Parallel Memory

Chapter 595: The Fire that spoke

The blue-white flame writhed in the circle of bones, whispering with voices not its own. It hissed and cracked, sending flickers of shadow crawling up the walls of the throne room like writhing serpents. Every devil present felt its unnatural pull, a gravity that tugged at their marrow, yet none dared look away.

The fortune teller’s veil fluttered though no wind stirred. She raised her staff above the flame, and the bones strung upon it rattled together in a soft cadence, as if marking the rhythm of a chant older than memory. Her voice seeped into the hall, brittle and low, carrying weight far heavier than its rasp should.

"History is a circle... a wheel that turns without end. It turns upon the hub of blood, and its spokes are crowned with crowns of ash."

The fire swelled, twisting until images rippled across its surface—ghostly shadows of a long-dead age. Armies clashing beneath a red sky, fortresses torn asunder, rivers choked with corpses. At the center of it stood a figure towering and crowned, a devil king draped in flame and iron, his wings spanning the horizon.

"Centuries past," the seer intoned, "he rose—the tyrant devil king who sought not only dominion over the underworld, but mastery over all Edolas. His hunger was boundless, his power unchallenged. But from beyond the veil of mortality came two who bore light where none dared to kindle flame."

The fire coiled again, reshaping into the silhouettes of two humans. A man whose presence carried the weight of mountains, his sword blazing like the sun; and beside him, a woman draped in silver light, her eyes bright with a resolve that defied despair.

"These two, bound by spirit and by blood, stood against the tyrant. They did not falter. They did not bow. And so the king was broken, his crown shattered, his name cursed and cast into the pit where even memory feared to tread."

The image of the fallen devil king collapsed into ash, consumed by the flame. The two human silhouettes lingered, their figures flickering like embers that refused to die.

The witch’s milky eyes shifted toward Aamon, her voice dropping lower. "Now... you sit the throne. You have shackled your predecessor and laid claim to his kingdom. But the wheel turns, Lord of Chains. History hungers to repeat its course. And as the tyrant was felled, so too shall you fall."

Aamon did not move at first. His face remained unreadable, though the muscle along his jaw twitched. The hall was silent save for the crackling flame. Then, slowly, he rose from the throne.

"And to whose hand," he asked, his voice measured, calm as a knife poised above flesh, "do you say I will fall?"

The flame rippled, and the two shadows grew sharper. Their features remained vague, indistinct, yet there was no mistaking their nature. Mortal. Humans.

The seer’s staff tapped against the stone once, and the bones rattled in response. "To the hands of two humans," she whispered. "Not of ordinary blood. They carry within them the lingering spirit and bloodline of those who felled the tyrant centuries ago. Heroes reborn, though they know it not."

Aamon’s eyes narrowed, gleaming like twin blades drawn in the dark. His laughter was soft, hollow. "So... the wheel dares to bind me with a child’s tale. Two mortals, ghosts of heroes long-dead, raised against me?" His lip curled. "If their bloodline exists, then I will scour it. I will salt the earth where they stand."

The flame hissed as though in warning. The fortune teller tilted her veiled head, that cracked smile still etched across her withered lips. "You think to cheat fate with slaughter? Be wary, Lord. Fate is no chain you may snap, no book you may burn. Slay them, and the wheel will turn still. Their mantle will pass to others unseen. Kill them, and you blind yourself—for then their faces will be hidden even from sight, and their coming will cut you unawares."

Aamon’s smile faded. His fingers flexed against the armrest, talons biting grooves into the black stone. He was no fool. He did not believe in destiny as mortals did—yet he knew too well that unseen laws shaped the flow of Edolas, laws that even devils could not defy. To act in arrogance was to court ruin.

"Then," he said at last, his tone shifting into a low growl, "I will not take the name of devil king. Not yet."

Gasps rippled through the guards at the chamber’s edge. To forsake the title was sacrilege. The throne itself seemed to shudder at his words, the chains that bound the imprisoned king below rattling faintly.

Aamon straightened, his eyes like burning coals. "From this moment, none shall speak that name in my presence. None shall call me king. I am Lord. Lord alone." His voice sharpened. "Let the wheel turn as it pleases—I will not give it the crown it seeks to topple."

The fortune teller bowed her head, feathers rustling across her shawl. "Wise... for one who thirsts so deeply."

Aamon’s gaze bore into her, cold and dangerous. "Then tell me, witch—who are they? These two humans? Name them. Give me their faces."

The witch’s chuckle was brittle, cracking in her throat. "Truth is not plucked like fruit from a tree, Lord. To see deeper, one must pay a greater price."

She reached into her robes and drew out a vial, its glass clouded, filled with a viscous black liquid that seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat. She placed it gently upon the floor beside the flame.

"The first vision was but the echo of the wheel. To pierce the veil further, I must call upon the marrow of shadows. I must bleed the hourglass, burn the name, and tear open the path where the hidden walk. Only then may their forms be revealed."

Aamon regarded her with sharp calculation. His throne was secure, his armies vast, yet here stood a crone who whispered doom into the marrow of his reign. He did not trust her. But neither could he dismiss her.

"Do it," he commanded at last.

The seer lowered her staff into the fire. The blue-white flame hissed violently, black smoke spilling upward like writhing serpents. The bones upon her staff rattled with a frenzied clamor, as though warning all present to flee. She spoke again, her voice resonating with something not of her own throat, something that scraped against the mind.

"Then watch, Lord of Chains. Watch, and pay the price of knowing..."

The vial shattered in her grasp, spilling its contents into the fire. The flame roared higher, turning black at its core, and the throne room plunged into shifting, unnatural shadow.

The second ritual had begun.