The Darkness Steals The Light - The Elim Chronicles

The Darkness Steals The Light

A shower of ethereal starlight hangs in the firmament, where spiraling, woven constellations crown the celestial nebulas. The cosmos blooms, swelling with stellar tears that freckle the night sky. A starry monsoon plummets through the shattered void. Divine tears rain down on the mortal world, falling through a dome of shattered glass. The razor-sharp shards sway in the wind, lilting eerie melodies. Raindrops cascade down the quivering glass blades before plummeting onto a malevolent altar.

The Third Great Age. Great Cycle 3003.

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Mystical moonlight seeps through a dome of shattered glass, casting ghostly sheens on a wicked altar. The stench of death hangs heavy in the air, reeking of rusted iron, blood, and damp stone.

Queen Eiwelf of Galt lies bound to a colossal butcher's block, her mouth stitched tight with coarse twine. Her pallid skin shines, in stark contrast to the blood-soaked wood reserved for cleaving meat and hacking bones. Tears stream down Queen Eiwelf's tormented face onto her torn lips, collecting in pools of shredded flesh. She strains against her taut binds with darting eyes, choking on tears and rain.

A theater of candlelit balconies encircles the altar. Faint murmurs drift along with elusive whispers that linger on the fringes of her perception. Their muffled mutters intertwine with the distant drips of water. Their hollow gazes focused, unwavering, upon her moonlit captivity from the dungeon's gloomy eaves. Hooded and cloaked, their grotesque masks, carved from waxen bone, have twisted features that are neither human-like nor animal-like. The masked congregation stands enshrouded in veiled darkness with flickering candlelight that casts dancing shadows on their masked faces.

"My lords. Servants," a clipped voice echoes, sinister and laconic. "You know why we are here, and it has been no easy undertaking." The tone cuts through the air like a brutal lash. "Our covenant is unassailable, and our actions are absolute." The Black Mage asserts his dominance over his followers.

"As it was, so it will be." Hushed breaths weave through the congregation, harmonizing with the dark mage's commands.

Queen Eiwelf looks up to the heavens, seeking divine intervention, but her tear-blurred vision reveals only the warped skull of a stag looming down upon her. Etched at the mask's center, a single, sorcerous eye pulsates with insidious craft.

"Loyal servants, the time of rejoicing is close. Here lies our offering, bearing the one of old." The dark mage's fingers glide across Queen Eiwelf's skin with a sinister tenderness. She shudders with revulsion and hisses in defiance through bound lips, unyielding to his authority.

A chorus of murmurs swells, ascending into an overwhelming cacophony. The followers' movement is one, an orchestrated ballet of reverence as they sway in harmony. "As it was, so it will be."

"Disciples." The masked priest raises his right arm, pointing towards the heights of the dungeon. His sharp index finger traces over each member of his flock, his voice emanating from a chasm of fractured bone. "You have pledged your sacred oaths, from which there is no absolution. You have forged the Lord's resurrection over countless generations. The price of Ana's resurgence is blood, war, and ruin." He tightens his grip on the disciples; his gestures radiate an air of dominance, each movement a command etched in shadow.

"As it was, so it will be." An elated chorus resounds, thunderous and defiant. Their oaths weave through the air, binding each follower to their cause.

The black mage's palm comes to rest upon the queen's expectant womb. "The seed you carry will restore the ancient world." A profound stillness fills the crypt. "Servants of Ana, it is time. She is ready to bloom." The sorcerer's triumphant voice echoes throughout the dungeon.