[The Hulkat-Kah Prophecies]

  Lightning cracks the night sky, illuminating jagged ridges of the deep Southern Mountains. Thunder follows, rumbling beneath the stone, beneath their feet. The Hulkat-Kah move upward, unflinching against the storm's assault. Hail pelts their fur-draped forms, bouncing off their thick layers. The mountain is merciless. Each step they take is focused, purposeful—movements performed since before recorded time. The storm isn't a curse, but a blessing. A test of worthiness for what lies ahead. These dark figures climb the treacherous path carved into this mountainside. Ice like polished glass covers the ancient steps, making each footfall a dance between certainty and oblivion. One slip and the drop behind them stretches into darkness.

  The Earth, ready to take back the life it gave.

  They move with unexpected grace. The lead pauses to turn toward his companions. His golden eyes pierce through the storm's darkness, examining each of their faces. No words are uttered, yet all is understood through his hardened gaze. He offers a single, solemn nod before continuing upward. The others follow. Breath pluming in the frigid air. Their pace never wavers. This ritual of ascent demands strength, and the mountain rewards only those who respect its power.

  "We are here," the rhythmic words begin, deep voices rising just above the howling wind, voices blending into a harmonic chant that vibrates through their furs. The deep echoes are felt beneath their feet. Word of deepest respect to this Great Mountain. "Thank you for feeling our presence. Thank you for your guidance. We are here." The chant continues, feeling each other beneath their feet. The thunder joins their hum. The mountain acknowledges their arrival. "Thank you for the breath of blessing. Thank your wake of wisdom. We are here. You see us. We see you."

  One hundred thousand steps of perfectly carved stone lie between the base and their destination. No human hands today could create such precision—each step identical to the one before, each angle mathematically perfect despite millions of years of exposure to the elements.

  They climb for hours to reach the plateau. The endless stairs finally end. The group pauses… counting… gathering their strength. Immense doors of impossible stone and wood stand before them—lumber from trees extinct for millennia, preserved through means that have been lost to time. The doors tower over them, carved into the mountain, marked with a symbol few living Hulkat have seen with their own eyes.

  They stand in silence, breathing as if synchronised. The doors seem to sense their presence. A low groan echoes across the mountain-heart as the massive structures begin to move inward, opening to reveal the sacred space beyond. No light escapes the opening, yet an inner radiance of deep blue becomes visible as the doors swing wider. Inside, hundreds of figures stand in perfect stillness, their golden eyes dotting points of brightness within the obsidian Temple chamber.

  The arrived leader steps forward, footsteps suddenly loud in the unnatural silence. Their Sacred Temple unfolds before them—walls of gleaming black stone rising to meet a ceiling lost in shadow. Blue flame dances in pits of fire, fueled by wax harvested from sacred valleys. The mountain's heart glows across geometric patterns carved into every surface. The patterns defy comprehension, angles and shapes that break the mind if stared at too long. Spirals that draw the eye inward toward unsettling perfection. The architecture speaks of timeless knowledge and understanding passed down.

  The Great Hulkat-Kah—witnesses to ages of cycled time.

  Not a word is spoken as they enter. The gathered tribes—hundreds strong—observe their arrival with stoic gazes. This is not a place for greetings or celebrations. The weight of ceremony presses down on all present. The ritual begins without announcement. The arriving tribe removes their heavy boots, placing them near the entrance. They approach the Diiph-Tarr—an immense basin carved from a single piece of obsidian. Water reflects the darkness above, its shimmer unnaturally still despite the movement around it.

  Slowly. They place their hands in the basin, fingers spread wide, still. The water is impossibly cold, its touch awakening something deep within, forcing visions. The test of spirit must be completed in silence before joining those already waiting.

  They lower their hoods, revealing their forms to the assembly. Pale white skin catches the blue light, making them appear carved from marble. Golden irises shine against deep gray eyes, observing everything with intensity that borders on painful. Their black dreadlocks—thicker than human hair, braided with golden seals marking their lineage—cascade down their backs.

  They stand tall, each over seven feet in height, their bodies perfect examples of what evolution can achieve given enough time. Their faces remain composed, emotionless, yet containing depths of feeling that would overwhelm lesser beings. An Elder approaches, her face lined with thousands of years of wisdom. She carries a small bowl of white powder, which she begins to dust across their arms and shoulders, her touch light yet raw. The fine particles hang momentarily in the air between them before settling on skin.

  One by one, they bow low, touching their foreheads against the basin’s edge, before standing, turning, and melting into the gathered crowd. They take their places among the other tribes—hundreds strong now—all standing in a chilling stillness, waiting.

  They stand, gathered around a massive raised onyx stone that dominates the centre of the chamber. It thrums with an energy that cannot be seen but is felt in the marrow of their bones—the living heart of the mountain itself. A deep, purifying hum vibrates through the stone floor, prickling the skin of all who stand upon it. The Temple Mountain speaks in its ancient tongue. No voice dare break its rhythm.

  Mothers. Daughters. Fathers. Sons of all ages stand shoulder to shoulder—warriors of legend, leaders of their generation. Alchemists of power and wisdom take their places—fathers who have raised champions, daughters who carry the future, elders who hold knowledge that predates written history. Not since the last Great Turning has such a gathering occurred within these walls.

  An ancient figure emerges from the shadows at the far end of the chamber—the crowd parts without a word, creating a path toward the onyx stone. The Grand Elder, bent with the weight of epochs, moves with surprising grace. Each tap of her staff against the obsidian floor sends ripples through the stone beneath their feet. She is not merely old—she is primordial. Present among the first Hulkat-Kah that drew breath in these lands.

  She ascends to the centre of the raised platform with deliberate steps. Her two disciples follow at a respectful distance, taking positions at the edges of the stone. The Grand Elder turns to face the assembly, her golden eyes somehow both blind with age and piercing with sight. The chamber falls into perfect stillness. No one breathes. No heart seems to beat.

  "Cjzikle Durrahhna," (We have witnessed) the Grand Elder begins, her voice impossibly deep, vibrating through the chamber like the mountain's own voice given form. Her disciples study the assembly, sifting through the faces, remembering all.

  A daughter stands by her mother. Feeling the weight of generations press down upon her shoulders. But it’s the next words that spark fear. "Disalocknihi Ufungou," (The Great Shadow is here) continues the Grand Elder, her hands rising slowly from her sides, palms facing the assembled tribes. The words confirm what many had feared but none had dared speak aloud. The apocalypse of their stories, of their legends, has arrived. The daughter watches her mother's face grow pale, the golden light in her eyes dimming with dread.

  "Illuluvaher Cjekk Durhnarfugol" (Our time is now). The Grand Elder's voice deepens further, seeming to come from the Temple itself. The disciple’s gaze continues to assess. "Hez Var," whispers the Grand Elder, lowering her ancient head.

  (Forgive us).

  The daughter moves closer beside her mother, feeling her tremble. Their hearts pound in unison, blood rushing in their ears. The Great Doom from their oldest tales has arrived at last. Instinctively, she wants to reach for her mother's hand, but stops herself. Such comfort is not permitted here. Each must bear this burden alone. She lowers her gaze to the polished floor, a hollow feeling expanding in her chest. This is how the world ends.

  The rhythmic tapping of the Grand Elder's staff breaks through her spiralling thoughts. She looks up to see the ancient one approaching a well set into the rear of the platform—a shaft so deep it is said to pierce the skin of the earth, reaching to where rock flows like rivers.

  The Grand Elder raises her weathered hands, parting them slowly as if opening an invisible curtain. Her face tilts upward, eyes closing in concentration. Her lips move, whispering words too sacred to be understood by any standing among them. A deep blue glow suddenly emanates from the well, intensifying until it bathes the entire chamber in its ethereal light. The assembled Hulkat-Kah stand transfixed as the Grand Elder turns to face them once more, her ancient features transformed by the blue radiance. A final tap of her staff signals the beginning.

  "Duarrdartek Lees," (We must choose) she declares, her voice carrying to every corner of the vast chamber. From her right, one of her cloaked disciples steps forward. His face remains shadowed beneath his hood, but his thick voice carries the weight of destiny when he speaks a single word:

  "Uuraru.” (Tracker/Pathfinder)

  The mother stiffens next to her child, watching the second disciple step forward, unrolling an ancient scroll. Its parchment glows faintly in the blue light. He approaches the edge of the platform. "Nock-Nah," he announces, the name rippling through the assembly like a stone dropped into still water.

  Movement draws all eyes. A male figure steps forward from the assembled crowd. His maturity shows in the slight greying of his dreads, but his movements betray no weakness. He sheds his ceremonial robe with practised efficiency, revealing his nude form to the assembly—a ritual exposure of truth, showing that he hides nothing, carrying no weapons, burdens, weaknesses, nothing but himself.

  His body is slender compared to many Hulkat-Kah warriors, but no less formidable. Agile muscles move beneath scarred skin as he walks forward. His face remains impassive, hardened by centuries of surviving where others perished. Around his neck hangs a collection of small bones and animal skulls that click softly with each step—trophies, not of kills, but of cunning beasts whose methods of survival he has studied and mastered.

  Most striking are his eyes—not completely golden like the others, but glossed in silver, catching and reflecting the blue light. The mark of those rare few who can see in the darkness, who can track what leaves no trace. Intricate tattoos cover his torso and limbs, not decorative but functional—maps of forgotten places, records of hidden paths. Rare leather bands circle his wrists, adorned with fragments of bone from creatures long extinct. Each piece tells a story of knowledge earned through hardship. He is one who reads the language of the earth itself, for whom the wind and stars speak in whispers others cannot hear.

  Nock-Nah ascends the platform with assured steps, taking his place beside the Grand Elder. He stands nude with fists clenched at his sides, gaze fixed on all those before him.

  The mother's throat constricts. She has heard stories of the silver-eyed ones since childhood—how they could follow shadow in deep night, how they could smell water beneath mountain stone. To see one in the flesh is to have seen much in this life.

  The Elder's voice breaks through her thoughts: "Alaslug." (Blood-Shedder/Warrior.)

  Death-Bringers who excel in the art of ending life. "Torin," announces the second disciple from his scroll. A murmur—barely heard but unmistakable—passes through the assembly. Even in this sacred space, the name carries weight. Torin. Slayer of thousands. Destroyer of entire bloodlines. A massive figure moves through the crowd, which parts before him like water around stone. He is broader than most Hulkat-Kah, his form represents power.

  As he discards his furs, his body reveals a canvas of violence—scars intersect with ritual tattoos, creating a chaotic map of battles survived and enemies destroyed. Some marks form protective sigils; others are tallies, each line representing a hundred lives taken.

  Unlike most of his kind, Torin bears no dreads, his scalp marked by elaborate tattoos that extend from his crown to his thick beard. Born beneath the Black Star—an omen that would cause most families to abandon a child to the elements, but among the warrior clans, a sign of destiny. There is pleasure in his stride as he approaches the platform, a predatory grace that speaks of violence held in temporary check.

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  The daughter shivers visibly now. Torin's reputation reaches even to their isolated settlement—tales of entire enemy encampments found without a single survivor, of weapons that shatter against his skin, of mercy neither requested nor granted. He takes his position next to Nock-Nah, the contrast between them striking—one the hunter who finds, one the weapon that destroys.

  The daughter shudders, mother placing a steadying hand against her back, a subtle gesture hidden from those around them. "I am here," she does not say it, but her daughter hears her. "I am with you."

  The Temple falls silent once more as the Elder speaks again, his voice resonating through the chamber: "Uvoodala." (Commander). The one who binds many into one.

  The second disciple unfurls another section of the ancient scroll. "Bjorn," he proclaims. This time, the reaction is immediate and visceral. Heads bow in respect throughout the chamber. The daughter feels her own heart quicken. Bjorn—the name from their stories. A leader whose strategies saved their people when extinction seemed certain. The one who remembers the codes that bind their society together.

  He emerges from the crowd, and even among a race of giants, he stands supreme. Taller than the others, his physique is not merely powerful but perfect—the ideal form of their species given flesh. His face shows the marks of thousands of years of decision and command, but no hint of doubt or regret. His dreads are arranged in the formal warrior style—thick central plaits with shaved sides that display ritual scars of rank and achievement. As he removes his robe, those nearest him lower their eyes in deference, not from modesty but from respect for what his body represents: the pinnacle of their kind. Each scar, each mark upon his skin represents a lesson learned, a victory earned, a sacrifice made for their collective survival.

  Bjorn walks with absolute confidence to the platform. Unlike the others, he ascends with his chin raised, his gaze meeting that of the Grand Elder directly—not in challenge but in shared purpose. The Warfather. The Unbroken. Bearer of the Lost Code that predates their current civilisation.

  Watching him, the daughter feels something shift in the chamber—a current of energy that passes through the assembled Hulkat-Kah. For the first time since entering the Temple, here, looking up to the chosen, she feels a flutter of hope. Fragile as morning frost, but present nonetheless.

  But the hum of the mountain deepens. The blue glow from the sacred well burns. The Grand Elder surveys the chosen warriors standing before her. A formidable triad… but incomplete.

  The mother reaches for her daughter's hand in the darkness. A silent, unnoticed action in this ancient place where comfort breeds weakness. The daughter feels her mother trembling despite her outward composure. Her mother, is a master of the healing arts—one of the greatest Alchemists their tribe has produced in generations. The daughter watches her mother's face harden into a mask of stoic acceptance. They both know what comes next.

  The Elder's voice carries across the chamber once again: "Heccto Vaaelarii." (Hand of Medicine/Restoration). The healer who walks among destroyers.

  The daughter’s stomach twists into knots. Her mother sits among one of the obvious choices—the inheritor of her father's legendary skills, keeper of recipes that can mend shattered bone and purify poisoned blood. The mother has prepared for this moment her entire life, though neither of them believed it would come in their lifetime.

  The second disciple begins to unroll another section of the ancient scroll. Time stretches, each heartbeat an eternity as the daughter turns to her mother. She searches for words, but finds none adequate. Her mother's gaze remains fixed forward, chin slightly raised, shoulders squared—showing no fear before the assembled tribes.

  "Mother—" Her soul whispers.

  She sees the almost imperceptible tremor in her mother's jaw, the rapid pulse at her throat. Her mother has been ill for nearly a decade, her body slowly failing despite her knowledge of healing. This calling will kill her, yet she will accept it without question. “Know that I will always love you,” She thinks, pouring her soul into the silence between them. “I will forever be proud of you. No matter what choice is made here today, I will be forever with you.”

  The Elder pauses, studying the name written upon the scroll. His golden eyes narrow slightly, and he turns toward the Grand Elder, leaning in to show her the text. A murmur passes through the assembly—such consultation is unusual, perhaps unprecedented. The Grand Elder examines the scroll for a moment, then gives a slow, deliberate nod.

  The daughter exhales slowly, scanning the chamber. Other renowned healers stand among the gathered tribes—Uji the Water Warden, whose mould has saved countless warriors; Karvett the Lifeblood Keeper, who can transfuse strength between bodies; Fender the Bone Speaker, who has mended injuries that should have been fatal. Any would be a worthy choice. There is still hope that her mother might be spared. The Temple falls into absolute silence. Even the mountain's hum seems to quiet itself…

  "Tillia."

  The name hangs in the air, impossible, yet undeniable. The daughter's breath catches in her throat. Her heart stops, then thunders against her ribs. She must have misheard. Around her, the assembled Hulkat-Kah exchange confused glances. Great masters of healing craft—legends who have spent millennia perfecting their art—dart their eyes toward one another in disbelief.

  Tillia. An unknown name to the members in this Great Temple. She looks up at her mother, whose carefully constructed mask of stoicism shatters as she turns to her daughter, golden eyes wide with horror and realisation. "No," The mother repeats to herself, the word silent as she watches her daughter, Tillia, slowly shedding her fur robe. Their gazes lock. In her mother's eyes, Tillia sees everything—every moment of teaching, every shared triumph, every smile. Love and terror war across her mother's face.

  Tillia's limbs feel leaden. She struggles to move. Cannot breathe. Around her, the assembly waits in strained silence. This is not how the ceremony should proceed. She has witnessed no great tests, performed no miraculous healings. Her blood carries potential, but this potential she now curses.

  Tillia's fingers slip from her mother's grasp. The fur robe falls from her shoulders, revealing her form to the assembly—smaller than most present, still a child. Her pale skin bearing few marks of achievement or survival. She has her father's hands, long-fingered and precise, but little else to recommend her for this impossible task.

  Her steps toward the platform are mechanical, each one a betrayal of everything she believes about herself. She is no champion. No chosen one. She is merely a daughter who has watched her mother's health decline, who has scrambled in desperation to learn enough to help ease her pain.

  The gazes of the assembled masters burn into her back. Disapproval radiates from them like heat from a forge. A mistake has been made. A cruel joke perpetrated against tradition itself. As she ascends the steps to the onyx platform, she feels naked in more than just body. Her inadequacy is exposed for all to see. She takes her place beside the towering champions, a sapling among ancient oaks.

  Torin's lip curls slightly, a nearly imperceptible sneer. Nock-Nah sighs, a soft exhalation of concern. Commander Bjorn's massive hands clench into fists at his sides, his jaw tightening as he accepts what he cannot change. Tillia stares straight ahead, her mind screaming in silent panic. She searches the crowd for her mother's face, needing an anchor in this storm of impossibility.

  She finds her. Standing alone now, tears streaming silently down her face. Pride and devastation war across her features. Her daughter, chosen for greatness. Chosen for death.

  The Grand Elder approaches Tillia, studying her with those ancient eyes that have witnessed the birth and death of civilisations. "Don’t doubt," she says, her voice pitched for Tillia alone. "Honour those who came before you." Tillia swallows, her throat dry as desert stone. She feels the weight of destiny settle onto her shoulders, heavier than the mountain itself. She feels her mother's stifled sob—an image more painful than any physical wound could ever be. The Grand Elder turns away, addressing the assembled tribes once more.

  Tillia remains rigid, fighting the tremors that threaten to overtake her body. Her palms sweat. This should be someone else’s moment. A great honour that has become a curse. She closes her eyes briefly, hoping this is a bad dream. When she opens them again, she finds her mother staring up at her. In that gaze is everything unsaid between them—fear, pride, grief, love beyond measure. Her mother places her fist over her heart in a silent gesture of longing, typically a ceremony reserved for warriors of proven worth.

  The gesture breaks something in Tillia. A single tear escapes, tracking down her cheek as she stands among legends and killers, an apprentice who now carries the fate of worlds upon her shoulders. The Grand Elder's staff strikes the stone floor three times, the sound reverberating through the chamber like a death bell.

  The choosing continues.

  The Grand Elder steps forward once more, her ancient face revealing nothing. But something in her posture suggests hesitation—a weight beyond even what the selection of champions has carried. "Epiicut," (Finally or Lastly) she intones, the word falling like a stone into deep water. "Vurruk Hel-ma Durricitis," the Grand Elder continues, her voice dropping, making the air itself tremble.

  (One of Power).

  A collective inhalation whispers through the assembly. Some of the oldest among them exchange meaningful glances, a ripple of unease passing between those who understand what these words truly mean. Along the curved wall of the Temple's far side, a seam appears where no door was visible before. The stone parts with a sound like releasing a secret, revealing darkness deeper than the Temple's shadows.

  Two slender figures emerge. Female forms. They move without sound, their steps so smooth they appear to float above the floor. Their bodies are unnaturally thin, as if stretched between worlds. They approach the stage but stop well apart from everyone else, maintaining a distance that feels both calculated and necessary.

  Tillia feels the air around her grow cold. Beside her, Nock-Nah shifts his weight almost imperceptibly—a tracker's instinct responding to threat. Torin's hand twitches, wanting a weapon that isn't there. Even Commander Bjorn, the unbreakable, clenches his jaw tight enough to make the muscles stand out like cords beneath his skin.

  The Grand Elder reaches into the folds of her ceremonial robe, removing a scroll unlike the others. She passes it to the Elder with absolute reverence. His hands tremble slightly as he unfurls it. "Xulu," he announces, his voice strained. One of the two figures steps forward. The gathered assembly falls so silent that Tillia can hear the blood rushing in her ears.

  Xulu is unlike any Hulkat-Kah Tillia has ever seen. No hair adorns any part of the figure's body, not even eyelashes or brows. The skin is smooth as polished stone, several shades darker than even the most sun-touched of their kind. Golden runes have been carved directly into the flesh—not tattooed but incised, the wounds never fully healed but somehow not bleeding. Most disturbing are the eyes—they don't focus on any one thing but rather seem to perceive everything at once, including things no one else can see.

  Xulu approaches the stage and ascends with movements too fluid to be natural. Taking position beside Tillia, the figure radiates an aura of wrongness that makes her skin prickle. Standing next to Xulu feels like standing at the edge of a cliff—one misstep away from falling into some unknown void. The scent of salt and iron emanates from Xulu's skin—not the familiar iron of blood, but something older, something that has never known life.

  "Who is she?" Tillia's mind screams. "What is she?"

  The legends speak of those who walk between worlds, who commune with forces beyond understanding. The whispered words that parents use to frighten disobedient children. Those who sacrifice parts of themselves to gain power no being should possess. Xan-Malek—The Touched Ones. The forbidden word, the forbidden curse that no one speaks. Xulu's presence distorts the very sanctity of the ritual. Even the proud Hulkat-Kah, who fear nothing in the natural world, shift uncomfortably, avoiding direct gaze with this final champion.

  The Grand Elder approaches the edge of the stage. She surveys the five chosen standing before her—the tracker, the warrior, the commander, the healer, and... the other. A perfect hand, each finger with its purpose, together forming something greater than their parts. "Alisghn Du-narrin," she declares, her voice echoing through the chamber.

  (It is done.)

  The remaining attendees move as one, raising their right hands toward the chosen five before placing their fists against their hearts—the sacred gesture of absolute honor, binding the community to their champions, acknowledging the sacrifice that has been demanded.

  Tillia searches the crowd, finding her mother's face upturned toward her. The silent tears haven’t stopped, they won’t for a while, but she understands. Acceptance. The realisation that her daughter now belongs to something beyond family, beyond tribe, beyond even the Hulkat-Kah themselves. In that gaze passes everything that will never be spoken between them again. All the knowledge not yet shared, all the memories not yet made. The simple comfort of existing together in their mountain home.

  Tillia wants to run to her, to throw herself from this stage and flee with her mother to some place beyond duty and destiny. Beyond the Doom. But she remains still, bound by the ceremony and the weight of what has been placed upon her.

  The assembly begins to depart, moving with practised solemnity toward the great doors. Hundreds of figures who came to witness now leave to wait, to wonder, to prepare for whatever comes next. They file out in silence, their golden eyes occasionally darting back toward the five who remain on the stage.

  Her mother is among the last to leave. She pauses at the threshold, looking back one final time. Their eyes lock across the emptying chamber. Her mother places her fist against her heart once more—not in ceremonial tribute this time, but in a gesture meant for her daughter alone.

  Then she is gone, swallowed by the darkness beyond the doors, back into the storm.

  The Temple falls silent except for the five remaining figures and the Grand Elder with her disciples. The blue light from the sacred well pulses slower now, as if the mountain itself grows tired. Tillia stands among killers and legends and things that should not be, feeling smaller and more alone than she ever has in her three centuries of life.

  The mountain's hum shifts to a lower frequency, a sound that vibrates in the pit of her stomach. It feels like mourning. It feels like warning. The Grand Elder's staff strikes the ground one final time.

  What has been set in motion cannot be undone.

  (It is done).

  A tracker who sees through darkness.

  A warrior shaped by war and joyless violence.

  A commander who leads with legacy in his blood.

  A healer who never wanted glory.

  And something else… something no one can name.