Weaves of Ashes-Chapter 171 - 166: The Prophetess Dies

Location: Temple of Light - Secret Dungeon | Upper Realm (Radiant)

Time: Day 215 (Doha Actual) | Calendar: 6 Voidmarch, 9938 AZI

The descent began with beauty.

High Priestess Sharlin walked through corridors of polished white marble, her footsteps whispering against stone that cost more than most cultivators earned in lifetimes. Tapestries depicting the Temple’s glorious history lined walls lit by ever-burning white-gold flames—Radiance essence captured in crystal sconces, eternal and pure.

Everything perfect. Everything holy. Everything a lie.

Her fingers traced the wall as she walked deeper. The marble gave way to older stone. Rougher. The tapestries disappeared. The white-gold flames flickered lower, shadows creeping in at the edges.

Three levels down, the beauty ended.

Here, the Temple of Light showed its true foundation. Ancient volcanic rock, black and porous, older than the current structure by millennia. The flames burned differently here—still white-gold, but tainted. Struggling. As if even Radiance essence recoiled from what these depths contained.

Sharlin’s green eyes gleamed in the dim light. Auburn hair perfectly arranged despite the hour, white robes pristine despite the descent. She looked like a vision of divine grace descending into darkness.

But her hands shook.

Just slightly. Enough that she clenched them into fists, nails biting into palms, forcing control through pain.

She’s down here. Still breathing. Still defying me.

Six months. Six months since Sharlin felt Ren’s beast stir across realms. Six months of frantic searching, weak seers providing useless fragments, every spy network mobilized and still—nothing. No sign of the reincarnated soul. No hint of the truemate who threatened everything.

And the one person who could help?

The Prophetess. Imprisoned. Tortured. Broken.

But not yielding.

Two guards stood at the final descent—Vanguard-class cultivators in unmarked armor, faces hidden behind silver masks. They bowed as Sharlin approached, one reaching for the massive iron door sealed with divine suppression formations. 𝙧𝙚𝙚𝔀𝒆𝓫𝓷𝙤𝓿𝒆𝙡.𝒄𝙤𝓶

"High Priestess," the left guard said, voice muffled. "The prisoner remains... stable."

Sharlin’s lip curled. Stable. As if that skeletal, broken thing chained below could be anything but death waiting to happen.

"Open it."

The formations flared—complex geometries etched in Radiance essence, layered over older workings that predated the current Temple. Sharlin recognized styles from the Second Age, when the Luminari still walked Doha and taught humans their mysteries. Divine suppression techniques designed to contain god-tier threats.

Excessive for one woman.

Unless that woman could see futures that made gods weep.

The door groaned open. Beyond it, stairs descended into true darkness—the kind of dark that ate light, that existed in places where hope died.

Sharlin walked down without hesitation.

Her Radiance essence flared, conjuring illumination. The stairs were carved directly into bedrock, worn smooth by ten thousand years of feet. This dungeon had existed long before Sharlin’s reign. Before her predecessor. Before the Temple of Light itself.

Some said it was where the first humans imprisoned the last of the dark cultivators after the Luminari disappeared. Others whispered it connected to the Cataclysm’s aftermath, when reality itself cracked and needed places to contain the broken pieces.

Sharlin just knew it held secrets. And that down here, beneath layers of divine suppression, beneath wards designed to prevent divine sense and block spiritual communication, she could do anything.

No witnesses. No prophecies escaping to warn the realms.

Just truth, extracted through pain.

The chamber at the bottom was circular, carved from a single piece of black volcanic glass. Smooth walls reflected distorted images—Sharlin’s perfect features stretched and warped, green eyes multiplied into endless recursions.

And in the center, chained to the wall with manacles forged from divine metal, hung what remained of the Prophetess.

Sharlin stopped.

Even knowing what to expect, seeing it still caught her breath.

She was beautiful once.

A handsome middle-aged woman. Human, from the Radiant Realm, chosen by powers beyond mortal comprehension to bear the gift of prophecy. Salt-and-pepper hair in a severe bun, dove-grey eyes reflecting serenity, features that spoke of wisdom earned through visions of futures both glorious and terrible.

That was a thousand years ago.

Now?

The figure hanging from chains was skeletal. Emaciated to the point where ribs showed through torn, filthy cloth. Skin sagging over bones, covered in welts from whips, bruises from beatings, bite marks from guards who’d been given permission to "encourage cooperation."

Her hair—what remained—was pure white, matted with blood and worse. Chunks had been ripped out, leaving raw, festering patches across her scalp.

And her eyes.

Empty sockets. Dark holes where dove-grey had once reflected prophecy.

Sharlin had gouged them out herself. Three months ago, in rage after another useless interrogation. The Prophetess claimed she couldn’t see Ren’s truemate’s location—so Sharlin took the eyes that refused to show her what she needed.

It hadn’t helped.

Because the Prophetess didn’t see with physical eyes. Never had. Her sight came from the silver rune etched across her forehead—a complex symbol that branched into delicate lines running down her face, neck, disappearing beneath her torn collar.

The rune still glowed. Faintly. Sickly yellow instead of vibrant silver, dimmed by torture and divine suppression. But active.

Still seeing.

Still defying.

Sharlin’s hands clenched harder.

The Prophetess’s head lifted. Slowly. Painfully. Empty sockets turned toward Sharlin with impossible accuracy.

"Still... searching?" The voice was a broken whisper. Wet. Damaged vocal cords from screaming. "After... six months?"

Rage flared hot in Sharlin’s chest.

"Where is she?" The question came out sharp. Controlled. "Where is the reincarnated soul?"

A sound emerged from the Prophetess’s throat. Took Sharlin a moment to recognize it.

Laughter.

Broken. Wheezing. Blood-flecked lips pulling back from teeth that’d been carefully left intact—Sharlin needed her to speak clearly, after all.

"You... don’t even... know her name."

"I know she exists." Sharlin stepped closer, Radiance essence gathering at her fingertips. Warm light in this cold darkness. "I know Ren’s beast stirred. I know the soul bond is reforming. I know—"

"You know... nothing." The Prophetess’s empty sockets somehow conveyed pity. "Ten thousand years... obsessed... with a man... who will never... love you."

The Radiance essence in Sharlin’s hand condensed. Bright. Hot. Ready to burn.

"You WILL tell me where Ren’s truemate is hiding."

"I’ve shown you... nothing." The Prophetess’s head lolled back against the stone. "Because you... deserve nothing."

Silence fell. Heavy. Oppressive.

Sharlin’s composure cracked.

She’d been patient. She’d tried everything. Torture, manipulation, promises of freedom, threats of worse pain. Nothing worked. The Prophetess—broken, blind, dying by inches—still refused.

"I can make it stop," Sharlin said, voice soft now. Dangerous. "The pain. The guards. All of it. Just tell me what I need to know, and I’ll give you a clean death. Peaceful. No more suffering."

"Tempting." The Prophetess’s breathing rattled. "But no."

"Why?" Genuine confusion bled through Sharlin’s anger. "You’re dying anyway. Why protect her? You don’t even know this girl. She’s just some reincarnated soul, probably doesn’t even remember being a demon. What loyalty do you owe—"

"Not... about loyalty." The Prophetess shifted, chains clinking. "About... what’s right. What’s... true."

"Truth?" Sharlin laughed. Sharp. Bitter. "You’ve been locked in this dungeon for a thousand years. You don’t know the truth anymore. You only know darkness and pain and—"

"I know... more than you... ever will." Those empty sockets found Sharlin again. "You think... you control prophecy... by controlling me. But prophecy... doesn’t care... about control."

The silver rune on her forehead flickered. Brighter. For just a moment, power surged—divine suppression formations straining to contain it.

"It only cares... about truth."

Sharlin’s Radiance essence flared brighter. Anger overriding caution. "I don’t need your philosophy. I need answers. Where. Is. She?"

"Closer than... you think." A smile. Bloody. Triumphant. "Farther than... you’ll ever reach."

"Riddles." Sharlin’s hands trembled with fury. "Always riddles and mysteries and—"

"She is coming for you."

The words stopped Sharlin cold.

The Prophetess’s voice changed. Deeper. Resonant. The voice of prophecy itself, speaking through broken flesh.

"She is coming for you, Priestess of false light."

The silver rune blazed. Divine suppression formations screamed, power bleeding through containment. The Prophetess lifted her head, empty sockets glowing with silver light, and spoke:

"She will take everything you covet.

The man with purple eyes will watch you suffer.

Your reign ends in flame—golden and silver.

The Phoenix-Dragon rises.

And you... you will BEG for death before the end."

The light faded. The Prophetess sagged against chains, breathing hard. Laughing. That broken, wheezing sound that grated against Sharlin’s control.

"Phoenix-Dragon?" Sharlin’s voice came out strangled. "What does that—"

"Too late." The Prophetess smiled. Blood on her teeth. "She already... woke."

Something snapped inside Sharlin.

All the patience. All the calculated manipulation. All the careful control she’d maintained for ten thousand years, pursuing a man who rejected her, hiding prophecies that threatened her power, torturing this woman for answers that never came—

Gone.

Radiance essence exploded from her hands. Not the controlled burn of interrogation. Not the careful application of pain meant to extract information.

Pure destruction.

The blast hit the Prophetess square in the chest. Divine light, searing hot, pure Radiance turned to a weapon. It punched through flesh, through bone, through the weakened body that had endured a thousand years of imprisonment.

Through her heart.

The Prophetess gasped. Once. Eyes—the eyes that didn’t exist—went wide with shock.

Then she smiled.

"I don’t need you anymore!" Sharlin screamed. Rage and fear and desperation bleeding through perfect composure. "I’ll find her myself! I’ll kill her before Ren ever—"

"Too late..." The Prophetess’s voice faded. Blood trickled from her lips. "She already... woke..."

The silver rune on her forehead flared. Brilliant. Blinding. Power that made the entire chamber shake, that cracked the divine suppression formations, that reached beyond this dungeon, beyond the Temple, touching something vast and incomprehensible.

Then it faded.

Completely.

The light died. The power vanished. The complex lines of the prophetic mark turned grey. Lifeless.

The Prophetess hung limp in her chains.

Dead.

Silence crashed down like a physical weight.

Sharlin stood frozen, Radiance essence still crackling around her hands, staring at the corpse she’d just created.

I killed her.

I killed the Prophetess.

Panic hit. Cold. Sharp. Cutting through rage like ice through fire.

There was always only one Prophetess. When one died, a new one awakened—somewhere in Doha, some girl would wake with the silver rune appearing on her forehead, visions flooding her unprepared mind.

Sharlin had controlled the current Prophetess for a thousand years. Hidden her. Suppressed her prophecies. Used her visions for political gain while preventing truths that threatened Sharlin’s power from reaching the world.

A new Prophetess?

Unknown. Uncontrollable. Free.

She’d speak. She’d reveal. She’d tell everyone what Sharlin had done—the imprisonment, the torture, the manipulation of prophecy itself.

Worse.

She’d prophesy about Ren’s truemate. Would see things clearly, without torture clouding the visions. Would guide searchers directly to the reincarnated soul.

What have I done?

Sharlin stumbled back. Her perfect composure shattered. Auburn hair disheveled. White robes spattered with blood.

She’d been so careful. So patient. Ten thousand years of calculated moves, political maneuvering, and controlling information. And in one moment of rage, she’d destroyed her greatest asset.

The Prophetess hung dead, still smiling that bloody smile, as if she knew exactly what her death would cost.

As if she’d won.

"Guards!" Sharlin’s voice cracked. She cleared her throat, forced control. "GUARDS!"

The door above crashed open. Heavy footsteps on stairs.

By the time the Vanguards entered, Sharlin had her mask back in place. Mostly. Enough.

"Remove the body," she ordered. Voice cold. Imperious. "Burn it. Scatter the ashes in the deepest ocean. I want no trace that she was ever here."

"High Priestess—"

"Now."

They moved to obey. Unlocking chains. The corpse slumped to the ground, skeletal and broken.

Sharlin turned away. Couldn’t look at it. Couldn’t face what she’d done.

She climbed the stairs on shaking legs. Through darkness. Through ancient volcanic stone. Back to polished marble and white-gold flames and the illusion of purity.

Her private chambers were at the top of the Temple. Highest tower. View of the entire Radiant capital spreading below like a jeweled tapestry.

Sharlin stood at the window. Hands gripping the sill hard enough to hurt.

Somewhere out there, a new Prophetess is about to wake.

Somewhere out there, Ren’s truemate grows stronger.

And I just lost my only reliable way to find either of them.

The weak seers in her Oracle Chamber could sense ripples, fragments, possibilities. But they were unreliable. Thirty, maybe forty percent accurate on a good day. Nothing like the Prophetess’s perfect vision.

Sharlin had to find the new seer before she spoke publicly. Had to control her, imprison her, suppress the prophecies that would destroy everything.

And she had to find Ren’s truemate before the bond completed. Before Ren found her first. Before the Phoenix-Dragon—whatever that meant—rose and ended Sharlin’s reign in golden and silver flame.

Her reflection stared back from the window. Beautiful. Powerful. Desperate.

I’ve worked too hard. Waited too long. I won’t lose him to some reincarnated demon.

Sharlin turned from the window and moved to her desk. Pulled out communication crystals. Activated her spy network—agents embedded in every realm, watching for anything unusual.

Her fingers trembled as she wrote orders.

New parameters for the search. Broader. More aggressive.

Find the reincarnated soul. Find the new Prophetess. Eliminate threats before they could speak, before they could prophesy, before they could take what belonged to her.

And if Ren got in the way?

Sharlin’s jaw clenched.

She’d been patient for ten thousand years. Waiting for him to see reason. To recognize that they were meant to rule together, that she could give him everything he needed.

But patience had limits.

And she’d just reached hers.

The final message went to her most trusted assassin in the Lower Realm. Short. Direct. Ruthless.

Find her. Kill her. No witnesses.

Sharlin sealed the crystal and sent it flying.

Then she collapsed into her chair, perfect composure finally crumbling, and poured herself wine with shaking hands.

Dawn was breaking over the Radiant Realm. Golden light spilling across white towers, illuminating the Temple of Light in all its false glory.

And deep in the dungeons below, guards burned a body and wondered what the High Priestess feared so desperately that she’d kill the most valuable prisoner in three realms.