Laughter echoed through the marbled hall—sharp, shrill, and twisted. It ricocheted off the pillars like the cry of a dying banshee.
"AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! You came to kill me?" the woman shrieked, her voice jagged and cruel. "Do you think this makes you a true ruler?!"
She stood at the far end of the throne room, her robes soaked in wine and blood, her eyes wild with madness. Her voice—like a witch's curse—rattled the stained glass windows and made the torches flicker.
The boy stepped forward.
Young. Barely fifteen.
But there was nothing innocent left in him.
Blood dripped from the sword in his hand, trailing behind him like a ribbon of death. His eyes were hollow, glowing faintly with something ancient—something darker than rage. He was consumed. Not by vengeance. Not by grief.
By power.
Ominous. Unnatural. Eternal.
He had killed them all.
His family. The servants. The council. The guards. Even the high mages who once ruled the empire with spells older than the stars.
None had stood against him.
None had survived.
"You insolent wretch!" the woman spat, her voice cracking. "A beggar! A child! Killing me will not change the world! You hold no power here! I am the only one in control! I have already written the prophecy that will fall upon you!"
She raised her hands, fingers trembling, blood smeared across her palms. Runes flared to life on her skin—symbols of fate, of binding, of doom. And the book she had carried for decades—bound in black leather, etched with silver veins—began to glow.
But the boy did not flinch.
He did not speak.
He simply raised his sword.
And the air split.
A sound like thunder cracked through the hall—a slash so fast it left the wind screaming in its wake.
Blood sprayed across the marble.
Her robes soaked instantly, the crimson blooming like a flower of death.
She staggered.
And laughed.
Endlessly.
Wickedly.
Even as her body collapsed, even as her life drained into the stone, she laughed.
"You think you've won," she whispered, voice gurgling through blood. "But the prophecy… the prophecy lives… she will come to you... The Saintess will hunt... you."
Her eyes locked onto his one last time.
And then she was gone.
Silence fell.
The boy stood alone in the hall of corpses, the sword still humming with power.
Outside, the sky wept.
Inside, the throne waited.
He stepped forward, boots echoing through the blood-slicked marble, and knelt beside the fallen sorceress. The book lay beside her, its glow fading.
He picked it up.
As he opened the cover, the pages began to shift—letters vanishing one by one, dissolving into ash. Words faded like dying embers, until only three remained:
Saintess. Silver Lake. Kill.
Then the book went blank.
He stared at the empty pages, heart pounding.
And somewhere, deep beneath the palace, the prophecy stirred.
He began to dream of her.
The Saintess.
At first, it was fleeting—silver eyes in the dark, a whisper without breath, a shadow that cast none. But the dreams grew louder. Sharper. They clawed into his sleep like talons, dragging him into visions of fire and prophecy.
He heard her voice in places she had never been.
He saw her face in the eyes of strangers.
And always, always, the whisper returned.
She will hunt you.
It was then that his obsession began.
He ordered scouts to scour the borders.
He seized cities, razed villages, and toppled minor kingdoms—each one a desperate attempt to find her. To silence the prophecy. To kill the Saintess before she could rise.
But she never appeared.
No mark.
No trail.
No name.
Only silence.
And the whisper.
She will hunt you.
His soldiers began to fear him—not for his power, but for his madness. He burned temples. He executed priests. He shattered sacred relics, convinced they were hiding her.
He stood atop the ruins of a once-great city, its towers crumbling, its people scattered, and screamed into the wind:
"Where is she?!"
But the wind did not answer.
Only the whisper.
She will hunt you.
By the time he ascended the throne, his obsession had consumed him.
He never stopped searching for her—the Saintess.
Not for justice.
Not for closure.
But to kill her.
The dreams had twisted into visions. The whispers had become voices. And the prophecy haunted him like a curse etched into his soul.
He became madness.
He became a ruthless tyrant king.
His rule was forged in blood and fear. Cities burned beneath his command. Villages vanished overnight. Entire kingdoms bowed not out of loyalty—but out of terror.
And the people… they feared him.
Every man, every woman, every child.
They feared the silence before his arrival.
They feared the sound of his name.
They feared the day the Saintess would come—because they knew what he would do to find her.