Page 50 of Horns of Wicked Ebony (Deathcaller Duet #2)
***
The High Priestess glided through the halls of Varbad Temple, her mind flitting over a dozen tasks still unfinished. She’d risen later than normal, entirely by accident, and at midday, she returned to her luxurious rooms at the pinnacle to retrieve a notebook she’d left behind in her rush.
“High Priestess,” her acolytes greeted her, dipping into deep curtsies as she passed them.
She offered each a bow of her head in return.
After all, she wanted the faithful to feel welcome and at home among these walls.
For decades now, she’d been training them, honing their beliefs like her cousin honed his soldiers and their weapons.
Now, it was finally time to start sending them far and wide into the Demon Realm to spread her word.
Which came with far too many challenges and far more work than she ever expected.
She ascended another staircase, internally berating herself for insisting she had the top floor all to herself. She’d wanted the views and the sanctuary, and yet as her thighs burned, pressing into step after step, she debated if it was all worth it.
Breathless, she paused on a landing, bracing herself against the wall. Beneath her lived the high-level priestesses—those who had been extremely eager to join upon the announcement of the construction of Varbad.
One such female descended the thick stairs, smiling warmly through her veil until she took in the pallor of her leader. “High Priestess?” she said, rushing forward.
With a leap, she managed to catch the High Priestess before she collapsed to the ground. The High Priestess’s burgundy eyes rolled back in her head, revealing only the whites. A convulsion wracked her frame, and foam appeared at the corners of her mouth.
“Help!” the female shouted, scanning the area for anyone else. From below, a second raced up the stairs, skidding to a stop when she beheld the scene.
“We need to carry her to her room,” the second said, shaking herself out of her shock and reaching for the High Priestess’s feet.
She was the very first acolyte and had secured her place at the High Priestess’s side nearly a century ago.
Yet this was the first time she’d witnessed her mentor in this state, though there was no denying what it was—a vision.
A third appeared a moment later, gasping at the sight of the High Priestess on the floor.
Together, they managed to ascend the final flights to the High Priestess’s room, settling her on a settee.
An occasional tremor wracked her frame as they all watched on, scarcely breathing.
The third quickly sliced into her palm, making an offering to the Fates and praying for the safe return of their High Priestess.
Yet what they witnessed was nothing compared to what their leader glimpsed of the future.
The air was thick with moisture, and the cloying scent of tropical plants assaulted her nostrils. Tentatively, she stepped through the thick underbrush. Green dripped ruby, and she nearly stumbled over something hidden among it.
Glancing down, she nearly retched. Glassy, lifeless blue eyes stared at the canopy overhead. A pool of blood surrounded his head, the cut in his throat so deep that it was hanging by the barest of sinew to his body.
Slowly, her gaze drifted forward, to an entire trail through the thick forest lined with similar corpses. Ahead, the faint sounds of fighting reached her ears. Picking her way carefully, she closed the distance. After rounding a particularly thick trunk, the city of Sivy came into focus.
Her breath caught in her chest as she beheld the smoke drifting from thatched roofs, catching their neighbors’ homes ablaze. All the way to the largest tree at the very center, two armies engaged. There, gleaming white marble entrenched its expanse, twice as large as Gyor Palace in the Demon Realm.
Her every breath felt stolen, her every heartbeat a drum in the ritual of war. This wasn’t a dream—it was a reckoning.
She raced forward, hugging each tree on the outskirts of the Angel capital, peering down alleys that weren’t thick with bodies.
She did her best to remain unspotted, and yet, she nearly ran straight into a fleeing Angel.
He didn’t even seem to notice her as he raced into the thick ferns a mere breath away.
Her brow furrowed, and she pressed forward. Again, no one glanced her way as she walked into the midst of battle. Bodies fell, then rose, and a sudden realization hit her: the Halálhívó was here.
A group of lifeless forms stumbled forward, jaws slack, eyes vacant. They fell upon Angels in white, ripping at flesh and not flinching when the same was done to them. Blood sprayed in her direction, and yet, when she looked down, none of it stained her bare arms.
Shaking her head, she pressed onward, searching for any sign of her cousin blessed with the power of Calling. A roar shattered the air off to her left, and she raced in that direction, hoping, praying, that it wasn’t one of pain from him.
Skidding onto the main thoroughfare, she finally found him.
Onyx spiraled in a raging inferno, engulfing anyone within a dozen feet of him in the furious frenzy.
His bronze blade flashed in the flits of light breaking through the canopies of the massive trees.
With a sharp whistle, it cut through the air and into the neck of an Angel kneeling before him, trapped in the inky tendrils of his power.
The head hit the ground with a sickening thud. More Angels thrashed against their binds, and she realized then just how much power her cousin was wielding at once. Tentatively, she stepped forward again, trying to gain a better view.
That was when she saw the Zahal kneeling, his ice blue eyes glaring up with an eternity of hatred and his teeth clenched in righteous anger. The Halálhívó bent, snarling in his face. Still, he did not falter. Then, the blade arced through the air again, cleaving his head from his shoulders too.
The shadows ceased swirling as the Halálhívó collected the severed heads. Fisting their white hair, he raised them high and let out another roar. Even his cousin quaked in its wrath.
Then, he stomped down the central thoroughfare, his gaze pinned directly on the royal palace. She rushed to match his furious strides, dodging wave after wave of white-haired Angels prostrating themselves and pleading for mercy.
He halted at the base of the stairs, still hoisting the two heads high. With the way he gripped their hair, she saw that one had an H carved into his forehead. Instantly, she recalled him as the male who had ignited the spark that set this whole war ablaze.
“Korona Ioath, your people are defeated. You have no army left to defend you. Emerge from your marble walls and surrender if you wish to live.”
With a gasp, the High Priestess shot upright, startling her faithful watching over her.
They dropped their clasped hands and raced to her side, dozens of questions tumbling from their lips.
Blinking forcefully, the High Priestess attempted to ground herself in the present as the remnants of her vision bled away.
She didn’t know when this battle would come. Only that it would—because the Fates only revealed truths that had not yet been born to her.
But she couldn’t help the smile that rose to her lips.
“What is it, High Priestess?” the second pressed. She flattened the back of her hand to her leader’s forehead, checking for a temperature.
The High Priestess swatted her hand away. Slowly, she eased herself upright, the world spinning. Exhaustion weighed heavily on her bones, and yet she’d never felt so giddy, so exuberant, not in the years since she and her cousins had taken power.
“Find the Kral and inform him that I must speak to him at once. Here, in the temple,” she instructed the third. The prophecies took an enormous toll on her, and she needed to record what she had seen immediately, so she could rest properly after. “You, get me parchment and ink.”
The first hurried away, returning with both a moment later. “What did you see?” Her tone brimmed with breathless wonder. After all, the visions of the High Priestess were legendary. And to bear witness to one? Divine. Holy. Sacred .
The High Priestess accepted the materials, hands trembling with excitement.
“I saw the Halálhívó win the war.” She paused, remnants of the revelation slipping away like smoke between her fingers.
Yet a foreboding dread curled in her gut, bitter and biting, even if she could not place its origin. “But the cost…”