The Prophet's Will

The Prophet raised the sacred dagger, hands outstretched in solemn grace. The cult stood waiting, breath held silent, darkness flickered, cloaks in place. Michael's next, his chest was heaving, teeth clenched tight, his knuckles white. Judith sobbed, her body shaking—she could not endure this sight. "Blood renews, blood redeems," the Prophet whispered, eyes alight. "Blood will silence, blood will cradle, lead us safely through the night. Through the vein, we find our anchor—through the cut, the past is sealed. By the willing, by the taken—so it shall remain concealed." The blade swung down, the final breath. Michael surged, defying death. His fingers snapped around the wrist. The Prophet gasped—his blow was missed. The dagger clattered, falling fast. The metal glinted, crimson-cast. Michael lunged—his teeth took hold. The hilt was clenched, his fury cold. The Prophet staggered, feet held tight. Michael jerked with all his might. The blade sank deep, the Prophet choked. A whimpered gasp—the pact now broke. The Prophet coughed, his breath was shaky, crimson pooling at his feet. His fingers twitched, his voice still steady, whispered words of dark defeat. "Fools… you think this brings salvation?" laughter rasped between his lips. "We were never seeking power—only binding what exists." "Now the seal is torn asunder, now the altar drinks my breath." "What we bled was not for worship—but to keep the beast in death." "Now the pact is left in ruin, now the thing will drink us dry." "My blood breaks its silence—now you all are doomed to die." The cultists turned, their eyes went wide. The altar drank, the Prophet died. His blood ran deep, it traced the stone. It slithered fast—it sought its own. A scream rang out, the doors stood firm. The walls wept red, a flowing curse. The ground pulsed thick with something deep. The stone was drinking, a meal now reaped. The exit lost, the halls alive. No place to run, no way to hide. The cultists clawed, they turned to flee. The temple sealed—eternally. Judith shrieked, her mind unraveling, blood was drowning out her breath. Michael cursed, his fists still clenching, staring at the Prophet’s death. The cult still screamed, their nails were breaking, scratching at the crimson stone. Then the altar—slowly shifting—made the final horror known.