The sky did not weep.
No... it trembled.
It feared what was coming — that wretched fate, woven long before time learned to crawl. The fate of the savior... and the destroyer. One born to heal a dying world. The other, to unmake it.
The earth groaned beneath the weight of the prophecy.
And in the heavens, clouds swirled like torn scripture, lightning cracking through their seams. Thunder echoed not in rage, but in restraint — as if the heavens themselves were holding their breath.
She stood at the balcony. The Saintess. Staff in hand, breath shallow. Her golden robes fluttered in the storm-wind, soaked but unmoving.
Then he came.
Not with footsteps. With lightning.
He didn't descend. He appeared.
A flash — golden, blinding — and then silence. The rain halted. Time paused.
Some knew him as a prophet. Others, a deity. But to the heavens, he bore only one name:
Fate.
He bled light. Not the kind that warms or heals — no, this was the light of a dying star, pale and ancient, screaming without sound.
Instinctively, the Saintess shielded her eyes.
But it wasn't enough.
Her knees buckled before she could think. Her staff clattered against the marble. Her forehead pressed to the soaked stone as tears streamed from eyes that no longer saw.
She knelt.
Before him.
The figure before her pulsed with the glow of a thousand suns — yet even beyond that light, she saw something deeper. Something darker. His body was carved of cosmos, a silhouette of galaxies, veins filled with orbiting stars.
And yet, no mortal awe touched her lips. Only dread.
Then... he spoke.
"Hear me, Saintess."
His voice was not thunder — it was sharper. Like metal tearing through thought. Each syllable drove itself into her skull, bleeding through her ears.
"Seven moons from now... twins shall be born."
"One will carry the weight of salvation. The other... the burden of ruin."
"Kill the destroyer upon his first breath."
"Or raise him to love, lest he grow to slaughter all that you cherish."
Silence.
Then he was gone — like he had never been.
The Saintess collapsed, bathed in crimson. Blood streamed from her ears, her eyes, her mouth, her nose. The divine tongue was never meant for mortal ears.
But her heart, though shattered, did not yield.
As her trembling fingers reached for her fallen staff, she whispered beneath the rain:
"I will raise them both."
"And they will save the world... no matter the cost."
The Saintess did not scream.
She could not afford to.
Even as blood trickled from her lips and ears, she reached for her staff. A faint light gathered at her fingertips — the sacred healing magic of the heavens. She pressed it against her chest. Her pulse steadied. Her wounds sealed.
The moment she stood, she raised her hand — and the temple bells rang, summoning her knights.
They came in a storm of steel.
Their armor gleamed, wet from rain, and their eyes burned with panic. "My Lady!" they cried, rushing to her side. But she raised a hand, silencing them.
"Enough. There is no time for worry."
"Go."
"Find a woman who will bear twins in seven moons. The fate of this world... depends on it."
The knights stood stunned.
She was never one to panic. Never one to speak in riddles. But her voice now trembled with urgency. And so they obeyed.
They scoured the land. Across valleys, villages, rivers and ruins. Three moons passed, and they returned — not with one, but four women.
Each one bore signs. Each one might carry the savior… or the destroyer.
The Saintess stood once more at her balcony.
She knelt beneath the thunder.
Her hands clasped. Her eyes closed. Her prayer stretched into hours. She whispered in the ancient tongue. She bled faith. She offered herself — her name, her soul, her years — in exchange for an answer.
"Which one?" she whispered. "Which one carries salvation... and which one carries the end?"
Then, the storm responded.
A lightning bolt split the sky in two.
It struck the temple floor, just beside her — leaving a single word burned into the marble in letters of divine flame:
"Hybrid."
"Vampire."
"Human."
The Saintess gasped.
She rose at once, robes flowing like rivers, and descended the stairs to meet the women. Her eyes scanned them — fear in their faces, hope in their trembling hands.
"Which one of you…" she began, breath tight, "…has laid with a vampire?"
Silence fell.
The wind paused.
Then — a soft voice.
"I... I didn't know," she whispered.
A young woman, no older than twenty. Hair gold like a summer dawn. Skin pale as starlight. Eyes the color of sunlight through glass.
She did not look up.
But she raised her hand — timid, shaking — as if ashamed of the life now stirring in her womb.