Prophet of the Crimson Dawn

Chapter 4: The Vossara Legacy

The crimson haze in Elarienne’s eyes didn't fade, even as the last of the Shade-beasts dissolved into piles of black sludge. She stood there, bathed in the dying light of a sun that looked like a bleeding wound, looking less like a baker’s daughter and more like a queen of a dead world.

"The harvest has started, Solvren," she whispered again. The golden-eyed raven on the ruins let out a final, chilling caw before taking flight. "Don't look so scared. I’m doing this for us."

Solvren stared at his hands. They were shaking so violently he had to shove them into his pockets. For the first time in his twenty-four years, the constant, flickering map of the future was gone. The "next" was a blank slate, a wall of static.

"El... you’re not yourself," Solvren managed to choke out. "Look at what you just did. That wasn't magic. That was... I don't even know what that was."

"It’s what I am," she said, her voice regaining a bit of its usual melody, though the edge remained. She stepped toward him, but Solvren instinctively recoiled. Her expression flickered with a momentary hurt before hardening. "Fine. If you need time to process, take it. But the city is falling, Sol. The South Gate was just the beginning. I have to find the others."

"The others?"

"The ones with the Mark," she said simply. She didn't look back as she turned toward the center of the city, her white dress trailing through the gore.

Solvren stood frozen until Mirellia groaned on the ground. He rushed to the captain’s side, helping her sit up. Her armor was dented, and she was staring at the space where Elarienne had been with pure, unmasked terror.

"Sol... what was that?" Mirellia hissed, gripping his forearm. "That wasn't just magic. That was the Blood-tithe. Only the Vossara line was ever supposed to have that... and they were wiped out centuries ago."

"I don't know," Solvren said, his mind racing. "I need to find out. Mirellia, can you walk?"

"I'll live. Get out of here, Solvren. If the High Council finds out what she is, they won't just kill her. They'll burn this whole province to make sure the rot doesn't spread."

"I’m not leaving her to that," Solvren said, standing up. "I’m going to the Vossara estate. There has to be something in their old library. Some record of what that mark actually is."

"The estate is a ruin, Sol. It’s been sealed for a hundred years."

"Then I’ll unseal it," he said.

*

The outskirts of Oakhaven were a mess of panicked citizens and smoke, but Solvren moved through the side alleys with a grim purpose. He found himself standing outside a cramped, leaning shack near the Great Library. He kicked the door once. Twice.

"Caelvar! Open up! I know you're in there, you coward!"

The door creaked open just a crack, revealing a pair of thick spectacles and a very nervous nose. "Solvren? Is the sky still red? I heard screaming. I’m not coming out if the sky is still red."

"The sky is fine, Cael. Mostly," Solvren said, shoving his way inside. "I need your keys. And your brain. We’re going to the Vossara estate."

Caelvar Orthis, a man who spent more time with ink on his fingers than blood in his veins, nearly fell over his own feet. "The Vossara estate? Are you insane? That place is cursed, Sol! The wards are designed to liquefy the internal organs of anyone without a drop of their blood."

"Then it’s a good thing I’ve got a very specific kind of luck," Solvren said, grabbing a lantern from the table. "And I don't think the wards are working the way they used to. Not after what just happened at the gate."

"What happened at the gate?" Caelvar asked, scurrying after him as Solvren marched back into the street.

"Elarienne just turned a dozen Shade-beasts into mist with her bare hands, Cael. Her eyes turned red. And she has the Mark of the Mourning God on her neck."

Caelvar stopped dead in the middle of the alley. "The Mourning God? Sol, that’s a myth. It’s a bedtime story told to keep children from playing in the ruins."

"Tell that to the monsters she just slaughtered," Solvren snapped. "Now, are you coming, or do I have to break into the estate by myself?"

Caelvar looked at the smoke rising over the city, then at Solvren’s desperate face. "I’m going to regret this. I’m going to be a very flat, very dead scholar."

*

The Vossara estate sat on a hill overlooking the town, a skeletal remains of a once-grand mansion. As they approached the rusted iron gates, Solvren felt a familiar tingle behind his eyes. His foresight wasn't back to its full twenty-four-hour strength, but it was beginning to pulse again—short, jagged bursts of the next few seconds.

"Wait," Solvren said, grabbing Caelvar’s collar and yanking him behind a stone pillar.

"What? What is it?" Caelvar whispered, his teeth chattering.

"Guard patrol. Two of them. They’re wearing the Council’s silver. They must have moved in as soon as the gate fell."

"If they catch us here, it’s treason," Caelvar whimpered.

"They won't catch us. In five seconds, the one on the left is going to drop his torch. When he leans down to pick it up, his partner is going to turn his back to check the gate hinge. That’s when we slip through the gap in the fence."

"How do you—?"

"Three... two... one... go!"

Solvren bolted, pulling Caelvar along. Just as he predicted, the guard cursed as his torch clattered to the cobbles. The duo vanished into the overgrown gardens of the estate before the guards even realized they weren't alone.

"I hate it when you do that," Caelvar panted as they reached the heavy oak doors of the main manor. "It’s unnatural."

"It’s useful," Solvren countered. He reached for the handle, but Caelvar grabbed his arm.

"The wards, Sol! If the Vossara bloodline is active, these doors will kill you!"

Solvren hesitated, his hand inches from the wood. He closed his eyes, trying to force his sight forward. He didn't see himself dying. Instead, he saw the door creaking open at his touch, as if it had been waiting for him.

"It’s fine," Solvren said. He pushed.

The doors swung open with a heavy, welcoming groan. The air inside smelled of dust, stagnant water, and something metallic—like the scent of the Shade-beasts.

"Why are we still alive?" Caelvar whispered, stepping into the grand foyer. "I should be a puddle on the floor right now."

"Maybe the house thinks I’m a guest," Solvren said, his voice echoing in the empty hall. "Where’s the library?"

"The East wing. Follow the smell of rotting paper."

They moved through the darkness, their lantern casting long, dancing shadows against the peeling wallpaper. The library was a cavernous room, filled with thousands of scrolls and leather-bound books.

"Start looking for anything related to the Mourning God or the Blood-tithe," Solvren commanded, beginning to tear through a stack of documents on a central desk.

"You realize how much is in here? This could take weeks!" Caelvar complained, but he began pulling scrolls from the shelves nonetheless.

Solvren didn't answer. He was following a feeling—a strange, magnetic pull in the back of his mind. He walked toward a far corner of the library, where a single, iron-bound chest sat beneath a portrait of a man who looked hauntingly like the vision of Solvren he’d seen on the throne.

"Cael, look at this," Solvren said.

Caelvar hurried over, his eyes widening as he saw the chest. "That’s the family seal. But it’s... it’s glowing."

Solvren reached down and flipped the latch. It wasn't locked. Inside sat a single, ancient scroll, the parchment so dark it looked like cured skin. He unrolled it, and both men leaned in.

"It’s a ritual," Caelvar whispered, his voice trembling as he read the archaic script. "The God-Bond. It’s not just magic, Sol. It’s a blueprint."

"A blueprint for what?"

"For a pair," Caelvar said, his finger tracing the lines of the ritual. "A 'Sovereign' and a 'Vessel.' It says here that the world must be 'cleansed' through a mass sacrifice of life to fuel the ascension. It’s intended to create a divine pair to rule over the ashes."

Solvren felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead. "The vision. The throne. The mountain of bodies. It was this."

"Wait, there’s more," Caelvar said, his face going pale. "The ritual... it has a failsafe. For the 'God' to ascend, he must be completely unaware of the process. He has to be 'forged' by the chaos around him, believeing he’s trying to save the world while he’s actually destroying it."

"So I’m the 'God'?" Solvren asked, his voice a ghost of itself. "And Elarienne... she’s the one who triggers it?"

"The Vessel does the work. The God provides the soul," Caelvar murmured. "But Sol... look at the bottom. The date."

Solvren looked. At the very end of the scroll, beneath the instructions for the blood sacrifice, were two names written in a flowing, golden ink that seemed to pulse with its own light.

The Sovereign: Solvren Aetharis.

The Vessel: Elarienne Vossara.

"That's impossible," Solvren whispered, his heart hammering against his ribs. "That's my name. My full name."

"Solvren," Caelvar said, his voice cracking with terror. "Look at the date next to your name. This scroll... it was signed three hundred years ago."

Solvren stared at his own name, written centuries before he was ever born. He looked at his hands again, half-expecting them to start turning to gold right there in the dark.

"I’m not a person," Solvren realized, the horror finally sinking in. "I’m a weapon. And I’ve been waiting to go off for three centuries."

Outside, a thunderclap shook the estate, but it wasn't rain. It was the sound of the Great Hall in the center of Oakhaven collapsing. The harvest wasn't just starting—it was ahead of schedule.