Weaves of Ashes-Chapter 184 - 179: Demon King’s Quiet Hunt

Location: Demon Palace - Throne Room → Oracle Chamber

Time: Day 227/227 - 17 Voidmarch, 9938 AZI

Realm: Demon Realm

Ren d’Aar sat on the obsidian throne, fingers drumming against the armrest.

Two days.

Heiteng and Xinglong had been gone for two days. Departed on the morning of the twenty-sixth, crossing to the Lower Realm with the King’s Ring protecting them from realm damage. By now, they should’ve reached Vor’thane. Should’ve received the Eye of Pyratheon. Should be positioning themselves to find—

Stop.

Ren forced his hand to still. Forced the anxious energy coiling through his chest to settle. Forced himself to sit like a king instead of a worried... what? Mate separated from the one person who mattered more than breathing?

Yes. That.

The beast stirred in its cage—not agitated, just present. Aware. Watching through Ren’s eyes as reports filtered in from scouts positioned across three realms.

Kaelen stood at the base of the throne dais, reading from a scroll. The strategist’s voice was calm, professional, giving no hint of the tension they all felt.

"Upper Realm activity has increased significantly," Kaelen reported. "Multiple search parties moving through major cities. Noble families are being questioned. Temple-affiliated settlements under investigation."

"Sharlin," Ren said flatly.

"Almost certainly." Kaelen’s midnight eyes flicked up from the scroll. "The search parameters match Temple methodology. They’re looking for someone young. Female. Recently awakened to power."

Ren’s jaw tightened. "The new Prophetess."

Silence fell across the throne room.

The five Kael’shira exchanged glances. Lysander leaned against a pillar, arms crossed. Cassian stood near the eastern wall, his usual cheerful expression subdued. Draven had gone perfectly still, molten eyes fixed on Ren with unusual intensity. Theron waited by the western archway, one hand resting on his sword hilt.

"Confirmed?" Theron asked quietly.

"Rumors from multiple sources," Kaelen said. "Temple seers experienced a massive power surge a day ago. Something awakened. Something prophetic. Sharlin mobilized her entire network within hours."

Yesterday.

"The old Prophetess is dead," Ren said. Not a question. A certainty that settled in his bones with absolute conviction.

Kaelen’s eyebrows rose fractionally. "How did you—"

"Sharlin wouldn’t be searching this desperately if she still had the most powerful seer in three realms under her control." Ren’s purple eyes gleamed with cold calculation. "The old Prophetess gave perfect prophecy. One hundred percent accuracy. If she were alive, Sharlin would’ve sent her seers to the exact location of whoever awakened. Instead?"

He gestured at the scroll.

"Instead, Sharlin’s throwing resources everywhere. Upper Realm. Mid Realm. Even token coverage in the Lower Realm." Ren’s smile was sharp as broken glass. "She’s searching blind. Which means the Prophetess is dead and a new one has awakened to replace her."

Silence.

Then Lysander’s quiet voice: "Sharlin killed her."

It wasn’t a question.

"Probably." Ren leaned back against the throne. "The old Prophetess disappeared from public over a thousand years ago. Official story was ’spiritual retreat.’ But everyone knew Sharlin had her locked up somewhere. Given Sharlin’s nature..." His expression darkened. "Unlikely she was kind."

"And now the seer’s dead," Cassian murmured. "Convenient timing."

"Or catastrophic mistake," Draven observed. "If Sharlin killed her own best intelligence asset in anger—"

"Then she’s paying the price," Ren finished. His hands clenched on the armrests. "No more perfect visions. No more precise locations. Just weak seers giving thirty percent accuracy and conflicting reports."

The beast stirred deeper in its cage. Not threatening to break free—just present. Listening. Processing the implications with a predatory focus.

Inside Ren’s mind, where the vor’kalth consciousness resided in enforced separation, something unexpected happened.

The beast... purred.

Ren froze.

That sound—low, rumbling, almost content—was not something he’d ever heard from the creature that had slaughtered a million Zartonesh in six months of bloodlust. The beast didn’t purr. Didn’t make sounds of satisfaction or pleasure. It growled. Snarled. Roared challenges that shook mountains.

It did not purr.

What are you doing? Ren asked internally, genuinely confused.

ENEMY WEAKENED, the beast rumbled, that strange purring quality underlying its mental voice. PRIESTESS DEAD. SHARLIN LOST EYES. GOOD.

Ren blinked.

The vor’kalth was... happy?

MATE SAFER, the beast continued, sounding almost smug. NO PERFECT VISIONS. NO PRECISE LOCATION. SHARLIN SEARCHES WRONG PLACES. HUNTS BLIND.

Understanding crashed through Ren’s awareness.

The beast was right.

Sharlin’s greatest advantage—the one tool that made her genuinely dangerous despite her political maneuvering and carefully cultivated image—had been the Prophetess. Perfect prophecy meant perfect intelligence. Meant knowing exactly where to strike, exactly who to eliminate, exactly when to act.

Without that?

Sharlin was just another Eternalpyre cultivator with delusions of control. Powerful, yes. Connected, absolutely. But blind to futures only prophecy could reveal.

And now she’d lost it.

Killed her own best asset in a moment of rage, probably. Let emotion override strategy. Made the kind of catastrophic mistake that cascaded into disaster.

The purring intensified.

STUPID PRIESTESS, the beast observed with what might have been satisfaction. KILLS TOOL. WEAKENS SELF. GOOD FOR US.

"Ren?" Kaelen’s voice cut through his internal dialogue. "You’re smiling."

Was he?

Ren touched his face. Yes. Apparently, he was smiling. A cold, dangerous expression that probably looked more predatory than reassuring.

"Sharlin made a mistake," Ren said aloud. His purple eyes gleamed with strategic satisfaction. "She killed the Prophetess. And now she’s paying the price."

"But there’s a new Prophetess," Draven pointed out. "Won’t Sharlin just capture her? Control her the same way?"

"She’ll try." Ren stood from the throne, pacing to the eastern window. The demon capital spread below in shades of purple and black, elegant spires rising against a sky painted crimson and gold by three moons. "But capturing a newly awakened seer is different from maintaining control over one you’ve held for a thousand years."

He turned to face his Kael’shira.

"The old Prophetess was broken. Conditioned. Knew exactly what happened if she refused Sharlin’s orders—or what Sharlin claimed would happen. No one knows the truth of that imprisonment except Sharlin herself. But a new seer?" Ren’s smile sharpened. "She’s young. Probably terrified. Experiencing visions she doesn’t understand. And she has no idea the Temple of Light is a prison disguised as protection."

"So we find her first," Lysander said quietly.

"Yes."

Kaelen consulted his scroll. "Our intelligence suggests the awakening occurred somewhere in Doha. The power surge was felt by prophetic seers across all three realms simultaneously, but the origin point is unclear. Sharlin’s focusing her search on the Upper Realm—historical precedent says all previous Prophetesses awakened here."

"Which means she’s probably wrong," Cassian observed. "Sharlin’s prejudices make her predictable. She assumes pure-blood. Assumes Upper Realm. Assumes respectability."

"While the new Prophetess could be anywhere," Theron finished. "Any realm. Any bloodline."

Ren’s jaw tightened.

He needed to know.

Needed confirmation. Needed to see if the Oracle Crystal—ancient, powerful, silent for ten millennia except for recent stirrings—could show him what Sharlin’s weak seers couldn’t.

"Kaelen, continue monitoring reports," Ren ordered. "I want hourly updates on Sharlin’s search patterns. Where she’s concentrating forces. Which territories she’s ignoring."

"Yes, Majesty."

"The rest of you—maintain current operations. Nothing changes externally. As far as the demon realm knows, we’re business as usual."

Nods around the throne room.

Ren swept toward the exit, robes trailing behind him. "I’ll be in the Oracle Chamber. Do not disturb me unless it’s critical."

***

The Oracle Chamber was three levels below the throne room, accessed through corridors that grew progressively darker and more heavily warded. Ancient demon magic hummed in the walls—protections built over millennia, designed to keep the chamber’s contents safe from theft or sabotage.

Only Ren and the Oracle Keeper could pass the guardians.

Only they knew the blood-key wards, the essence signatures, the specific passwords required to open doors that would kill anyone else who tried.

Ren descended stone steps carved with runes that glowed faint purple in response to his presence. At the bottom, a massive door waited—demon-forged steel three feet thick, inscribed with formations that had protected the Oracle for ten thousand years.

He placed his hand on the center plate.

Blood-key activated. Essence verified. Ancient magic recognizing royal authority.

The door groaned open.

Inside, the Oracle Crystal blazed on its pedestal.

Not as bright as six months ago, when it had briefly shown his truemate’s face. Not as violent as when the bond had screamed and nearly shattered. But active. Swirling with purple and gold mists that formed patterns, dissolved, and reformed.

The Oracle Keeper stood beside the pedestal—ancient demon, face lined with age that measured in millennia rather than centuries. He bowed as Ren entered.

"Majesty. The crystal remains active. I’ve been documenting the patterns as you requested."

"Good." Ren approached the pedestal slowly, then stopped three paces away. "Any changes since yesterday?"

"Minor fluctuations. The mists show fragments—forests, mountains, cave systems. Nothing specific enough to identify the location." The Oracle Keeper hesitated. "But the activity is increasing. Whatever connection the crystal has to... to the situation, it’s strengthening."

Ren nodded absently, studying the swirling mists.

The Oracle Crystal was the oldest known artifact on Doha. Created before the Sundering, when demons still commanded magic that modern cultivators couldn’t comprehend. Legend said over a thousand demons had sacrificed their lives and essence to forge it—pouring everything they were into the creation of a tool that could guide their people through darkness.

And it had.

For millennia, the Oracle had shown visions. Warned of dangers. Revealed paths through impossible situations. Helped demon kings make decisions that saved lives, won wars, and built the civilization that became the Demon Realm.

Then the Sundering happened.

Reality fractured. Magic broke. The three realms separated into distinct worlds connected only by dangerous crossings that damaged cultivation and killed the unwary.

And the Oracle fell silent.

Some said it was a punishment. That demons had insulted the artifact somehow, committed some transgression that made it withdraw its gift. Others claimed the Sundering itself had damaged the crystal’s core, severing whatever connection allowed it to see futures.

No one knew for certain.

All they knew was that the Oracle Crystal stopped responding. Stopped showing visions. Became nothing more than a beautiful relic gathering dust in chambers that guards avoided and demon lords walked past quickly, eyes averted.

Ten thousand years of silence.

Until six months ago, when it stirred for the first time. Moved. Showed fragments of a face with amber eyes that shouldn’t exist but did.

His truemate.

The Oracle had awakened for her.

And in the weeks since the girl’s near death, since the silver dragon pulse that blazed across three realms, the crystal had grown increasingly active. Showing more visions. Clearer images. Responding to the strengthening bond between Ren and the impossible girl who carried demon and dragon blood woven together.

But it had never responded to questions.

Had never acknowledged queries. Had never communicated beyond showing what it chose to show when it chose to show it.

Until perhaps now.

Ren took a breath. Steadied himself. Then performed the ritual greeting that demons had used for millennia before the Oracle fell silent—a gesture he’d learned from ancient texts, from the Oracle Keeper’s memories, from traditions preserved even when hope had died.

He pressed his right fist over his heart. Bowed his head in respect. Spoke the words in Old Demonic, the language that predated the Sundering:

"Vor’kesh an’thara, shal’ma voreth. Kael’shon verath, Oracle Ancient."

Life-giver of wisdom, we seek your sight. Honor guides us, Oracle Ancient.

The mists swirled faster.

Ren raised his head, purple eyes fixed on the crystal. "I come seeking guidance, not demanding answers. If you choose to show me, I will be grateful. If not, I accept your wisdom in silence."

The Oracle Keeper’s breath caught. Ren was the first demon king in ten thousand years to perform the ritual greeting. Most had forgotten it even existed.

"Show me," Ren said softly, voice carrying through the chamber with quiet intensity. "If the new Prophetess’s location can be revealed... I ask humbly for your sight."

The swirling patterns coalesced.

Purple and gold faded. New colors emerged—green so deep it was almost black. Brown like ancient bark. Silver threading through darkness.

A forest materialized in the mists.

Not fragments. Not unclear images. A full vision, detailed and precise.

Primordial trees rose toward an unseen canopy, trunks massive enough that ten people couldn’t link hands around them. Undergrowth thick as walls. Shadows that moved wrong, suggesting predators or spirits or things that defied classification.

The Mid Realm.

Ren recognized the signature. The density. The oppressive weight of essence that saturated primordial forests where cultivation ran wild, and nature reclaimed dominance from civilization’s attempts at control.

"Mid Realm," the Oracle Keeper breathed. "Primordial forest zone. But which territory?"

The vision zoomed. Focused. Showed a specific grove where trees grew in a circular pattern that looked almost deliberate. Almost formed. Like someone—or something—had shaped the forest into this configuration.

Then the vision faded.

Mists returned to formless swirling.

Ren stood perfectly still. Then asked the question that mattered most.

"Oracle Ancient... is this where the new Prophetess hides?"

Silence.

The Oracle Keeper held his breath.

The chamber waited.

And the Oracle Crystal—ancient artifact that hadn’t responded to queries in ten thousand years, that had withdrawn its gift at the Sundering and never returned it—glowed.

Not a vision. Not an image. Just pure radiance that blazed through the chamber like dawn breaking, so bright that both Ren and the Oracle Keeper had to shield their eyes.

Acknowledgment.

Confirmation.

Yes.

The glow faded as quickly as it came. The mists settled back to gentle swirling patterns.

Ren’s hands trembled. He performed the closing ritual—right fist over heart again, deep bow of gratitude.

"Kael’shon verath, Oracle Ancient. Vor’thara shal’ma an’keth."

Honor guides us, Oracle Ancient. Wisdom-given, we walk in light.

Then he raised his hand—not to touch the crystal directly, that would be disrespectful, presumptuous. Instead, he wove a delicate thread of pure Voidshadow essence. Not intrusive. Not demanding. Just a gentle wave of magic that flowed across the crystal’s surface like wind over water.

Cleaning. Honoring. Showing care for the ancient gift.

The Oracle Keeper’s eyes widened. "Majesty... the ritual. I haven’t seen it performed in—"

"Ten thousand years." Ren’s voice was rough with emotion. "Because we forgot how to ask instead of demand. Forgot how to honor instead of use."

He stepped back from the pedestal.

"The Oracle didn’t punish us for insult," Ren said quietly. "It withdrew because we stopped treating it as a living gift and started treating it as a tool to exploit."

"And now?"

"Now we remember." Ren’s purple eyes reflected the mists’ colors. "We ask. We thank. We honor. And maybe—just maybe—we prove ourselves worthy of guidance again."

The Oracle Keeper’s ancient face showed wonder mixed with something close to tears. "Then the legends were incomplete. We weren’t being punished. We were being... tested."

"And now we’re passing." Ren turned toward the exit. "The Oracle awakened when my Zhū’anara’s soul returned. Shows clearer visions as her power grows. Responded to my question about the Prophetess. After ten thousand years of silence, it’s finally trusting us again."

He paused at the threshold.

"We prove we’ve learned by using this gift correctly. With honor. With respect. With gratitude for what’s freely given instead of arrogantly demanded."

***

Back in his private chambers, Ren stood at the window overlooking the demon capital.

Mid Realm. Primordial forest. Circular grove.

The new Prophetess was hiding somewhere in the deadliest wilderness zone in the three realms. Surrounded by spirit beasts that could kill Blazecrowned cultivators. Protected by terrain so hostile that even search parties would struggle to navigate it.

Smart.

Either she’d chosen that location deliberately, or someone was protecting her. Either way, she was safer there than in any city where Sharlin’s agents could walk freely.

But she wouldn’t stay hidden forever.

Eventually, Sharlin would expand her search. Would send scouts to the Mid Realm. Would offer rewards large enough that someone—cultivator or beast or desperate villager—would report unusual activity in the primordial forests.

Ren needed someone there first.

Not to control the Prophetess. Not to imprison her. Not to force prophecies from her terrified mind the way Sharlin had—allegedly—broken the old Prophetess over centuries.

To offer protection.

To show the new seer that not everyone in Doha wanted to chain her.

And if keeping her free also prevented Sharlin from gaining perfect intelligence that could threaten the demon realm?

That was a strategic bonus, not a primary motivation.

The demon race needed the Prophetess free. Needed Sharlin blind. Needed futures unmapped by Temple seers who’d use prophecy to hunt and eliminate anyone who threatened their High Priestess’s control.

Including his truemate.

Ren pulled a communication crystal from his desk drawer. Activated it with a pulse of Voidshadow essence. Waited for the connection to stabilize.

A face materialized in the crystal’s depths—demon features weathered by age beyond count, bronze skin marked with faded scout tattoos. Eyes the color of tarnished copper, distant and cold in ways that spoke of emotions long frozen.

And around his neck, barely visible above his collar, the edge of a Vor’kesh.

The life ring’s vine was nearly black. Ancient. And if Ren looked closely—which he tried not to, out of respect—he could see the terrible truth.

One leaf remained.

Just one.

Vor’shal. Fading one. A demon with his last leaf clinging to the vine, death approaching with absolute certainty.

"Majesty," Voresh said, bowing his head. His voice was calm. Professional. Empty of the warmth that should’ve colored it. "You called?"

Ren’s chest tightened.

Voresh had been his mentor. Had taught him strategy when Ren was young and foolish and thought he could save everyone through sheer determination. Had stood beside him during the revolution against Salroch. Had offered counsel for three thousand years with loyalty that never wavered.

And now Voresh was planning his Kael’thros.

Ren knew. The signs were there. The way Voresh settled his affairs. The careful goodbyes disguised as normal partings. The acceptance in those tarnished copper eyes that said he’d made peace with ending.

Death before dishonor. Honor before devil.

When the last leaf fell, Voresh would perform the ritual suicide that preserved his soul for reincarnation. Would die as a demon instead of falling into devil transformation. Would hope—desperately, quietly—that in the next life, he’d finally find the truemate who’d eluded him for thirty thousand years.

Ren was trying to buy him time.

One more mission. One more purpose. One more reason to hold on just a little longer.

"Voresh." Ren’s voice was carefully controlled. "I have a task. One that requires your particular expertise."

Voresh straightened, attention sharpening slightly. He was still the best scout in the demon realm despite everything. Despite the fading. Despite the approaching end. "I’m listening, Majesty."

"A new Prophetess has awakened. Young. Inexperienced. Currently hiding in a Mid Realm primordial forest." Ren’s purple eyes held steady through the crystal connection. "The Temple of Light is hunting her. Sharlin wants to capture and control her."

Voresh’s expression didn’t change. Emotions too distant, too frozen. But something flickered in those copper eyes. Recognition of strategic implications.

"You want me to find her first," Voresh said. Not a question.

"I want you to find her. Approach carefully—she’ll be terrified of anyone with power. Offer protection. Alliance. Resources. A safe location away from Sharlin’s hunters." Ren leaned forward. "The demon realm cannot afford for Sharlin to gain perfect prophecy again. Cannot afford for the Temple to control futures. Too many of our people would die if Sharlin sees clearly."

It was true. All of it.

Sharlin, with perfect prophecy, would hunt his truemate with devastating precision. Would locate her. Eliminate her. Destroy the last hope demons had for survival.

But Ren couldn’t say that. Couldn’t make this about his personal desperation.

Voresh served the demon race. Served honor. Served the traditions that had kept their people alive through ten thousand years of slow extinction.

So Ren framed it correctly.

"This isn’t about my... personal situation," Ren said carefully. "This is about preventing Sharlin from gaining a weapon she’d use to destroy us. The new Prophetess free is strategically vital. Her captured is an existential threat."

Voresh nodded slowly. Understanding. The tactical implications were clear.

"And if the Prophetess refuses to ally with demons?" Voresh asked. His voice was flat. Clinical. The way someone spoke when emotions had frozen so deeply they couldn’t color words anymore.

"Then we protect her anyway." Ren’s voice carried absolute conviction. "Even if she never helps us. Even if she spends the rest of her life hiding in that forest and never speaks a word of prophecy. We keep Sharlin’s hunters away from her. We give her the choice to stay free."

A longer pause.

Then something—just the faintest hint of something—entered Voresh’s eyes. Might’ve been respect. Might’ve been approval. Hard to tell through the ice.

"You learned from Salroch’s mistakes," Voresh said quietly. "He would’ve ordered me to capture her. Control her. Force compliance."

"And that would’ve been a disaster." Ren’s jaw tightened. "You can’t force prophecy from someone who’d rather die than speak. Can’t torture visions from a seer who sees exactly what you plan to do with information."

"The old Prophetess—"

"Was allegedly broken over centuries. If Sharlin even kept her imprisoned at all—we only have rumors, never proof. But whatever happened, the old seer was controlled somehow." Ren’s expression darkened. "This new Prophetess is free. Young. Powerful. And if we approach with threats, she’ll see us as just another Sharlin. Another tyrant trying to chain her gift."

Voresh’s hand moved unconsciously to his neck. To the Vor’kesh hidden beneath his collar. To the vine with one leaf remaining. 𝕗𝐫𝚎𝗲𝘄𝐞𝕓𝐧𝕠𝘃𝕖𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝚖

"You’re sending me because I’m Vor’shal," he said. Statement, not question.

Ren’s throat tightened. "I’m sending you because you’re the best scout I have. Because you can approach delicate situations with wisdom. Because you understand honor in ways others have forgotten."

"Because you’re trying to give me purpose before the end."

The words hung in the air between them.

Ren didn’t deny it. Didn’t insult Voresh with platitudes or false hope.

"Yes," he said quietly. "Because you deserve a worthy final mission. Because thirty thousand years of service should end with honor, not despair. Because I’m selfish enough to want my mentor alive as long as possible."

Voresh’s expression shifted. Just slightly. The ice cracking for the briefest moment.

"My soul no longer cries, Majesty," he said softly. The saddest words in demon language. "The emotions are gone. Frozen. I look at beauty and feel nothing. Hear music, and it’s just noise. Even honor is... distant. Like something I remember feeling but can’t access anymore."

"I know." Ren’s voice was rough. "But you’re still here. Still serving. Still worthy of the life you’ve lived."

"Until the last leaf falls."

"Until then."

Silence filled the crystal connection.

Then Voresh straightened. The professional mask sliding back into place. "I’ll depart for the Mid Realm immediately. Primordial forest zone—do you have more specific coordinates?"

"Circular grove. Trees arranged in deliberate patterns. The Oracle showed me, but couldn’t narrow it further."

"That’s enough. I’ll find it." Voresh paused. "And if Sharlin’s agents are already there?"

Ren’s purple eyes went cold. "Then you have my permission to eliminate them. Quietly. No witnesses. No evidence. Just... make them disappear."

"As you command." Voresh hesitated, which was unusual for him. Then: "Majesty... thank you. For this. For giving meaning to the end."

Ren’s hands clenched beneath the desk where Voresh couldn’t see. "There’s no gratitude necessary. You’ve earned this and more."

"I’ll send reports when I locate her."

"Voresh—" Ren caught him before he could disconnect. "If you find your Zhū’anara... if somehow, impossibly, you meet her on this mission..."

He trailed off.

Because what could he say? Don’t perform Kael’thros? That would be asking Voresh to risk becoming devil. Would be asking him to abandon honor, potentially damn his truemate to eternal separation if he fell.

Voresh’s lips curved into something that might’ve been a smile ten thousand years ago. Now it was just a ghost of expression.

"If I find her, Majesty, it will mean the gods have forgiven me for thirty thousand years of killing." His voice was soft. Empty. Resigned. "I don’t expect miracles. Just a good death. A worthy end. A chance to be reborn and try again."

The crystal connection faded.

Ren stood alone in his chambers, one hand pressed against his neck where six leaves remained on his own Vor’kesh.

Six leaves.

After a million Zartonesh killed. After ten thousand years of war and violence and desperate survival. After holding the demon realm together through sheer will when everything should’ve collapsed.

Six leaves somehow still clinging to the vine.

Because his Zhū’anara lived. Because the bond—weak, damaged, but real—connected him to hope he’d thought dead for ten millennia.

Voresh had one.

One leaf between him and the end.

And Ren was sending him to find a Prophetess in the Mid Realm. Offering him one last mission. One last purpose. One last chance to serve before the final darkness came.

Please, Ren thought toward the gods he rarely prayed to. If there’s any mercy left in you, let him find her. Let him meet his Zhū’anara before the last leaf falls. Let him have what I might have. Let him know hope before the end.

But gods didn’t answer prayers like that.

All Ren could do was hope that buying Voresh time—days, weeks, maybe months if he was lucky—would somehow be enough.

The beast purred again in its cage.

Content with Sharlin’s weakness. Satisfied with strategic victories.

But for once, Ren didn’t share its satisfaction.

He was thinking of his mentor. Of copper eyes gone cold. Of one leaf clinging desperately to a vine gone black with age.

Of the saddest words in demon language: My soul no longer cries.

And praying—quietly, desperately—that somewhere in a Mid Realm forest, a young Prophetess with silver rune blazing on her forehead might be the miracle Voresh had stopped believing in.