Once Betrayed Never Forgotten

Chapter 91: Into the Heart of Creation

The temple doors groan softly as they open, and I step over the threshold into a place that feels both alien and eerily familiar. Each detail of the interior strikes a chord in my memory–a deep, resonant thrum that I can’t quite place at first. As we enter, the grandeur of the temple envelops us. The walls pulse with a life of their own, made of red granite with intricate veins of ruby threading through the stone like arteries, glowing with an inner light that casts a warm, blood–red illumination.

The narrow passage we tread is lit by wood torches set in sconces, their flames flickering and casting long, dancing shadows that play upon the golden runes and strange symbols etched into the stonework. These markings, filled with gold, glimmer and gleam in the torchlight, setting the walls aglow with ancient incantations that seem to hum with power.

The air is thick, almost viscous, as if we’re walking through the chambers of a giant, stone heart, the center of all creation. A sense of déjà vu washes over me. This corridor, these sensations–I’ve seen them in a dream, months ago, just after my arrival at the Castle of Endless Night. The familiarity of the dream now coming to life around me sends a shiver down my spine.

Memories of the dream flicker through my mind, blending past with present.

In the dream, I descended into the castle’s depths, the journey an unsettling downward spiral, the path before me all twists and turns, the scent of salt and iron hanging in the air, mingling with the coppery tang of blood. I remember the way that dream has ended I was in a cavern that seemed to be alive, a chamber of flesh and gore. An immense heart pulsed at its core, each beat resonating through the air like a whisper, a million soft voices calling my name, an eerie symphony of gurgling voices that seem to beckon me closer. I think I woke up just as I entered the castle’s heart.

Was that dream prophetic? Impossible. Although… considering that I once thought vampires, werewolves, and travelling between interdimensional realms was impossible, who even knows anymore what’s real and what isn’t?

Bloodbane’s voice is hushed, reverent, filled with awe as we walk through the majestic temple. “It’s an honor to finally visit here,” he whispers. “It is the dream of everyone in my race, to have an audience with the Blood Scribe. She and her temple are legendary, the subject of countless myths and bedtime stories told to Blood Wraith children.”

As we proceed deeper into the heart of the temple, we pass a large hall where a group of priestesses in bright blue robes are engaged in what appears to be meditation or prayer. They are blood wraiths like Bloodbane, with pointed ears and glowing red eyes, their crimson hair a stark contrast against their serene blue attire. They are of various ages and expressions, but all share an otherworldly beauty and a presence that feels both commanding and

sacred.

Upon seeing Pyra, they break from their meditation, rushing towards her with tears of joy. Their embraces are filled with disbelief and relief as they murmur excitedly among themselves. One priestess, distinguished by the gold bands that clink softly on her arms as she moves, steps forward with a grace that commands respect

“Pyra,” she breathes, a smile breaking through her solemnity. I knew you were alive. I dreamed of you unleashing a torrent of flaming arrows upon a horde of enemies, and you brought two gifts with you to the temple. I see now that you do indeed come bearing gifts.”

Pyra responds with a warm smile, “Your prophetic dreams are always accurate, Hestia.”

Hestia leans forward and embraces Pyra, letting her dignified facade of senior priestess fall away as she hugs her tightly.

“In my dream, I saw also that twelve azure blue candles burned bright, before their Bames were extinguished by a cruel cold wind,” Hestia says, her voice now breaking with emotion. “Pyra – where are the twelve priestesses who accompanied you on your mission at the border?”

The other priestesses crowd closer, their voices a cascade of concern and curiosity. “Yes, what of the sisters who accompanied you on your mission?” one asks, her voice laced with worry.

A shadow crosses Pyra’s face, and her voice lowers, thick with grief. “They perished,” she says solemnly. “Slain by a horde of wild Fire Wraiths, the tribe of the eastern highlands. I only survived thanks to the intervention of these two Blood Wraiths.”

Their eyes turn to me, a mixture of gratitude and confusion in their glances. One priestess, bolder than the rest, reaches out and touches a strand of my golden blonde hair, her brow furrowed, “I’ll admit, I sense the blood aura about you, as crimson as any blood wraith’s could be, and your eyes are the deep red of our kin. But I’ve never seen a blood wraith with hair the color of gold, save for this single streak of red. What are you, really?”

“Some sort of mutt, I guess,” I reply with a smirk, trying to mask the unease their scrutiny

stirs within me.

Hestia smiles faintly, her gaze thoughtful. “Conse, let us go to the Blood Scribe,” she says, leading us forward. “Now that you are in her temple, she’ll be expecting you.”

We follow her thr

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tures to the far end of

There seated on a throne carved from black anyos, is the Blood Scribe, vici Pya is as formidable as it is mystical, her eyes like deep wells of incent wisdom… © 2024 Nôv/el/Dram/a.Org.

discerning.

“Welcome,” she intones, her voice resonating within De Chamber, ‘S delikat nik

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