Chapter 3: Prophecy in Flesh
The book was breathing.
Darien didn't step back, though the air around him had grown heavier, as if the words trapped inside the pages were straining to be free. The chains rusted slowly, humming with a faint sound like distant weeping.
The priest didn't move—he simply watched. His eyes drowned in the ash of memories.
"Do you hear it?" he said quietly.
Darien whispered, "I hear... a pulse."
"That is not your heart."
The priest pointed to the mark on Darien's forehead.
"The blood you carry does not belong to this world. It is a mixture of promise and disaster."
Darien stepped closer to the book. His fingers hovered above the cover. The skin was warm, like a sleeping body.
The vision exploded.
A burning world. Temples collapsing. Screams from the sky. Kings slaughtering their own sons out of fear for a prophecy. And in the heart of the ruin… stood a boy, naked, bearing the same mark.
Their eyes were on him. Some knelt. Some attacked.
But none knew if he was a prophet or a curse.
Darien screamed and pulled his hand away. The vision vanished. The book went still.
The priest stepped forward slowly, his voice a whisper barely heard:
"There are those who will try to kill you... and those who will try to worship you. Neither truly knows who you are."
Darien looked up, and for the first time, his voice was sharp:
"Then who am I?"
The priest smiled with sorrow.
"You are the beginning of something… that has no name yet."