Chapter 7 – Whispers in the Dark

The rain fell in a relentless downpour, soaking the cobbled streets of the undercity.

Far from the burning palace, in a hidden quarter where crime and magic intertwined, a lone figure moved swiftly through the shadows. Cloaked in deep emerald, her hood drawn low, she didn’t dare slow her steps.

She had seen the omens.

And now, it was happening.

Reaching an iron door at the end of the alley, she raised a trembling hand and knocked twice—pause—three times.

A slot in the door slid open, revealing a pair of suspicious eyes.

“I have a message,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the rain. “For him.”

Silence stretched. Then—the door creaked open just enough for her to slip inside.

The room beyond was dimly lit by candles, the air thick with the scent of ink, parchment, and something darker—the unmistakable tang of blood magic.

Figures in dark robes gathered around a circular table, their faces obscured by hoods. At the center sat a man draped in crimson, his fingers tapping idly against the wooden surface.

“You’re late,” he murmured, not bothering to look up.

“I came as fast as I could,” the woman said, pushing back her hood. Her golden eyes gleamed with urgency. “The palace has fallen.”

The tapping stopped.

A slow, sharp breath filled the silence.

“Is the King dead?”

The woman hesitated. “I don’t know.”

The figures exchanged glances. The air shifted.

Then the man in crimson finally raised his gaze—and his eyes glowed a deep, unnatural red.

“Then it has begun.”

A slow smile curled his lips.

“And the prophecy moves forward.”

The room seemed to pulse with unspoken power, the flickering candlelight casting eerie shadows across the stone walls. The air was thick with tension, as if something unseen coiled just beneath the surface, waiting to strike.

The man in crimson—known only as The Oracle—studied the woman before him. His unnatural red eyes gleamed like molten embers, unreadable, dangerous.

“You saw it happen?” he asked, his voice slow, deliberate.

The woman hesitated. “Not everything.”

His fingers resumed their rhythmic tapping against the wooden table. A test of patience. A warning.

“Explain.”

The woman’s throat felt dry. “The palace was under attack. The Wraith King was there. I saw him standing over the King’s body, but before I could witness the final blow, I had to flee. The city is in chaos.”

The Oracle leaned back, considering her words. The others at the table remained silent, their hooded faces hidden, but their stillness spoke volumes.

They had been waiting for this.

A low chuckle rumbled from The Oracle’s throat. “So, the Wraith King moves at last…” He traced a finger along the edge of a silver dagger on the table. “And what of the princess?”

The woman exhaled slowly. “Alive. For now.”

That answer pleased him.

“Good.” He pushed away from the table, standing to his full height. He wasn’t a physically imposing man, but power radiated from him, suffocating and absolute. “Elara Blackthorne was always meant to survive this night. Fate demands it.”

One of the hooded figures finally spoke, their voice raspy, inhuman. “Then the prophecy remains intact?”

The Oracle smiled. “For now.”

A ripple of unease spread through the gathering. The prophecy was their guiding force. But even the Oracle, with all his knowledge, did not know which path it would take.

The woman, still standing before them, hesitated before speaking again. “The Wraith King… He was supposed to remain in the shadows. Why reveal himself now?”

A flicker of amusement crossed the Oracle’s features. “Because he no longer has a choice.”

The woman frowned. “You think he’s afraid?”

The Oracle’s smile vanished. “No.” His voice dropped to something sharper, colder. “I think he finally understands that he, too, is bound by fate.”

Silence followed.

Then, without another word, he turned to leave. The others followed, their robes whispering against the stone.

The woman lingered for a moment, her golden eyes reflecting the candlelight.

If fate was truly at work… then the worst was yet to come.

She pulled her hood back over her head and disappeared into the darkness.

The woman stepped into the narrow alley behind the hidden chamber, her heart pounding like a war drum. The Oracle’s words haunted her.

“The worst is yet to come.”

The rain had slowed to a drizzle, but the streets were eerily silent. Too silent. No drunkards stumbling from the taverns, no beggars lurking in the doorways—only the damp wind whispering through the city’s veins.

She adjusted her cloak, pulling the hood lower as she walked toward the hidden pathways leading back to the palace grounds. Every step felt heavier, as if she were walking into the jaws of fate itself.

Then—a shift in the shadows.

A figure moved ahead of her, blocking the path. Tall. Cloaked in darkness.

Her breath hitched.

No—not just a figure.

A man.

And when he stepped into the dim torchlight, her blood turned to ice.

“Running somewhere, Myra?”

His voice was silk laced with poison.

She knew that voice. She had feared it her whole life.

Veyron Valis.

The Wraith King’s second-in-command.

A man as feared as his master—and just as ruthless.

Her fingers twitched toward the dagger at her belt, but she stilled herself. Fighting him was suicide.

Veyron smirked, stepping closer. “I was wondering when you’d slither out of your little hiding hole.” His gaze flicked toward the chamber she’d just left. “The Oracle still playing his little games, I see.”

She said nothing.

He took another step forward, eyes gleaming like a predator who had just cornered his prey.

“Tell me, Myra…” His voice dropped to something dangerously soft. “Did he see it?”

Her breath caught.

Did The Oracle see who would die?

Did he see the true outcome of the prophecy?

She knew Veyron would kill her for that answer.

So she did the only thing she could.

She ran.

Darting into the next alley, she moved with speed only years of surviving in the underworld had granted her. The city was a maze, and she knew its secrets.

But Veyron was faster.

She barely made it five steps before he was on her.

A sharp yank—her hood ripped away.

Cold steel pressed against her throat.

“Bad choice,” he murmured against her ear.

She struggled, but he only tightened his grip, tilting her head back just enough for her to see the amusement in his ruthless silver eyes.

Veyron leaned in, his breath warm against her rain-cooled skin. “Now… let’s try again.”

The dagger pressed harder.

“Did he see the truth?”

Myra swallowed hard, her pulse thundering. She could feel his heartbeat against her back—steady, controlled. A predator completely in his element.

The answer she gave would determine if she lived or died.

So she licked her lips, forced a slow, taunting smile, and whispered—

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”