The Veiled Prophet Rise of the God Slayer

chapter 6

Toren lagged a few steps behind, his boots crunching on the uneven cave floor. The darkness was thick, but for the first time since he’d arrived in this world, it didn't feel like an enemy. It felt like a shield.

“Hey, Maelis?” Toren called out, his voice echoing.

“Keep your voice down, Toren,” Maelis whispered, though she slowed her pace so he could catch up. “We’re deep, but sound carries in these tunnels.”

“Right, sorry. It’s just... you’re sure nobody else heard that? Like, a voice that sounds like a choir of people dropping glass plates?”

Maelis stopped and looked at him, her brow furrowed. “The only thing I hear is Lucan complaining about his boots and Darven’s heavy breathing. Why? What did you hear?”

“Nothing. Just... the wind. Like I said,” Toren muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. The mark was cold—a deep, biting chill that felt like it was rooted in his bones. “I’m probably just hallucinating from the lack of caffeine. My brain does weird things when I miss my morning latte.”

“A 'latte' sounds like another one of your demonic rituals,” Lucan chimed in from the front, his voice echoing back to them. “But unless it can track us through three miles of solid rock, I wouldn’t worry about it. Hey, look at this. We’re here.”

The tunnel opened into a massive cavern that took Toren’s breath away. It wasn't just a cave; it was a graveyard of architecture. Massive, jagged pillars of obsidian rose from the floor, carved with runes that didn't glow. They weren't like the elegant, flowing scripts of the Church. These were sharp, violent, and looked like they’d been hacked into the stone with a desperate hand.

“Whoa,” Toren breathed, looking around. “This isn't exactly the Ritz-Carlton.”

“It’s the Deep Reach,” Keziah said, her hand resting on the hilt of a dagger. “The Church says these ruins were built by the First Heretics. People who tried to steal the Light before the Gods descended to protect it.”

“Except the Church lies about everything,” a new voice rasped from the shadows.

Darven immediately raised his mace. “Who’s there? Show yourself!”

A small, flicker of light appeared near a pile of crumbled masonry. It wasn't the brilliant, blinding gold of the Inquisitor, but a pale, flickering amber—the kind of light a dying candle might give off. An old man stepped into the circle of light. He was hunched, his robes a patchwork of moth-eaten velvet, and his eyes were covered by a thick leather blindfold.

“Lower your weapon, Darven Thorne,” the old man said, his voice like dry parchment rubbing together. “I’m far too old to be a threat to a man of your... significant bulk.”

“Orlan?” Maelis gasped, stepping forward. “You’re still alive? We heard the Sentinels found your workshop in the Low-City.”

“They found a workshop, yes,” the old man, Orlan, chuckled dryly. “They didn't find me. I’ve been down here, talking to the stones. They’re much better conversationalists than the Purity Guard.”

“Orlan, this is the one,” Maelis said, gesturing toward Toren. “The Void-Bearer. The one from the scrolls.”

Orlan turned his head toward Toren. Even with the blindfold, Toren felt like he was being dissected.

“He’s... very loud,” Orlan whispered.

“Loud?” Toren asked, looking at his clothes. “I’m barely even talking.”

“Not your voice, boy. Your silence,” Orlan said, shuffling closer. “You’re a screaming hole in the tapestry of the world. It’s fascinating. I can feel the Essence around me being pulled toward you like water down a drain.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot,” Toren said, stepping back instinctively. “Look, Orlan, right? We’re looking for the First Gate. Maelis says I can... I don't know, stabilize my 'condition' there?”

“Stabilize? Is that what she told you?” Orlan laughed, a wheezing sound. “You don't stabilize a hurricane, boy. You either let it blow itself out or you get swept up in the eye.”

“Can you help us or not?” Darven grunted. “Yurek Nahl is right on our heels. We don't have time for a philosophy lecture.”

“The Gate is just beyond the Great Altar,” Orlan said, gesturing toward the center of the cavern where a massive, flat slab of stone sat atop a stepped dais. “But the Gate doesn't open for just anyone. It requires a memory. A connection to what was here before the 'Gods' decided to put a price tag on the sun.”

“A memory?” Toren looked at the altar. It looked ancient, covered in a thick layer of dust that his presence seemed to stir. “I don't have memories of this place. I’m from Washington. My oldest memory is a rainy day at a petting zoo.”

“The Void doesn't care where your body is from, Toren Valcrest,” Orlan said, his voice dropping to a serious tone. “It cares where your soul is going. Touch the altar. See what the world was before it was a cage.”

Toren looked at Maelis. She gave him a small, hesitant nod. “If the scrolls are right, the altar is a record. It’s not magic—it’s history.”

“Great. A history lesson. My favorite,” Toren muttered. He walked up the steps, his heart hammering against his ribs.

As he reached the top, the air felt different. It was heavy, pulsing with a low-frequency vibration that made his teeth rattle. The altar was carved with a single, massive circle, and in the center was an indentation shaped like a human hand.

“Just touch it?” Toren asked, looking back at the group.

“Just touch it,” Lucan said, leaning against a pillar. “Unless you’re scared of a rock.”

“I’m not scared of the rock. I’m scared of what the rock is going to do to me,” Toren countered. He took a deep breath and pressed his palm into the indentation.

The world didn't just go dark. It inverted.

Toren gasped as the cavern vanished. He was standing in a field of grass so green it looked like emeralds. Above him, the sky wasn't purple or gray—it was a brilliant, endless blue. But there was no sun. The light didn't come from a single point; it came from everything. The grass, the trees, the air itself hummed with a soft, natural radiance.

“It was beautiful, wasn't it?”

Toren spun around. The voice from the cave was there, but it wasn't a whisper anymore. Standing before him was a man—or a shadow of one—clothed in robes made of starlight. His face was a blurred smudge of shifting colors.

“Where am I?” Toren asked, his voice sounding clear and resonant. “Is this the past?”

“This is the truth,” the shadow said. “Before the 'Immortals' came, the Essence was free. It belonged to the world. It was a gift, not a currency. But the Gods... they were hungry. They didn't want to share the light. They wanted to own it.”

Toren watched as the sky suddenly fractured. Golden chains, miles long, descended from the heavens, wrapping around the trees and the mountains. The light began to bleed out of the world, sucked upward into the sky where massive, golden thrones were beginning to form.

“They stole it,” Toren whispered. “They bottled the sky.”

“And they built a world where you must beg them for a drop of what used to be yours,” the shadow said, stepping closer. “But they forgot one thing. They forgot the Void.”

“Me?”

“You are not a lack of magic, Toren. You are the correction. You are the hunger that was created when they took too much. You don't just break their spells. You reclaim the Essence they stole. You don't destroy... you devour.”

The image shifted. Toren saw himself—not as an accountant in a tunic, but as a towering figure of absolute darkness. Wherever he walked, the golden chains snapped. The thrones crumbled. But as he ate the light, the darkness inside him grew larger, more ravenous, until there was nothing left but a cold, silent vacuum.

“No,” Toren said, backing away. “I don't want that. I don't want to be a monster.”

“Is a man a monster for breathing? You are what you were made to be, Toren Valcrest. The Gods are the thief, and you... you are the debt collector.”

The shadow reached out and touched Toren’s shoulder. A searing pain erupted in his arm, and the vision shattered like a mirror hit by a hammer.

Toren collapsed onto the stone floor of the cavern, gasping for air, his hand clutching his shoulder.

“Toren! Hey, talk to me!” Maelis was at his side instantly, her hands hovering near him but afraid to touch. “What did you see?”

“They stole it,” Toren wheezed, his eyes wide and bloodshot. “The light... the Gods... they’re just cosmic shoplifters. They took everything.”

“He’s awake,” Orlan said, his voice sounding strangely satisfied. “And he’s seen the truth. The Void isn't a hole. It’s a stomach.”

“A stomach?” Lucan asked, walking over. “That’s a bit gross, even for a prophecy.”

“It means he doesn't just cancel out magic,” Keziah said, her voice trembling. “It means he’s eating it. Toren, the mark... look at your arm.”

Toren pulled back the sleeve of his tunic. The black lines were no longer just on his neck. They had surged downward, forming a dense, intricate web of obsidian veins that stretched across his collarbone and down his entire right shoulder. They were pulsing with a faint, dark rhythm, like a second heartbeat.

“It’s spreading,” Maelis whispered, her face pale. “Toren, how do you feel?”

Toren looked at his hand. It felt heavy. He felt a strange, hollow sensation in the pit of his stomach—a hunger that had nothing to do with food. He looked at the pale amber light of Orlan’s candle. For a split second, he didn't see a light. He saw a snack.

“I feel... empty,” Toren said, his voice sounding deeper, more hollow. “And I think I’m getting hungrier.”

“That’s the spirit!” Orlan chuckled, though it sounded more like a warning. “The First Gate is just ahead. But be careful, boy. The more you eat, the less 'Toren' there will be left to hold the fork.”

“That’s not exactly reassuring, Orlan,” Toren said, pushing himself to his feet. His legs felt stronger now, more stable, but there was a coldness in his chest that wouldn't go away.

“We need to move,” Darven said, looking back toward the tunnel they’d come from. “I can hear the humming. Yurek is close. He’s probably figured out a way to track the 'void' you’re leaving in the air.”

“Let him come,” Toren muttered, then blinked, surprised by his own words. “Wait, did I just say that? I didn't mean that. I definitely meant 'let’s run away very fast.'”

“The Void is talking, not the accountant,” Lucan said, checking his blade. “Try to keep the accountant in the driver’s seat for a bit longer, okay, kid? I like the guy who pays in installments better than the guy who eats reality.”

“I’ll try,” Toren said, but as they moved toward the massive stone doors of the First Gate, he couldn't stop looking at the faint glow of Maelis’s pendant.

It looked delicious.

He shook his head, trying to clear the thought, but the mark on his shoulder pulsed again, a cold reminder that the clock was ticking. He wasn't just a glitch anymore. He was a countdown.

“The Gate,” Maelis whispered, pointing ahead.

Before them stood two massive doors of white stone, etched with the golden seal of the High Archon. It was a lock made of pure, concentrated Essence.

“It’s sealed with Divine Light,” Keziah said. “Even Darven couldn't break that with a hundred men.”

Toren stepped forward, his eyes fixed on the golden seal. He didn't feel afraid anymore. He felt a strange, predatory anticipation.

“I don't need a hundred men,” Toren said, reaching out his hand toward the golden lock. “I just need a light snack.”

As his fingers brushed the seal, the cavern didn't shake. It went silent. The golden light didn't shatter—it was simply pulled, screaming, into Toren’s palm. The black veins on his shoulder flared with a dark, oily brilliance, and the heavy stone doors began to groan, swinging open into a darkness even deeper than the cave.

“Go,” Toren said, his voice echoing with a slight, metallic ring. “Before I decide I’m still hungry.”