An Archer's Destiny

Danai

High Chancellor Danai Thorn strode through the gleaming bronze doors of the Temple of the One, his black robe billowing with each step. The hard soles of his boots slapped against stones, the sound echoing throughout the empty hall.
It was nearly midnight, and the Temple should have been deserted, but one lone supplicant rested on her knees with her forehead touching the cold stone floor.
Danai loomed over the praying woman. Her murky hair was little more than a limp rag across her shoulders and back. Oft-recited words, a supplication to the Spirits or some fallen god, flowed rhythmically from her lips.
When she didn’t rise or turn, Danai barked, “Out, now! The Temple is closed.”
The woman’s head whipped around, a scowl creasing her weathered face. “This holy place is never closed, and I am in prayer.”
Danai thrust out his palm, called to his Gift, and a ball of brilliant azure flame blazed to life. The fire cast no heat, but the woman, eyes wide, stumbled back before gaining her feet and racing out of the building, casting a frightened glance over her shoulder as she crossed the threshold and vanished into the night.
Silly, pious fool. If she only knew the One she actually worshipped.
Danai dismissed his flame and stalked the final length of the Temple’s nave, taking in every corner of the grand hall. A few candles still flickered, casting eerie shadows that hid as much as their light revealed. Enormous colorful tapestries hung on the walls, depicting the One as an ambiguous ball of light comforting commoners or healing the lame. Danai’s favorite was viewed by many, even some priests, as a garish misrepresentation of their benevolent, loving god. It depicted troops locked in a bloody battle on a field littered with the dead and dying. The familiar light of the One shone from a nearby mountain’s ledge, urging their side to victory. Few knew that tapestry was older than the Temple, even older than the people’s false god.
But Danai knew.
He climbed the steps leading to the great marble altar, then walked around it toward the door leading to the building’s eastern end. He strode to a few paces from the door, lifted an ancient rug, and found the ring he sought. He cast a gaze from one end of the hall to the other, putting to rest any fears he might be seen, then lifted the trap door, summoned another flame, and descended into the catacombs.
Silence echoed louder than his footfalls as each step took him deeper. He would have been blinded by blackness without his magic. The flames above his palm danced and leaped, appearing every bit as alive as the shadows they cast.
At the base of the stairs, the walkway widened into a grand hall, half as wide as the pews were long in the sanctum above. Smooth marble walls shimmered in magic’s light. Golden plaques engraved with the names and honorifics of long-dead kings and queens flared as he passed.
Danai ignored them all.
They meant nothing.
At the far end, a pair of wide doors made of the finest silver and etched with the Phoenix, the universal symbol of magic, stood sentry. Fist-sized rubies set into the eyes of the Phoenix glowed faintly but gained intensity with each step Danai took in their direction. When he stood before the doors, the rubies flared to a brilliance that forced him to turn and shield his eyes.
He waved away his flame, squeezed his eyes shut, and placed his palm against the ridged breast of the Phoenix.
“E vesh Irina,” he whispered. His chest swelled at the mention of her name. Memories sparked. Deep within him, primal emotions stirred.
Irina, take my life.
The crest’s eyes pulsed, bathing the tomb in light, then a soft click brought his eyes open.
He smiled, thinking it odd that, as the last of his line, with centuries of knowledge and command of ancient powers, the mundane turning of an iron lock could bring a curl to his lips.
But this lock answered only to him and guarded what he held most dear.
Gripping the handles, he pulled, and the doors swung easily on their ancient hinges without any groan of protest.
Danai held his breath as he stepped inside, a habit ingrained a millennium before.
Cerulean flames danced above dozens of silver braziers, granting the room a warmth and brightness at odds with the tombs beyond. A semicircular knee-high wall, only a few steps from where he stood in the doorway, stretched the width of the room. Ten water-filled paces spanned the area between the wall and a set of marble steps that led to a landing of polished marble. He stared into the stone, watching its colors swirl and churn like an angry ocean.
A lone sarcophagus of unmarred gold rested atop the swirling sea.
Three intricately carved panels on the wall behind the coffin reminded Danai of a massive headboard towering over its slumbering guest. Of the pieces, the left and right were made of snowy marble and arched inward, representing two praying supplicants facing each other. In contrast, the center piece’s ebony surface towered above the others, rising to the ceiling. Golden script etched in the inky stone shimmered, as if freshly carved, despite having survived for more than a thousand years.
Danai crossed the shallow lake, ascended its shore, and stood before the monolith. He shivered as the Spirit within the stone assessed his presence.
Nothing moved.
Nothing breathed.
Nothing mattered but the stone.
After a moment of disquiet, the tension vanished, and Danai stood before a simple monument. He traced its glittering script with his fingertips. This prophecy had lived in his memory for most of his eleven centuries of life but gained power in his heart each time he stood before its golden text.
Seven scattered as lands shattered.
Bind the heir. Make diamonds bleed.
Speak the words.
E vesh Irina.