The Shattered Prophecy

The prophecy that bound together kingdoms, cults, and centuries-old alliances has been broken—not because it was false, but because the one meant to fulfill it is dead. Without the “chosen one,” the symbols and signs written in stone are unraveling. Wars once held at bay are erupting. Ancient wards are fading. And the entities the prophecy was meant to banish are waking far too soon.

"When the seventh dawn breaks upon a bloodless sky, The Ash Crown shall rise from dust and dream. Beneath their hand, the sundering shall mend, The three rivers shall run as one, And the Gates of Hollow Night shall close for a thousand years."

Not the solemn call of mourning, not the iron peal of war—but something worse: silence between the tolls, a silence so deep it seemed to drink the morning air.

Word spread fast, carried on whispers and screams alike. The Crown-bearer is dead. Slain in their sleep, some said. Betrayed, others hissed. Poison, blade, curse—it mattered little. The prophecy, carved in stone and sung by oracles for centuries, had cracked like shattered glass.

In the market squares, commoners wept or cursed the gods. In the courts of kings, alliances frayed before the ink of treaties could dry. The river-wards dimmed at dusk, shadows writhing at their edges.

And in a dim tavern at the edge of three kingdoms, a handful of strangers found themselves staring at the same proclamation nailed to the wall:

“The Chosen is dead. The prophecy broken. Let all prepare for war.”

The candles guttered. Outside, the dawn rose bloodless, pale as ash.