Chapter 2 Whispers Of Prophecy

The pit still smelled of blood.

The echoes of Gomen's victory hadn't yet faded when the court moved back into the great hall. The stone floors bore faint trails of crimson where the trial had ended, and servants rushed with cloth and sand to scrub it away. But no matter how much they wiped, the scent clung stubbornly, like a ghost that refused to leave.

The nobles gathered in clusters, speaking in hushed voices. Their jeweled robes brushed together, their faces half-lit by torches. Some glanced at Gomen with admiration, others with quiet fear. A few couldn't look at him at all.

Gomen walked among them, his body still aching from the fight, but his face gave nothing away. His scar, freshly drawn by the beast's claw, burned down his cheek like fire etched into flesh. Every step he took was measured, his boots striking the floor with sharp finality.

Above the murmur of voices, a heavy silence soon settled. Because she had entered.

The High Oracle.

She was frail, wrapped in layers of pale cloth that shimmered faintly as if the fabric itself breathed. Her face was shadowed by the hood she wore, but her eyes glowed with a pale, unnatural light. A staff of carved bone struck the floor with each step, the sound echoing louder than any noble's whisper.

The crowd parted instantly.

She did not look at anyone as she passed, not even the King. She walked as if pulled by some force greater than herself, her lips already moving in a faint murmur. The words were unintelligible at first, like the restless mutter of someone lost in a dream.

The King rose from his throne, his face carved from stone. "Speak," his voice commanded. "Speak the will of the gods."

The Oracle stopped at the center of the hall. Her staff trembled as she pressed it against the stone. Smoke curled from the braziers in the corners, thickening unnaturally, as though answering her breath. The murmurs grew louder until, with a sudden cry, her voice sharpened and filled the hall.

"A star falls..."

The words hung in the air like a blade.

The nobles froze.

The Oracle's hands shook violently. "A star falls from the sky... drenched in fire and blood. And with it, a curse-child rises."

Gasps rippled through the hall. A woman covered her mouth. Someone whispered too loudly, "The curse-child..."

The Oracle's head jerked upward, her voice breaking with fury. "He will unseat the crown. He will split the bloodline. He will tear down what was bound by oath and fire."

The King's knuckles whitened where they gripped the throne's arms. Still, he said nothing.

The Oracle's eyes turned, unfocused, wandering like she saw not the hall but some place far beyond. "Beware the one marked by shadow. The one who carries the star's fall in his blood. Beware... beware..."

Her voice cracked.

And then she screamed.

It wasn't a human scream. It was sharp, raw, tearing through the air until the torches flickered and the braziers nearly died. She fell to her knees, clutching at her chest, muttering broken fragments that made no sense, words like ashes, betrayal, chains.

The hall had descended into chaos. Nobles whispered frantically. Some demanded the Oracle be silenced. Others clung to every word like a curse already written.

Gomen stood still. His face was impassive, but inside, a flicker of unease crawled across his chest. A falling star. A curse-child. Unseat the crown. He could feel the eyes on him now, weighing, judging, wondering.

A man behind him whispered too loudly, "Is it him?"

Gomen turned his head sharply. His gaze was like steel, and the man looked away immediately, sweat pooling at his temple.

The Oracle's staff cracked against the stone. The sound silenced the hall in an instant.

Her voice came again, lower now, ragged but clear. "It cannot be stopped. It has already begun. When the star burns the sky, the crown shall bleed."

Then, her eyes rolled back, and she collapsed onto the floor.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

The King finally spoke, his voice a blade cutting through the tension. "Remove her."

Priests rushed forward, lifting the frail body of the Oracle, who now trembled violently in their arms. Her lips still moved, forming words, but they were too faint to hear. She was carried out of the hall, the braziers flickering weakly in her wake.

The King sat heavily back on the throne. His jaw was clenched, his eyes distant. The weight of prophecy hung over him like a chain.

The nobles began to murmur again, louder this time, their fear barely hidden. "A curse-child..." "Unseat the crown..." "The bloodline..." Their words buzzed through the hall like restless insects.

And still, Gomen stood in the middle of it all, the scar on his cheek burning, his silence heavier than the whispers.

He looked toward the shadows at the far end of the hall.

And there,like before,he saw the cloaked figure.

Still. Watching.

Only this time, the figure's hood shifted slightly, and beneath it, he thought he caught the gleam of eyes, sharp, bright, almost inhuman.

Then the figure turned and slipped into the darkness.

No one else seemed to notice.

But when Gomen looked down, he saw something lying where the figure had stood.

A feather.

Black as midnight.

He bent slightly, his hand brushing against it. It was colder than ice, colder than death itself.

And as he held it, a voice that was not his own whispered through his head, low and venomous:

"The crown will bleed."