Parallel Memory

Chapter 596: The chains of prophecy

The chamber was drowned in smoke and silence. Thick coils of incense bled from bronze censers, crawling like serpents across the floor, clinging to the stone walls until the room itself seemed to breathe. The air was oppressive, heavy with the weight of unspoken words and the iron stench of blood that seeped from the ritual bowl at the center of the altar.

Lord Aamon stood tall within the haze, his figure unyielding, his crimson eyes glinting with the sharpness of a blade hidden in velvet. He did not fidget, did not pace—patience, after all, was his weapon as much as cruelty or cunning. But beneath his stillness ran a current of fire. He had not summoned this wretched seer to be entertained with superstition. He had come for certainty.

Across from him, hunched in age and ritual robes, the fortune teller’s withered frame quivered like a reed in a storm. Her eyes, once filmed with the cloudiness of years, burned now with unnatural radiance, as though lit from within by a flame not her own. Her gnarled fingers traced symbols in the air, weaving strands of smoke into shapes that seemed alive.

Her voice cut through the silence—ragged, trembling, yet heavy with the resonance of something older than either of them.

"You must understand, Lord Aamon... to learn of the future is no gift. It is a chain. The moment you glimpse the threads of fate, you are bound to them. The river, once observed, pulls you into its current. And in grasping one path, you tear away a thousand others. Knowledge does not free you—it imprisons you."

Aamon’s lips curved slightly, though whether in amusement or disdain, none could tell. "I have worn chains before," he murmured, his voice smooth, cutting. "And I have broken them all."

The fortune teller shuddered, but her hands did not falter. She hovered them above the obsidian bowl. The liquid within—a mixture of blood, oil, and something older, fouler—trembled as though recoiling from her touch. Smoke spiraled downward into its surface, twisting into shapes, while the runes etched into the stone floor pulsed with faint light.

Aamon leaned closer, silent, his eyes drinking in every shift, every flicker.

The bowl quaked. The surface rippled—and from its depths rose images.

At first, only vague shapes—shadows pressing against the surface of the liquid like memories clawing to be born. Slowly, they grew clearer. Two figures, both human, both obscured in darkness yet impossible to ignore. They stood side by side, not yet joined in strength but tethered by some invisible thread of destiny.

The first figure carried himself with the unmistakable bearing of a warrior. Shoulders square, stance rooted deep, as though countless battles had etched discipline into his bones. In his silhouette gleamed the faint outline of a blade—a weapon not yet legendary, but already brimming with potential.

The second figure seemed slighter, his shape blurred as though the shadows themselves resisted his revelation. Yet where his outline wavered, the air around him was undeniable. It drew the vision inward, bending the smoke toward him. A gravity that whispered of resilience, of a spirit that could not be consumed even in the heart of ruin.

Aamon’s eyes narrowed. For a heartbeat, he swore the second figure turned his head—and though faceless, the shadow’s presence seemed to gaze back at him.

The fortune teller’s voice trembled, her words laced with dread.

"Two figures... two humans. One carries the bloodline of the heroes who struck down the tyrant king. The other bears the spirit of those who defied him. Blood and spirit—separate, yet bound. Together, they are the storm fated to undo the Devil King who claims the tyrant’s name."

The liquid cracked. Fractures spiderwebbed across the bowl, black ichor spilling down the altar. The figures twisted violently, almost taking shape before dissolving back into shadow. Their presence lingered, however, as though etched into the stone, into Aamon’s mind.

He straightened slowly, his eyes gleaming with cold calculation. "Shadows. Silhouettes. Whispers. You show me phantoms and call them fate? I came here for answers. Give me their names, their faces. I will not waste my empire’s power hunting ghosts."

The fortune teller recoiled, but her voice, though trembling, did not yield. "Names cannot be spoken. Faces cannot be seen. To know them fully would bind you beyond return. Already, you trespass against the natural flow. You cannot force more than shadows. You cannot demand more than fate permits."

Aamon’s expression was unreadable. His silence stretched, thick as the smoke that pressed against the chamber walls.

Then, the fortune teller reached within her robes. Her hand emerged shaking, clutching a small gem, dark as coal, pulsing faintly as though it possessed a heartbeat. She set it upon the altar.

The stone gleamed faintly red, then silver, shifting between colors as though torn between two truths.

"This is all that can be done. The Gem of Recognition. It will not speak their names nor unveil their faces. But when you stand within a meter of the chosen two—the one of blood and the one of spirit—it will betray them. Red for bloodline. Silver for spirit. That is all fate allows."

The gem pulsed again, and the chamber darkened, as if it consumed light itself.

Aamon stared at it, long and silent, before his lips curved into the faintest of smiles. He reached out, taking the gem into his palm. Its glow reflected in his crimson eyes, merging as though it had always belonged there.

"So fate hides them behind shadows, yet places this tool in my hand." His tone was a soft, mocking whisper. "How merciful."

The fortune teller’s composure broke. She staggered forward, her voice rising with desperation.

"No! You do not understand! This is not mercy—it is a chain! Each step you take toward them is a thread wound tighter around your own throat. The more you chase, the less you escape. The more you fight, the closer their blades will find you. This is no gift, Aamon—it is a snare!"

Her words cracked the silence like thunder, but Aamon only closed his fingers around the gem. Its light was swallowed in his grasp.

"Fate," he said, his voice cold, iron-hard, "is a story written by the defeated to excuse their ruin. I am not defeated. I will not be. If destiny decrees my fall to two humans, then I will erase them long before they grow into what prophecy demands."

He turned, cloak sweeping across the floor, each step carrying the weight of finality. At the threshold of the chamber, he spoke without looking back.

"Spread the shadows. Watch the world. Wherever this gem burns red or silver, bring me word. Before prophecy can crown them as heroes, I will grind them into dust."

The chamber fell silent save for the fortune teller’s collapse, her frail body trembling, her eyes rolling back as the strain of the ritual consumed her. Her whisper barely escaped her lips, but the stones seemed to carry it after him:

"The more you cling to fate... the more it drags you into ruin."

But Aamon did not pause. He strode into the darkness beyond, the gem clutched tightly in his hand, its faint pulse matching the rhythm of his heart—a heart that beat not in fear, but in defiance.

Behind him, the shadows of two faceless figures lingered in the broken bowl, silhouettes etched into memory, their presence a reminder that prophecy was not a warning, but a promise waiting to be fulfilled.

And though Aamon vowed to crush them, the current of destiny had already begun to pull.