Chapter 504: Prophecies Of The End
In a cavern or what was once a natural cavern, now transformed into a subterranean sanctum, pillars of black stone held up the widened ceiling, each etched with jagged runes that pulsed faintly red. Braziers and torches lined the perimeter, casting flickering shadows on the damp walls and illuminating the many crimson-cloaked figures who stood in eerie silence.
The chamber was cold, yet filled with a breathless heat, not of temperature, but of purpose, of fanatical expectation. Hundreds had gathered, their faces obscured beneath the deep folds of their hoods, their breaths silent as they waited.
At the far end, elevated upon a carved stone dais, stood a tall figure clad in ceremonial robes, the wide sleeves of his garment hanging like shrouds down to his knees. His hood shadowed much of his face, but the firelight from the braziers on either side of the platform caught the lower half of his visage, a sharp chin, the curl of a shrewd smile, and lips that parted to speak with unsettling calm.
"It is done," he announced, his voice resonating across the chamber like the toll of a bell before a funeral. "As prophesied, the Warfather has struck. The lords of the North lie slain, their banners torn and their great talents buried in ash. The land is broken... vulnerable. The hour is nigh."
He raised his arms.
"The time has come. All hail the Abyss King!"
As though struck by thunder, the crimson-cloaked gathering dropped to their knees in one synchronized movement. A roar of voices rose up, not chaotic but unified, reverent, terrifying in their conviction. Their cries shook the cavern’s air, a chorus of unwavering devotion echoing off the stone.
"All hail he who shall purge the world of its weakness! All hail he who shall reforge us in the flame of godhood! All hail the Abyss King!"
Their cries did not waver. Their belief did not falter. In that hollow underground womb, a dark birth was being prepared and the world above had no idea what was coming.
....
From above, through the heavens cloaked in mist and cloud, a pair of eyes pierced downward, watching the world below with a gaze neither mortal nor serene. Beneath her, the land teemed with war, armies stretched to the horizon, valiant men in armour spreading across the fields like ants swarming a battlefield of gods.
Some bore brass-coloured armour that shimmered beneath the pale sun, their white tabards flapping with every march, their winged pauldrons reminiscent of archangels descended to fight. Others stood proud in silver-plated might, royal blue cloaks trailing behind them like waves, their banners raised high with emblems.