thief of fate-Chapter 57: Messages that cannot be postponed

Despite the pallor of dawn on the threshold of "Iphis," the colors of the royal palace gleamed. The marble stones that covered its white walls still retained the moisture of the night, and the statues adorning its gates were topped with droplets of dew, almost resembling tears running down the faces of forgotten gods.

Aldar’s body screamed with exhaustion. His journey from the temple to the capital hadn’t stopped for a moment no rest, not a single hour of sleep. The air scorched his lungs with every breath, and the cold had numbed his fingers, yet his heart blazed within him like an ember that hadn’t extinguished since he saw those words etched upon the stone.

"Your name, sir?" asked the guard, who hadn’t expected to see a man in ancient priestly garments panting at the palace gate.

Aldar raised his trembling hand.

"Aldar... High Priest of the Temple of Tofana."

His voice was wounded, as if every word was carried on his back.

The two guards exchanged glances briefly. Then one of them moved swiftly toward the inner door, while the other continued eyeing Aldar with a skeptical gaze. But less than a minute passed before the first returned, signaling for him to enter.

"His Majesty the King awaits you, priest. Please, proceed."

Aldar walked through the wide stone corridors, past walls adorned with murals of ancient battles and heavy red curtains brushing the floor. His steps were silent but tense. His heart pounded insistently in his chest.

"Am I ready to tell him?" he asked himself in silence. "Am I certain of what I saw? Was what we witnessed truly a message from Tofana..."

He reached the throne room.

King Yaram sat, as always, upon his throne. His eyes focused on Aldar with a gaze that sought answers before a single question was spoken.

"Aldar..." the king said in a calm, deep voice, devoid of emotion. "I haven’t seen you in a long time. What brings the High Priest of Tofana to travel through the night without summons?"

Aldar knelt on one knee and bowed, but he wasted no time on formalities.

"Your Majesty... Tofana has spoken. The sacred stone in the temple... it glowed, and words were written upon it like nothing we’ve ever seen."

Something subtle shifted in Yaram’s features. It wasn’t fear it was something closer to profound, serious interest.

"Rise and speak. Don’t let your words stumble from fear. What exactly happened?"

Aldar stood, looking like a man struggling to arrange his thoughts in a moment too narrow for clarity. He took a deep breath and said:

"As you know, the stone deep within the temple hasn’t shown any sign of reaction for centuries. Its presence was more symbolic than real... until yesterday."

His voice trembled not from fear, but from awe.

"After the evening prayer, it began to glow with a faint blue light. We thought it an illusion... but the glow intensified and turned into tongues of light drawing words upon its surface. As if someone were writing on a tablet."

"And what did it say?" the king asked in a lower voice, as if he feared the answer.

"Words in an old tongue... strange, yet comprehensible to us priests. The text translated to: ’The sons of the Abyss will rise, and humanity must unite if we wish to live.’"

Silence fell. Everything in the hall went still. Even the air seemed to pause to contemplate the meaning.

"And do you believe what you saw was a prophecy?" asked the king, his eyes gleaming with something akin to caution.

"More than a prophecy, Your Majesty... this is a warning. Something that hasn’t happened in ages, and its signs may already be upon us."

Yaram stepped closer to the priest and asked in a low voice, "Did you see anything else? Any change in the temple? In the surrounding energy?"

"Yes... one of the priests lost consciousness when he tried to touch the stone. And when he awoke... he spoke in a tongue none of us recognized. A language not of this world. Then he wept and said the corpses are rising from beneath the earth."

The king’s eyebrows rose slightly. Then he sat back on his throne, gazing up at the ceiling of the hall as if seeking answers above.

After a moment, the king said: "Can we trust that this is not a trick? Or a side effect of some new energy?"

"My lord... I have served in the temple and devoted my life to it. I have never seen the stone move, breathe, or speak. This time... it was as if something had awakened. Something far older than we are."

Yaram remained silent, then gave an order:

"You will be accompanied by a number of scholars and guards. I want the stone examined firsthand. We do not dispatch armies over visions or writing on a rock, but we do not ignore them either."

Aldar bowed respectfully, but he did not move.

"There is one more thing... something that may explain the mystery further."

"Speak."

"About a year ago, a new group appeared in the western mountains. They do not follow any known gods. They called themselves ’The Children of the Broken Dawn.’ We tried to reach them, but they vanished before we could. Some priests said they spoke of ’a voice that will rise from below.’ Now... after what happened, I believe there is a connection."

Yaram sighed and said, "Document everything in a report. I will have the council investigate this group. As for the stone... you will lead us to it at sunrise."

Aldar bowed again, but as he turned to leave, he whispered to himself:

I wish I were wrong... I wish what I saw hadn’t been real.

But it was real.

Finally, King Yaram sat alone, wind rustling the room’s curtains.

His hands touched an old-fashioned paper, sealed in black wax bearing the emblem of a phoenix coiled around a spear—the crest of the Kingdom of Ozria.

He did not speak.

He did not move.

Even his breath was held.

The messenger had arrived that morning, on a dying horse, his clothes torn and covered in the dust of travel and the soot of fire. All he said before collapsing unconscious was:

"Queen Elyria... requests aid."

"Illyria..." the king whispered the name, as if exhaling a century of dust from his chest.

It was a name from long ago, from a past stained with blood and fire. The Kingdom of Ozria, the last of the ancient alliance, which had fallen in silence.

Why now? 𝚏𝕣𝐞𝗲𝐰𝕖𝐛𝐧𝕠𝕧𝚎𝚕.𝐜𝚘𝗺

Slowly, he opened the letter. The paper was heavy. But the words written upon it were clear, tense, filled with a broken plea unbefitting a kingdom once thought eternal.

"To King Yaram, Lord of Ifis and Keeper of the Silver Crown,

We write to you not as sovereigns, but as those who remain of the flame we once shared in lighting the world.

We, Ozria, are falling.

An ancient power has awakened from its slumber, something no wall or warrior of ours could withstand. Our cities burn in silence, and people vanish without a trace. What we faced in the old war... returns now.

We ask for your aid, not out of weakness... but to prevent the same fate from befalling your world.

If we fall, you are next.

Signed below,

Queen Illyria."

Yaram placed the letter on the table before him, then slowly rose. His eyes wandered toward the horizon, where nothing could be seen but mist.

Illyria is alive...? How?

He had thought her dead.

But more importantly...

"The time I never wanted... has begun," he said in a low voice, as if not wanting the earth to hear him.

Something ancient had awakened. In the temple, in the mountains, and now in Ozria...

He turned toward the iron cabinet behind the throne and pulled from it a scroll bound in chains. It had been hidden for decades, never to be opened unless war was declared.

He opened it.

Inside was an ancient map, scattered with small circles drawn in blue ink... the meeting points of the old kingdoms when gathering for the great confrontation. One of those circles was on the borders of Ozria...

Yaram pressed his finger upon that last one, staring at it.

"It’s returning. The war we almost forgot... is returning, but this time we are not ready."

Yet he wasn’t afraid.

He was angry.

A servant entered seconds later, his eyes wide with the tension on the king’s face.

"Send immediately for the War Council. Summon the advisor, the general, and High Priest Aldar. Declare maximum readiness."

"Has... the war begun, my lord?" the servant asked hesitantly.

Yaram looked at him for a moment, then replied:

"It hasn’t begun... but it stands at the threshold, waiting for someone to open the door."

The servant rushed out, and Yaram returned to the table, grasping the letter again, squeezing it in his hand.

If Ozria falls, our turn will be next.

"Illyria..." he whispered again, but this time, there was something different in his voice.

Quietly, King Yaram rested the letter on the table once more. His breath was heavier than ever before, and his eyes hadn’t moved from a single point in the void.

Then... he looked at his hand.

The hand with which he held the letter was trembling, a subtle shake, barely visible. He thought it was from the cold, from worry, from shock... but no. It was something else.

Slowly, he removed the leather glove covering his right hand, pulling it back to reveal skin marked by a faint tattoo, nearly erased by time, but still there. A circle enclosing a shattering star, surrounded by slanted letters in a language unknown.

A tattoo unseen for ages.

The mark of the "Prince of Illusion."

His fingers curled slightly, as if ashamed of the memory.

"How I hated that name..." he murmured.

His voice echoed in the chamber like a familiar whisper.

It wasn’t just a title. It was a mask, a role in which he performed lies until others believed them, deceiving both friend and foe, building glory at the cost of losing himself. Prince of Illusion, the mind unreadable, the step always two ahead... but always alone.

"I only ever loved the truth..." he continued whispering, as if justifying to himself what he was about to do.

But this is a time of war.

He looked at the map, at the point where his finger had pressed earlier, then stared again at his tattoo.

"If this world returns to chaos... then it shall rise only through its most deceptive face."

He pulled the glove back onto his hand, tightening it firmly. And when he was done, his face was no longer what it had been moments before.

It was firm, hard, cold.

The Prince of Illusion had returned.

And there was nothing more dangerous than a man who hated playing with truth... yet made the world believe his lies.