Godless Blood: Last Apostle

5th Moon of the Xytheria Era, 4457-AV

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The stars wept ichor, dark and glistening, their celestial wounds spilling across the void. The wind howled through the fabric of existence, a dirge entwined with the phantom wail of trumpets that manifested from nothing and nowhere. Seven figures emerged from the depths of the blinding shadows, their forms limned in the glow of the moonlight… If such a thing could still be called a moon.

Golden light seeped from the shimmering winged appendages that unfurled from their backs, their halos burning like fractured suns above their heads. Divinity clung to them, but so too did an eerie stillness, the weight of something ancient and unspeakable. They stood upon the precipice of an event long feared, long denied.

Tonight, the heavens bore an omen. The moon was not silver, but gold, casting an uncanny radiance over them, stretching their silhouettes into elongated specters. The silence was not mere quiet—it was oppressive, suffocating, charged with the weight of knowing. Their eyes, blank as the void between realms, beheld one another's forms yet gazed beyond, as if seeing through flesh, through matter, through time itself.

The first figure, tall and gaunt, spoke. Their voice did not simply echo—it resonated, thrumming through the air as if the very world recoiled from its sound.

"The seal is fracturing. My prophets have seen HIS awakening. We can no longer afford stillness."

A second figure, their golden hair flowing as if caught in an unseen current, exhaled words laced with sorrow.

"The petrichor-stained fates tremble. One of the Cursed remains."

The third, wrapped in a translucent cloak that blurred the boundaries between form and nothingness, scoffed. Their voices curled with disdain, their hooded face barely shifting.

"A survivor? Falsehood. A fabrication meant to haunt us. He is gone. His power is dust."

A fourth voice cut through the gathering, quiet yet absolute.

"Doubt the fates, and history will remind you."

At this, the air itself seemed to recoil. The trumpets wavered, their solemn hymn warping into something discordant, something wrong.

Silence fell once more. A stillness so absolute it was almost a presence unto itself.

Then, at last, the seventh spoke. Their voice was neither hurried nor hesitant—merely inevitable.

"Then we hunt. The last of the Cursed must be found before the cycle begins anew. None must waver. None must falter."

Their words, spoken into the emptiness, did not fade. They lingered, stretching outward, rippling through time and fate itself. The night grew heavier. Somewhere, unseen and waiting, something stirred.

Time was running out.

All of them looked straight into the blue hole in the sky, where a being above them observed the situation through the protection of a glass pane, reading their actions like a story.

"Enjoy the show. This won't be the last time we meet… 'Reader'."

And everything went black.