Prophecies of the Fallen

Prologue

In the heart of the ancient forest, beneath the twisted branches of trees older than memory, the air was thick with magic. A solitary figure moved silently through the shadows, her cloak trailing behind her like a wisp of smoke. Her face was hidden beneath a deep hood, but her eyes, sharp as the crescent moon hanging overhead, missed nothing. Every rustle of leaves, every subtle movement of the creatures of the night—she saw it all, for she had walked this path many times before.

The forest whispered to her in a language only those gifted in the old magic could understand. And tonight, its voice was anxious.

She quickened her pace. Time was running out.

The figure’s destination was a small clearing deep within the woods, where the moonlight broke through the canopy and bathed the ground in an ethereal glow. In the center of the clearing stood an ancient stone altar, its surface worn smooth by centuries of rain, wind, and magic. Carved into its surface were runes long forgotten by the people of the kingdom—runes of power, of prophecy.

She approached the altar, her hand trembling as she traced the symbols. Her breath caught in her throat as the power within the stone surged through her fingertips. The prophecy was ancient, older than the Ethlete dynasty itself. A prophecy that had been buried and forgotten, until now.

The woman knelt before the altar, her voice barely a whisper as she began the incantation. Her words, though soft, echoed in the stillness of the night, carrying with them the weight of destiny.

“When the blood of the ancient line shall wane,
And the throne sits on a fragile chain,
Darkness will rise and shadows will fall,
Until the chosen answers the call.”

The runes on the stone began to glow, faint at first, then brighter, casting an eerie light on the surrounding trees. The ground trembled beneath her as the magic of the prophecy stirred from its slumber. She could feel it, a force so powerful it made her pulse quicken. It had been waiting for this moment, waiting for the heir to come of age, waiting for the bloodline to be tested.

A chill ran through her as she finished the incantation, and for a moment, the forest fell silent, as if holding its breath.

Then, in the distance, a single note rang out—low and mournful, the sound of a distant bell tolling in the night. It was a warning, carried on the wind, a reminder that the time had come. The time when the prophecy would no longer be a forgotten relic of the past, but a living, breathing force that would shape the fate of the kingdom.

The woman rose to her feet, her eyes glowing with the light of the runes. She had done what was needed. The message had been sent. The prophecy was in motion now, and there was no turning back.

From the shadows of the trees, another figure emerged, cloaked in darkness. His face was hidden, but the tension in his stance betrayed his unease.

“Is it done?” he asked, his voice low and rough, barely audible above the rustle of the wind.

The woman nodded, her gaze never leaving the glowing altar. “It is done. The heir must now find the strength to face what is coming.”

“And if she cannot?” the man asked, his tone hardening.

The woman’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Then all will be lost. The kingdom, the bloodline, everything. The darkness will consume us all.”

The man hesitated, then stepped closer to the woman. “And the others? The ones who seek to use the prophecy for their own gain? They are moving faster than we anticipated. If they reach her first—”

“They won’t,” the woman interrupted, her voice cold and final. “I will see to that.”

For a moment, they stood in silence, the weight of their task settling heavily on their shoulders. The woman pulled her cloak tighter around her, turning away from the man. “You know what must be done,” she said quietly, her voice softer now. “Go. There is no more time to waste.”

Without another word, the man disappeared back into the shadows, leaving the woman alone in the clearing. She took one last look at the altar, the runes still pulsing with the ancient magic, and then turned her back on the light.

The prophecy had been set in motion, and the storm that it foretold was already gathering on the horizon. Soon, the forces that had slept for centuries would awaken, and the kingdom would be thrown into chaos. There would be bloodshed. There would be betrayal.

And in the end, the fate of the kingdom would rest in the hands of one who was unprepared for the darkness that awaited her.

As the woman disappeared into the night, the forest remained silent, save for the faint echo of her whispered warning, carried on the wind:

“When the blood of the ancient line shall wane... Darkness will rise, and shadows will fall.”

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