Story 1073: Black Halo Prophecy

They came riding in at dusk—silhouettes against a storm-black sky, their eyes aglow with the eerie green fire of the cursed. At their center, carried in a cradle of bone and rusted chains, was the Black Halo—a warped relic shaped like a crown, but pulsing like a living heart.

The people of Ashvale had long forgotten the prophecy. Buried it like they buried their sins: deep, unspoken, and beneath the bones of the innocent. But the prophecy had not forgotten them.

“When the Halo rises,” the crones once muttered, “so shall the veiled god awaken—and dream the world into unbeing.”

Zeke Crowhurst, a former preacher turned cynic, stumbled across the riders during a storm. He’d taken refuge in the remains of the old cathedral, seeking warmth. Instead, he found visions scorched into the stained glass—of saints burning from within, their faces melting into eyeless voids. Thunder cracked, and the altar bled black.

That was when he saw them. The Prophets of the Black Halo.