The obsidian blade glinted in her hand as the temple torches flickered against the breezes of the Mesopotamian night. The high priestess, Ereshkigal, stood at the altar, her voice carrying the ancient chant across the sandstone chamber—a sound both haunting and beautiful, like a melody born of fire and shadows. Her dress, a flowing black robe of fine linen trimmed with garnet-red embroidery, billowed slightly as she moved. The lace-up detail at her bodice weaved tight, adding a touch of sensuality to her otherwise austere regalia. It was a gown worthy of her station, glowing faintly in the torchlight like liquid obsidian, as though scribed by the gods themselves.
The offering bowl trembled as the earth rumbled beneath them. Something ancient stirred. Time itself seemed to pause at that altar, carved from stone millennia ago by worshippers long since bone to dust. And then, a scream pierced the air–sharp, guttural, human.
Ereshkigal spun, her dark hair a silken whip of black cascading down her back. A man staggered into the temple, blood seeping from a wound in his side. Even in his agony, there was no missing the defiance in his gaze. His tunic, once white, was now streaked with crimson and dust.
“Stop this,” he rasped, one hand clutching the temple pillar for support. “You would awaken something you can’t control, Priestess.”
She regarded him with a mixture of pity and disdain. “Your faith in the old gods has blinded you, Namir.” Her full lips curved in an enigmatic smile. “The dawn of a new era demands a reckoning.”
At sunrise, the markets of Ur bustled with life. The sweet tang of pomegranates merged with the bite of smoldering incense. Ereshkigal, then wrapped in a simpler black dress of wool, her hair pulled into intricate braids adorned with bronze and onyx beads, moved through the gathered crowd like a shadow. If anyone noticed her, they shrank away—she was not a woman to be trifled with, the gods’ chosen vessel.
She paused only when she reached the merchant’s stall. The old woman behind it, her face weathered as the Tigris plain, handed her an unmarked bowl. It was heavy and cold to the touch. There was something dark in its surface, darker than volcanic glass, darker than her robes. For years, Ereshkigal had prepared for this night, each piece falling into place like the Sumerian constellations above.
“Do you know the price?” the old woman whispered, her voice like reeds rustling on the riverbed.
“Every great power demands sacrifice,” Ereshkigal answered, her eyes hard. “I am ready.”
The chanting resumed as Ereshkigal approached the altar once more. Namir, slumped against the pillar, struggled to rise but faltered. “Don’t,” he groaned, his blood pooling on the temple’s ancient floor. “This isn’t salvation—it’s annihilation.”
“You speak of what you don’t understand,” she said, her voice firm but not unkind. “The gods abandon us not out of cruelty but necessity. We must compel their attention.”
The creature arrived with none of the ceremony she had imagined. One moment, the chamber was steeped in shadow; the next, an entity, gleaming like obsidian yet alive, like smoke and sunlight tearing through a mirror, loomed before them. Its form shifted constantly—neither man nor beast, god nor demon. It spoke, and its voice was a thousand whispers at once.
“Who dares summon me?”
Ereshkigal knelt, her black gown pooling around her like ink. Her striking brown eyes met the shifting mass without fear. “It is I, Ereshkigal, daughter of Enheduanna. I offer the blood of kings to bind your power.”
Behind her, Namir let out a hoarse shout. “You can’t bind it—don’t you see? It will destroy everything.”
“You are as short-sighted as ever, Namir,” she said, without glancing back. “The gods deserted us because we grew complacent. We must show them we are worthy of their return by harnessing the oldest chaos.”
The entity hesitated, its voice like falling ash. “And the sacrifice?”
Ereshkigal hesitated for the first time. She had prepared herself, body and soul, for a different answer. Namir, broken but defiant, forced himself to stand. “Take me,” he spat, trembling yet resolute. “If destruction must come, let it start with me.”
The entity turned toward him, and for a heartbeat, the chamber fell silent again, save for the sound of Namir’s labored breathing. Then, impossibly, it laughed. A sound like the roaring of a great flood echoed through the temple.
It vanished, leaving only a faint shimmer of ash that coated the air. The torches dimmed, and the walls stopped trembling. Ereshkigal fell to her knees, her black gown heavy as though soaked in lead.
“Why?” she whispered, her voice shaking. “You were ready to take him.”
A disembodied voice rippled through the chamber like a dying breeze. “You both offered yourselves. One in arrogance, one in sacrifice. You are neither ready for the cost of chaos nor deserving of its power. I am not bound by folly.”
Namir, battered but alive, began to laugh. It was not a laugh of triumph but of disbelief. “You played at gods, and they humiliated you.”
Ereshkigal met his gaze, her striking eyes now dull with defeat. “Human ambition,” she replied softly, “always strikes the wrong bargain.”
Historical Fantasy
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