Prophecies.
Once whispered messages from the gods, now etched in stone and scripture—tales of warning or hope, curses or salvation. They were never simple words. They were declarations. Decrees. Games.
The gods use them as threads to bind mortals to their schemes, and yet, for centuries, humanity has clung to them, trusting in their divine origin—believing them to be sacred, wise, pure.
But that was the first mistake.
A prophecy is not a blessing.
It is a gamble.
Whether it is a promise of joy or an omen of ruin, a prophecy is nothing more than a riddle from on high—given with an open palm and a concealed dagger. Oracles, seers, saints—those who hear the whispers of the gods are treated as holy, vessels of divinity gifted with power to heal, to guide, to protect.
But what happens when they stray from the gods' path?
Those who use divine gifts for evil are cast out, hunted, executed. Those who exploit them for selfish gain—material wealth, influence, indulgence—are not killed outright. No. The gods are crueler than that. Their powers are stripped away, and in their place, afflictions are sewn into the soul—sickness that festers for eternity.
It is a cycle.
The kind birth kindness in their line.
The wicked curse their lineage with ruin.
The greedy... they inherit only misery.
Prophecy does not save. It manipulates. It controls. It tempts and destroys. We are pieces on a divine chessboard, shifting at the whim of celestial hands. And the gods? They are not our guardians. They are spectators—laughing, wagering, watching us claw at fate.
A prophecy is not just the story of a savior. It is also the tale of a destroyer. For every light, there is a shadow. For every hope, a fear.
The people rejoice when a prophecy of a hero is spoken. They seek the child in the verse, nurture them, raise them in love and honor, and by doing so—create the hero. But when a villain is foretold, they do not pause. They hunt. They execute. They murder a child for crimes not yet committed—planting the very seeds of darkness they feared.
Have they ever stopped to ask—what if they left the child alone?
What if, instead of chains and blades, they had extended a hand of kindness?
Would the villain still have emerged?
We will never know. Because prophecy is a prison. And the gods… are the wardens.
Among them, two deities ruled over the art of foretelling: Goddess Lycra, the Weaver of Fates, and her sister, Goddess Lyi, the Gentle Flame.
Lycra's prophecies were feared. They disrupted thrones, upturned dynasties, cast shadows over nations. Lyi's, by contrast, were rare and kind, guiding the lost and healing the broken.
But even kindness can carry danger.
Because in the realm of men, no prophecy—no matter how gentle—is free from consequence.
Today, the temple echoed with tension.
Saintess Nia, clad in her ceremonial white, her golden sash glinting in the light of the sun-filtered glass, stood at the center of the royal court of Deliah. Her hands trembled slightly, not from fear, but from the weight of the message she carried. Her voice, soft yet unwavering, filled the chamber:
"Lone roads and whimpering streets…
Autumn falls and bright leaves greet…
A hair as brown as meddled earth, eyes blue like the sky's own birth…"
Each verse cut through the air like a blade.
"Dusted in gems of an explorer, with the blaze of a noble father…
With him—a child born of magic, golden trails lingering behind him…"
Murmurs spread. Nobles glanced at one another, some in awe, others in dread.
"The aura of a god in mortal form, hair like his father's, eyes like the King's jewel crown.
They sit upon the throne of Niliah, hailed by the people…
While the guillotine king is chained and exiled."
Gasps rang out.
"The kingdom cheers.
They have been freed.
But darkness trails after the banished king and his wives, threatening to swallow Deliah whole."
Saintess Nia's voice grew softer, as though retreating into the sadness of the words.
"Yet behold—
The man and child in jewel-toned garb, armed with nothing but their will,
Wield the Sword of Sirea, golden-red and burning bright—
They face the darkness and cleave it in two.
The sun shines once more."
And then… silence.
"The duo bows and vanishes.
No trace of their path.
Only this command remains:
Find the Duo.
Uproot the evil king.
Save the world of Deliah.
They will be known by the Sword of Sirea."
Nia lowered the scroll.
The hall was dead quiet.
The Queen's expression remained neutral, almost serene, but Nia saw the storm behind her gaze. Her hands were clenched beneath the folds of her robe, nails digging into the fabric.
The king, meanwhile, looked like a man struck dumb. His lips moved soundlessly, like a fish out of water, trying to make sense of what had just been declared.
He was not a cruel man—but he was a lazy one. A glutton for comfort and complacency. He never cared for politics, for war, for the cries of the people. He cared only for the luxury that filled his halls and the meals on his golden plate.
Now, a prophecy had come to strip him of it all.
"A father and son..." the Queen said at last, her voice a velvet dagger. "How poetic."
Saintess Nia met her eyes. "It is divine truth."
"A threat," one of the concubines whispered too loudly. "To the throne. To our children."
Another queen consort's lip trembled. "We must find them before they can rise."
Nia turned, gaze sweeping across the murmuring crowd of royal wives and nobles.
It was beginning.
A race.
Who would find the duo first?
If the Queen did—she would imprison them. Kill them. Burn the prophecy before it took root. She would protect her children, her station, her power. No matter the cost.
But if the Temple found them first…
They might yet survive. And the world of Deliah—might yet be saved.
To do that, however… the Temple would have to commit treason.
Saintess Nia bowed stiffly and stepped down from the dais, her heart hammering. She caught sight of the Queen's narrowed eyes following her every step. The message had been delivered. The prophecy was alive.
War had begun.