he smiled while dying. Because he had completed his purpose. The map was carried directly into the Ember Palace. There, beneath towering obsidian ceilings illuminated by rivers of sacred flame, Baalaniah Mehmeth studied the eastern world for the first time in full.

Elyria. The green continent beyond the Great Salt Sea. A land of forests, castles, cathedrals, rivers, and ancient bloodlines untouched by desert conquest for centuries. Beautiful. Soft. Divided. Perfect.

The Sultan stood alone within the Hall of Maps while black incense drifted through the darkness around him. Massive war charts covered entire stone walls displaying trade routes, military strengths, noble alliances, and religious factions gathered through years of espionage.

Hundreds of candles illuminated one kingdom in particular. Vahsravia. A Kingdom in Eastern Elyria, The Realm of the Blood Sovereign. Mehmeth’s amber eyes lingered there longest.

The vampire kingdom hidden beneath eternal storms. A nation where humans and vampires coexisted under one ruler. Impossible. Every report contradicted itself. Some described Prince Dragun as a merciful protector beloved by both races. Others portrayed him as a sadistic immortal tyrant who crucified invaders beneath thunderclouds. Both were likely true. That interested Mehmeth greatly.

High Priest Za’Rakh entered the chamber silently behind him.

“The eastern kingdoms fear him,” the prophet rasped.

Mehmeth did not look away from the map.

“They worship him.”

Za’Rakh’s burned eye narrowed.

“That is more dangerous.”

Silence followed.

Then Mehmeth asked quietly:

“Tell me again what the flames showed you.”

The prophet hesitated.

Even recalling the vision unsettled him.

“A king wrapped in storms,” Za’Rakh whispered. “A throne of darkness. Black wings blotting out the moon.”

His voice lowered further.

“And death walking beside him.”

Mehmeth finally turned.

“You believe the prophecy speaks of Vahsravia.”

“I believe,” Za’Rakh said carefully, “that if the east unites beneath this vampire king, Baalania will face a war unlike any before.”

The Sultan smiled faintly.

Not fearfully.

Thoughtfully.

“A worthy enemy then.”

Unlike lesser conquerors, Mehmeth never underestimated his enemies.That was why he kept winning.For weeks he studied every scrap of information regarding Vahsravia and the eastern kingdoms. He learned that vampires ruled openly there and human priests served beside immortal nobles and the people genuinely loved Dragun and no major invasion had breached Vahsravian borders in centuries.

But one detail fascinated him most. The kingdom remained isolated. Respected. Yet politically alone. The neighboring nations feared Vahsravia’s power even while relying upon its protection.

Which meant the alliances surrounding Elyria were fragile. And fragile things shattered beautifully.

Mehmeth did not declare war immediately.

That would have been foolish. Instead he began preparing the continent psychologically.

The first kingdoms fell quietly. Border nations allied to Elyria vanished beneath coordinated desert raids led by the Zhurakhim and Blood Riders. Entire military outposts disappeared overnight while caravans arrived carrying stories of black banners rising above burning cities.

No survivors remained in conquered capitals. Only ruins. And symbols burned into stone. The message was deliberate. Fear traveled faster than armies.

Soon refugees flooded eastern roads carrying impossible stories. Cities consumed by black fire that could not be extinguished. Holy warriors marching through flames unharmed.

Gigantic siege beasts crossing the dunes carrying mobile fortresses upon their backs. And always the same name whispered in terror.

Baalaniah Mehmeth.

The Black Sun Sultan.

Yet Mehmeth still avoided attacking Elyria directly.

Instead, he targeted the trade allies and food routes along with naval ports and smaller kingdoms under Vahsravia’s protection.

He wanted Dragun watching helplessly. Waiting. Growing uncertain. Psychological warfare was more efficient than brute force. A frightened continent destroyed itself before conquest even began.

One night inside the Ember Palace war chamber, Mehmeth met with his generals beneath the glow of sacred fire. Gigantic maps covered the obsidian table before them.

General Rahzurel pointed toward eastern coastlines.

“The northern kingdoms request alliance against us.”

“Good,” Mehmeth replied calmly.

Several generals exchanged confused glances.

The Sultan traced one finger slowly across the map toward Elyria.

“Fear creates desperation. Desperation creates mistakes.”

He looked toward Vahsravia’s symbol.

“A wise king protects his people.”

Then toward the surrounding allied nations.

“A desperate king tries to protect everyone.”

Understanding spread slowly across the chamber.

Mehmeth intended to stretch Dragun thin.

To force him into war before he was ready.

Meanwhile, across the Great Salt Sea the eastern kingdoms began panicking.

Messengers rode day and night between castles carrying reports of fallen nations. Entire ports closed. Trade collapsed. Coastal villages burned their own ships to prevent Baalanian raids.

And everywhere people looked toward Vahsravia. Toward the vampire kingdom hidden beneath storms. Some begged Dragun for protection. Others feared he might become another conqueror himself.

The uncertainty pleased Mehmeth immensely. Because divided kingdoms were easier to bury. Late one evening, the Black Sun Sultan stood upon the highest balcony of the Ember Palace watching sandstorms consume the horizon beneath crimson moonlight.

Far below, the armies of Baalania marched endlessly through torchlit streets while war drums echoed across the city.

Za’Rakh approached carefully behind him.

“The east prepares for war.”

Mehmeth remained silent.

Then:

“No.”

His glowing eyes drifted toward the distant unseen sea.

“They prepare for fear.”

The winds intensified around the palace.

Ash spiraled upward into the heavens like black snow.

“Before empires collapse,” Mehmeth said softly,
“their people must first stop believing the world can be saved.”

He smiled faintly.

Coldly.

“And I intend to teach them.”