Away from the Village of Ju, on a steep hill, stood a massive structure built entirely of black marble. At its center, dazzling blue crystals were arranged in a circular pattern forming the sacred symbol of the followers of the Accursed. The building was pristine yet carried an ancient, haunting aura, its presence heavy with power.
This was the Temple of Nox.
Though called a temple, the structure resembled a cathedral more than anything. A large crowd of black-robed figures gathered outside, waiting in uneasy silence. The massive doors bore a smaller version of the Accursed symbol, glowing faintly blue. Murmurs spread among the restless assembly. The gathering time had long passed, yet the doors remained sealed.
"We've waited long enough. Why won't they open?" boomed a tall, bald, burly man. His black robes were shorter and plainer than most, betraying his lower rank. His words carried the unease of many others, who shifted impatiently.
"Aiii, calm yourself, Boreas," said a short, elderly man perched on a nearby rock. His thinning silver hair glowed faintly under the moonlight, and his gentle air seemed oddly out of place in the tense crowd.
"The High One must have his reasons. I've lived long enough to see this before. We wait."
"But we've already waited for—"
"SILENCE."
The voice thundered from within the temple, shaking the air and freezing every heart. All who heard it collapsed to their knees, foreheads pressed to the ground.
"High One, Voice of our Lord, forgive our impudence!"
Boreas trembled, every instinct screaming at him to flee. Sweat streamed down his face. Against all sense, he tried to raise his head. His eyes widened—
"Forgive… me…"
He collapsed lifeless, the last thing he ever saw a pair of abyss-like eyes staring straight into his soul.
♤♤♤
Inside a chamber of the Temple, a tall man faced three hooded figures. His long black hair was tied with an ornament bearing the mark of the Accursed. His black robes were trimmed with gold silk, lending him a noble, commanding presence.
The hooded figures shivered as his gaze fell on them. His eyes—dark, abyssal, unfathomable—drew at their very souls. This trait was said to run through his bloodline, from his father before him and now to his child.
He was the High One—Voice of Lord Hakai, Master of the Nox Temple.
"Souni has not contacted me," he began, his deep voice brooking no argument. "I trust his ability, yet my dreams have been foul. You three will meet him and guard the forest. Leave immediately."
"As you command, High One."
They bowed and vanished. Alone, the High One exhaled heavily. "Let them be only dreams," he muttered, before turning to leave. The service had been postponed long enough.
"Why do you worship the Accursed?"
The High One froze. His right hand flashed into a seal as he turned. A hooded figure cloaked in purple stood in the chamber. The air itself grew heavy as the two faced each other.
'To break through Lord Hakai's barrier… not ordinary. Yet if he meant to kill me, I'd already be dead,' the High One thought grimly, lowering his hand.
The figure's face was lost in shadow, save for two glowing purple eyes—indifferent, unreadable.
"Who are you?" the High One demanded. He knew there would be no answer, but he needed time to prepare, to reach the Shadow Realm.
"Why do you worship the Accursed?" the figure asked again, voice slow, ethereal, echoing through the chamber as if it filled every corner of existence.
"If you belong to the Divine Council, you already know my answer," the High One said steadily. "What good is it to worship an authority that shines only on those favored by the light?"
The purple eyes widened faintly. The High One braced himself. But the figure only turned away.
"Then you know the consequences. Blame only yourself for your misfortune. This is your fate."
A vast, crushing aura erupted, shaking the land. A silver beam of light pierced the skies and struck the village below.
"THE DIVINE DECREE HAS BEEN ISSUED. FOLLOWERS OF THE ACCURSED, YOU SHALL PAY FOR YOUR CRIMES."
The voice split the heavens. Outside the temple, the robed faithful screamed as fire burned through their eyes. They clawed at their faces, gouging themselves until blood ran like rivers. Many tore their own eyes free, fingers breaking, shrieks rising until—silence.
The temple stood amid a field of red.
♤♤♤
Within the chamber, Fate stood over the High One, who now writhed in agony, blood streaming from his ruined sockets.
'Why are mortals always the ones to suffer most in their endless game?'
Fate sighed, turning to leave—only to feel a hand clutch his foot. The once-noble priest crawled weakly through his own blood.
"Please… please… please…"
For the first time, Fate's eyes softened. He pitied the broken mortal, caught in wars beyond his knowing.
"I cannot save you."
The priest released him, sinking to the ground. But with the last of his strength, he whispered:
"My son… save my son… I beg you…"
Fate froze. Confusion flickered in his eyes.
'His son? That boy died long ago. Unless…'
He searched the corpse, and his glowing eyes revealed a faint, impossibly thin purple thread stretching into the distance. His heart jolted.
"Impossible…"
The line pierced space itself, ending in a small house within the village. A fragile life signature pulsed there, stubbornly defiant against the curse.
Fate vanished and reappeared inside the humble home. A messy bed in one corner, a wooden table and chairs, a battered crate—and in the far corner, a boy curled up, arms torn and bleeding from deep scratches.
Fate knelt. The child's short black hair and simple dark robes marked him unmistakably as the High One's son. Blood seeped from his intact but burning eyes. Yet he did not cry out.
"How… are you alive?" Fate whispered. His gaze probed deeper, then dimmed in realization.
"I see… your fate was stolen."
The boy suddenly convulsed, screaming as blood poured from his eyes. His right hand twitched toward them, but his left seized it, holding himself back.
"I can't die… I can't die… I can't die…"
Fate's eyes flashed with confusion, awe, then resolve. He stood, leaving the boy writhing, and chanted in a language older than the world. Winds tore through the ruined village, as though reality itself shifted.
'This is all I can do.'
He turned one last look on the child before walking away, his steps slow and heavy. Rain began to fall.
At the village's edge, a silver flash split the sky. A young man descended, clad in white armor, vast wings unfurled. His golden hair framed sky-blue eyes, his beauty almost painful. With a gentle smile, he landed before Fate.
"Lord Fate, an honor." His voice was angelic, soothing.
Fate's eyes remained cold. "Zyren."
"You needn't worry about this assignment. The heretics have been purged," Zyren said, his divine tone edged with cruelty.
Fate merely nodded and walked on.
"Curious," Zyren added, eyes narrowing. "I sensed a faint life nearby. Yet now… nothing."
Fate did not answer. He faded into shadow, but before vanishing, his voice lingered:
"There was a girl near the forest path, protected by a charm. She's dead now. I'll await you at the Yron."
Suspicion clouded Zyren's face as he turned to the burning village. He never trusted Fate—none of the Council did. Too unpredictable. Too dangerous.
Spreading his aura three times, he found no life. With a final flash of silver, he departed.
The Temple of Nox crumbled into flame, fire sweeping through the corpses and buildings. Yet in one house, amid smoke and ruin, the flames bent away from a small figure lying unconscious.
Only his faint whisper remained in the inferno:
"I… can't… die…"