The Prophet's Daughter

Ishra’s POV The air reeked of jasmine, bloodroot, and lies. They painted my lips red, tied the sacred bells around my ankles, and whispered blessings like curses. One priest braided my hair into thick, knotted coils. Another dusted ash along my collarbones in the shape of holy runes. All the while, the crowd outside the temple chanted, cried, clapped—like this was a festival. Like a girl was not about to bleed for their gods. No one met my eyes. Not the servants who had raised me. Not the priestesses who once sang lullabies. Everyone looked at me like I was already halfway gone. “Do not speak unless asked. Do not cry. Do not run,” said the Head Priest, voice calm, rehearsed. “You are chosen, Ishra. You will bring divinity back to this land. That is your highest purpose.” I nodded. Not because I believed him. But because I didn’t know what else to do. My throat was too tight to ask questions. My thoughts too loud to form words. This had always been the plan. I was born for it. Raised for it. Told every day since I was a child that I was blessed. But I didn’t feel blessed. I felt cold. Bare. And so, so alone. “Time,” a priest muttered. I was led barefoot down the temple steps, past roaring fires, cracked stone, and worshipers screaming praise into the red-soaked sky. The moon above was massive and bleeding, like it wept for me. My knees shook. “Do not shame us,” hissed the woman beside me, shoving a ceremonial dagger into my hands. “Your blood is a gift. Do not waste it on fear.” I stepped onto the altar. The sky looked wrong. It had been red before—deep and sacred, like the priests promised—but now it was darker. Bruised. Angry. The moon didn’t glow anymore. It pulsed, slow and sickly, like it was bleeding for real. “Ishra,” the priestess hissed behind me. “Do not tremble.” I didn’t mean to. My feet weren’t listening. Incense choked the air. Jasmine. Ash. Bloodroot. It stung the back of my throat as I was pushed forward, my silk robe dragging behind me like a trail of surrender. People on both sides chanted, their hands raised, eyes glazed with fevered devotion. “Is she the one?” someone cried out. “The final one,” another answered. I stepped into the sacred circle, every stone beneath my feet etched with golden runes. They shimmered faintly as the wind rose. It shouldn’t have been windy. There were no storms in the season of sacrifice. No wind strong enough to make the torches flicker. And yet they did. At the edge of the altar, towering above all, stood the Prophet—my father. He looked at me like I wasn’t his daughter. Just the key. The sacred, final piece to whatever prophecy he had clung to for years. “You were born for this, Ishra,” he called out, voice echoing. “There is no higher honor. Do not shame me.” I wanted to scream. Do not shame you? I’m about to die. The crowd fell silent as the Head Priest raised the ceremonial dagger. Then he knelt—to me. Holding it up like an offering. My fingers were ice as I took it. “Cut your palm,” Father ordered. “Let your blood speak.” My grip tightened. My heart slammed so hard I thought I’d collapse. But I couldn’t. Not in front of them. I pressed the blade to my skin. And the moment blood hit the altar— The earth moaned. Not thunder. Not an earthquake. A sound like stone weeping and splitting open. The altar split open—like a mouth torn wide after centuries of silence. The air turned sharp, iron-heavy. I stepped back instinctively, heart pounding. Gasps rang out. The sky opened—not with light, but with a soundless darkness that slithered down into the temple like fog. The crowd pushed back. People shrieked. Mothers clutched children. Someone cried, “This is wrong! The gods are not pleased—” right before collapsing mid-sentence, his body hitting the stone with a crack. The chants broke into gasps. Then screams. From the center of the altar, something rose. Not descended. Rose—from the stone itself, like he’d been buried under the temple, waiting. Dust and ancient soil fell from his shoulders. Runes carved into his bare chest glowed faintly, like embers from hell. His eyes snapped open. Red. Alive. Starving. “By the gods—” a priest screamed, but his words died when the creature looked at him. I froze. All around me, people ran. Priests collapsed. A woman fainted mid-chant. The Prophet took a step back, robes flaring in the storm winds. The man stepped down from the altar. Not a god. Not a man. He looked at me. He saw me. His boots hit stone. He didn’t speak. Not yet. He just stared, like I was something he was memorizing. Then he moved. Fast. Too fast. The Head Priest barely opened his mouth before the creature flicked his fingers—and the man hit the wall with a thud that snapped bones. Gasps. Screams. Scrambling feet. I couldn’t move. He stood inches from me, the chaos behind him forgotten. He lifted his hand and brushed his thumb against my cheek. “You’re warm,” he murmured, almost to himself. His voice sent a ripple through my spine. My lips trembled. “W-what are you?” I managed to ask. “Ishra!” The Prophet’s voice cracked through the chaos. I turned instinctively, and the creature’s gaze snapped to him. The wind turned violent, like it was being pulled toward the altar. Ropes of gold and fire whipped out from the Prophet’s staff, crackling with ancient power. “You dare interrupt the divine ceremony? This vessel belongs to the heavens!” He tilted his head. Unimpressed. The Prophet thrust his hand out. The runes in the circle glowed, chains of light surging to bind him. He didn’t flinch. He moved through the holy power like it was smoke. One step. The chains snapped. Another step. The Prophet roared and did it again—but the magic broke in his hands. Blood dripped from his nose. “Father!” I gasped, charging toward him as his knees buckled. His magic was breaking him instead of saving him. Still, he didn’t fall. Not yet. “Stay back!” he bellowed at me. “Don’t let him touch you! He’s come for your blood—your power—he’ll taint it!” But the creature didn’t lunge. He didn’t snarl. He simply reached for me. And I… couldn’t move. His hand grazed my waist. Tightened. Pulled. He looked at the Prophet, a flicker of a smirk ghosting his lips. “Too late.” The Prophet screamed something unintelligible, dragging a sword from the altar base. Light flared. The creature turned, hand still on me—and with a flick of his fingers, the Prophet flew backward. I screamed his name again, terrified, as he crashed into the base of a pillar. Not dead. But broken. Father groaned, blood seeping from his mouth, eyes wide with fury. “You’ll regret this! You don’t know what she is!” he spat. But the creature didn’t look back. He simply lifted me—like I weighed nothing—and stepped into the shadows. They swallowed us whole. The last thing I heard before darkness claimed me was my father’s voice: “Bring her back! She’s the vessel! SHE’S MINE—!”