Trahar paused, a pitch-black eye narrowing beneath his cowl. "You believe Rome to be invincible? It is not. It is a bastard empire, held together solely by the sheer, unnatural stubbornness of the man they call Imperator. Kill him, and the entire marble facade crumbles. Akua is a true god. The lives of mortal emperors are but trivial strings He can cut at His leisure."
"Yet in the past fifty years, your god has not dared to touch a single blade of grass upon which the Imperium stands," Ana countered, her voice dripping with absolute, freezing disdain. "You know it as well as I do, priest. Gods have no power in this realm."
Her words made me pause, despite the throbbing in my skull. She wasn't just stalling for time. There was a terrifying, absolute certainty in her tone—a rigid, almost arrogant authority that a mere Lyseni sellsword had no business possessing.
"You know much of the arcane, Flame-Kissed," Trahar murmured. "But that is precisely why this altar was prepared. With the lifeblood of two magical Valyrians—one of them a Dragonlord of the purest strain—we will breach the veil. We will summon Akua into mortal flesh. And once He crosses over, He can sustain Himself in this realm by feeding upon the people of Qohor."
The colour drained completely from Ana's face. "You would sacrifice your entire populace?"
A cold spike of dread pierced my chest.
"They are a loyal flock. They will relish the divine gift of being consumed," Trahar replied, utterly unfazed by the monstrous scale of his treason. He raised his bony hands. "Enough of this futility. The hour is nigh. Begin the ritual."
The zealots' chanting swelled into a deafening roar. Elder Taroh and Drahas stepped out from the shadows of the altar. They drew curved daggers, slicing their own palms open, and pressed their bleeding hands to the stone grooves. As their blood mixed with the fresh crimson dripping from my own chest, the jagged runes comprising my half of the sacrificial circle flared with a sickly, pulsing red light.
Ana began to violently thrash against her chains. Her unnatural strength strained the thick iron links to their absolute limit, the metal groaning under the effort, but the bindings held fast. I found myself feeling weaker as blood drained on from me.
Trahar glided toward her. He produced an obsidian blade and slashed it cruelly across her forearms. She grunted as her blood spilled onto the stone. Trahar then sliced his own hand, letting his dark ichor mix with hers. The remaining half of the rune circle ignited in a blinding, bloody hue.
The High Priest backed away, raising his arms to the cavernous ceiling, and joined the fanatical chorus.
"Akua, Zōbrie Ōños, hen kostagon. Vala hen ñuha vīlībā jikagon. Māzigon se tegōñagon vala hen morghūlilī bānor." I summon you Akua the Black Goat. Take this blood and sacrifice. Grace this mortal plane with your darkness.
The shadows in the temple broke entirely from the laws of nature. As the chant echoed off the stone, the blood-runes flared brighter with every syllable. A freezing, unnatural dread crawled up my spine. The shadows detached from the pillars and slithered across the floor, pooling beneath Trahar's feet. The darkness began to crawl up his legs, slowly ascending his body, drowning the High Priest in a writhing cloak of living abyss.
I wrenched my head toward Ana, panic finally clawing at my throat.
She looked back at me. But her eyes were no longer just vibrant green. They were glowing. Blinding, emerald light spilled from her pupils, crackling with raw, terrifying power, as if lightning itself danced within her skull.
"You have sinned, Trahar Eranis," she spoke.
But it was not just Ana's voice. It was a magnified, ethereal chorus, as if hundreds of women were speaking from her throat in perfect, terrible unison.
Trahar's chanting faltered. Even the mad shadowbinder seemed briefly paralyzed by the sheer, overwhelming resonance of her words, staring at her from within his rising column of shadows. The darkness had reached his chest.
"You have blasphemed against HIM and His people," Ana's multiplied voices boomed, shaking the very foundations of the subterranean temple. Her emerald gaze grew blindingly bright. "And for this, there is but one punishment. Judgement."
She threw her head back, her voice shifting into a booming, ancient tongue that I had never heard in Essos or Westeros, yet it resonated with absolute, divine authority.
"In Nomine Patris Mei et Patris Eius Coram eo, Aeternus, Filium Domini, Voco. Sanctificetur Nomen Tuum."
In the name of my Father and His Father before him, I call you Aeternus, Son of GOD. Hallowed be thy name.
…
Third Person POV
A thousand miles away, within the great city of Ctesiphon, a low, tectonic rumble birthed deep inside the Imperial Palace. It rolled outward in a physical, concussive wave of raw magic, sweeping over the marbled hills and crashing down into the sprawling capital.
The heavy bronze bells within the city's high belfries and temples began to toll violently of their own accord. The magical lamps lining the grand avenues flared, burning with a blinding, incandescent intensity they had never before possessed.
People came out to the streets and looked towards the palace on the hill as an unnatural emerald light danced atop the central dome.
The faithful dropped to their knees upon the cobblestones, murmuring frantic prayers while the non-believers could only stare in paralyzed awe as the emerald light swelled, entirely eradicating the darkness of the night sky.
Deep within the cavernous heart of the palace, the Emerald Throne was awake.
The violently jutting crystals of the massive seat glowed with blinding, radiance. The ancient, runic pillars adorning the length of the throne room ignited, aggressively siphoning the latent magic to fuel the conduit.
Standing upon the polished marble steps beneath the dais were two figures, bearing the crushing, atmospheric weight of the magical tether. One was a woman with wild, bushy brown hair; her own emerald eyes flared with the exact, terrifying light of the throne above her. Beside her knelt a young man, his knuckles white as his hands wrapped tightly around the hilt of a massive greatsword driven into the floor. He was using the steel solely to keep himself from collapsing under the sheer gravity and pressure being exerted by his surroundings.
Sweat poured from their strained faces, evaporating into steam before the drops could even strike the glowing marble. To ascend those steps was to walk into the heart of a dying star.
Seated at the apex of the blinding light was Aeternus.
He sat upon the emerald throne, clad in his pitch-black, runic armour. He was heavily armed and physically teeming with the promise of battle. Raw, crackling lightning arced across his vision, dancing wildly within his eyes.
A savage, terrifying grin split the Emperor's face.
"Well done, daughter."