Story 1125: The Ash Prophet’s Curse

The villagers of Grimhollow whispered of him only in hushed tones—The Ash Prophet, the one who burned out his own eyes to see the true shape of the world. He hadn’t aged in decades. His flesh was gray and flaked like charcoal, his voice like dried leaves scraping stone.

And yet, those who sought forbidden truths still came.

Even if they never left.

Tonight, Madame Grin walked the scorched path to his shrine, her lantern sputtering in the midnight fog. The village was dying. Infants born without eyes. Crops that bled when harvested. Something was crawling through the soil beneath their feet—something old.

Only the Prophet might know what it meant.

The shrine was once a chapel, now blackened by soot. The walls bore handprints, burned into the stone like memories too painful to forget. The altar was a slab of obsidian, and behind it sat the Prophet, cross-legged, blind sockets glowing faintly with violet flame.

He did not look up. He never needed to.