---
The Call Beneath the Flesh
The corridors beneath the Crimson Veil Cathedral were not made of stone — they pulsed like veins.
Priest Lureon walked with bare feet, as required. The further below he descended, the more the warmth of the upper sanctums faded, replaced by a living chill, as if the walls remembered screams.
Above, he had only glimpsed slivers of doctrine.
Here, he would see truth.
At the gate carved into a face of bone and iron, two guards stepped aside. Their mouths were sewn shut, their eyes dripping sacred ink.
The gate groaned open.
Inside: the Inner Cloister.
---
The Inner Cloister
Thirteen cardinals sat on thrones grown from calcified worship — bones of martyrs, sinners, prophets. Their faces were veiled, their hands stained with ancient rites.
The room throbbed with divine tension. The air smelled of incense, copper, and time.
At the center was a raised basin of blood. Not metaphor. Actual blood, still warm. Always warm.
Cardinal Y'Shara spoke, her voice older than her body.
> "You were chosen by the Veil. It bled for you."
Lureon knelt, heart pounding.
> "I… I do not understand. I am no prophet."
> "No prophet," said Cardinal Malek, "but perhaps a vessel."
They circled him now. Chanting. Whispering.
The basin of blood rippled.
And from its surface, an image formed:
> A boy with crimson eyes and black hair, standing amidst falling snow. His breath fogged the air, but the blood on his hands did not freeze.
> A dying man at his feet — then the blood returned into his chest.
> And behind the boy, something older than kings, watching.
The vision faded.
> "The Red King stirs," Y'Shara said.
"Not reborn… but re-threaded into a new weave."
> "You, Lureon, are now the Herald."
Lureon trembled.
> "What must I do?"
A blade was given to him.
> "Cut your tongue," said Malek.
"And we will give you His words."
---
The Rite of the Veil-Tongue
They carved the Veil's mark into his chest with obsidian needles.
They poured blood from the basin into his mouth until he choked.
And when he cried out from the searing pain in his skull — his tongue blackening and splitting into two serpent-like strands — he heard it.
A voice.
Not theirs.
Not his own.
But something red, ancient, weeping, and laughing all at once.
> "Kalen," it whispered.
> "Blood-born, fate-broken."
> "He will choose… and I will watch."
---
Above, the Bells Toll
When Lureon rose from the ritual slab, eyes bloodshot and breath steaming, he was no longer a mere priest.
He was the Crimson Herald.
And the first thing he did was kneel again.
Not to the cardinals.
But to the image of the boy in his vision.
> "My King," he whispered, bleeding from the mouth.
"Your world awaits."
---
Below the Veil – A New Name
He was no longer Priest Lureon.
He had forgotten the sound of that name as the final rite took him.
His tongue now moved with the will of the Veil — a twin-serpent tongue, dripping scarlet when he spoke.
> "Your name," intoned Cardinal Y'Shara, "is Red Night."
The thirteen cardinals knelt.
Not out of worship.
But out of fear.
> "You are our Herald," whispered Malek.
"But more: you are the one who walks before Him."
The Veil pulsed again — red, wet, alive.
And then came the mission.
---
The Mission of Red Night
A scroll was burned before him — its smoke formed a map in the air. A cold continent. Mountains of silver.
A city bathed in frost.
Everfrost.
> "He is there," said Y'Shara.
"And yet, he is not fully awakened. His threads are still loose."
> "You must find the boy."
> "You must test him."
> "And if he is truly He…"
She paused.
> "…You must watch the world begin again."
The Veil bled again. Red Night smiled, his face no longer human.
And he departed, leaving silence behind.
---
POV Shift: The Divine Order
High above the sunlit spires of Solon-Keir, a floating city carved from golden crystal and blinding marble, the Divine Order of the Bound Flame gathered.
They wore no armor. Their purity was their shield.
But their eyes glowed with divine markings — halos not of gold, but of raw light and judgment.
The Council of Radiance stood around a basin filled with sunfire, where visions burned like scripture.
High Templar Isareth, her skin carved with sigils, watched in silence as a vision unfolded:
> A boy in snow. Blood-red eyes.
A man collapsing, rising again as red veins sealed his flesh.
And something ancient watching behind them — neither god nor demon.
> "The Red King," she whispered.
Another Templar crossed his arms.
> "The prophecy is moving. The threads are shaking free."
The Archivist Saint, cloaked in mirrors, stepped forward:
> "We must act before the Veil does."
Isareth narrowed her eyes.
> "The child is in Everfrost."
> "Then we send the light."
---
The Silent Blade
A tall figure stepped into the chamber. He wore no mark of station, no title, no voice.
Only a brand on his chest, glowing with divine power.
The Silent Blade — a Paladin whose tongue was removed to carry truth without question.
Isareth turned to him.
> "Find the boy."
> "Watch him."
> "And if he begins to turn into the Red King…"
Her voice was colder than the snow of the north.
> "…End him."