The first scream pierced the walled silence of the ancient temple. Areya spun around, her black and crimson tunic flowing like a torrent of blood against the sands of Tenochtitlán. Her heart pounded as her bare feet gripped the smooth stone tiles beneath her, ancient echoes of a high priestess resounding in every step. She wasn’t supposed to be here. Not tonight—not during the Lunar Vigil.
The obsidian blade in her hand glinted under the silver light spilling through the colossal opening at the apex of the temple ceiling. A soft drizzle of ash trickled from the heavens above, gifting a surreal haze to the sacred space. Stillness hung in the air, broken only by the distant hum of ritual chants echoing from the city below. Yet, the scream—that haunting scream—did not belong in this place of reverence. It was human… visceral… terrified.
Areya’s garments had been crafted carefully for the ceremony. Her flowing black tunic fell off one shoulder in rich, silk-like fabric woven by the most skilled Aztec artisans. Crimson patterns splotched the edges, mimicking the fire serpents that protected their gods. A heavy golden circlet rested on her brow, intricate designs snaking down in delicate threads. Her wristbands, equally ornate but practical, bore jagged shards of obsidian—a hint of danger hidden in beauty.
She took a deep breath, blue eyes sharp, her golden flaxen hair a rarity among her people, glinting like an otherworldly banner in the dim light. Most called her a gift from Quetzalcoatl, the feathered serpent, born to bless…and to punish. She had spent her life living by those expectations. But that scream—that primal wail—sent a bolt of dread curling through her even now.
She moved quickly but cautiously, tightly gripping the ceremonial dagger carved from a single piece of volcanic glass. Her breathing slowed, her footfalls barely registering as she approached the heart of the temple chamber. This place was sacred—reserved for offerings—not for slaughter. At least, not for now. Blood had already marked these stones a thousandfold, but that ancient compact had boundaries, rules. Rules which, now, felt like they were being shattered.
A low scuffle forced her every fiber to remain calm. Stepping into the great antechamber, her gaze fell upon him: a man, dressed in alien, armorless fabric—an invader of no clan, no root, no rhythm. His skin—so pale it was almost as silvery as the moonlight—betrayed him immediately as a foreigner. His eyes widened as he turned to see her, his mouth moving quickly, sputtering in an unknown tongue.
Fear clouded his words. He gestured behind him frantically, as if warning her of something. Despite her sacred anger, Areya felt no triumph in the trespasser’s fear. Instead, a deeper, foreign terror gripped her spine. This man, this pale specter, didn’t fear her.
“Silence,” she hissed in her native Nahuatl tongue, her voice sharp and commanding. Yet his desperation overwhelmed him. He stumbled forward, unarmed, his hands raised in futile surrender—pleading. She raised her knife instinctively, ready to strike his throat and return peace to the sanctum. But her eyes caught something.
A shadow, moving behind him—not of flesh but of venomous light. It slithered against the walls of the chamber, lit as if by a black sun. Deep below, in the city, the chants rose. A booming echo filled her ears—no priest could have created such a vibration.
She froze. The blackened orb pulsed on the far side of the antechamber. Her mouth burned with an ancient prayer meant to banish darkness from this world. She staggered backward as the air grew heavier. This was wrong. The pale man grabbed her wrist—desperation in those wide, terrified blue eyes—but she had no time to react as the orb exploded with a flash of lightless force.
Stone, flesh, and flame roared upward, merging with an unnatural screech as the boundaries of the sanctum crumbled. Areya fell backward as the pale man shielded himself behind a jagged, fractured column. The tendrils of the black light began seeding themselves across the temple walls—pulsing with incomprehensible hunger.
“What is this?” she whispered, though she already felt the meaning—the warning—etching itself into her bones. This was no god she had known, no trickster spirit of lore. This was something older, hungrier. It wasn’t chaos; it was order warped into unrecognizable truths—truths that rejected her world entirely.
She scrambled to her feet, eyes fixed on the pale foreigner. “What did you do?” she demanded in his language now, speaking a stilted version born of interrogating prisoners. To her surprise, he understood.
“I didn’t,” he gasped, coughing harshly. He looked up toward the pulsating black tendrils. “It—it follows us. It found us again.” His voice cracked. “It won’t stop.”
Her grip tightened on the obsidian blade. She could feel her ancestors’ rage behind her ribs, but her duty now wasn’t vengeance—it was survival. The pale invader had brought something so much worse than conquest. And if she allowed her judgment to falter on him, it would consume everything.
Areya stared at the horrific rift still spreading, tasting decay in the air, ash in her lungs. Then, her voice softened. “You will tell me what to do.” His head snapped to her, startled by her words. But she was already preparing herself for the chaos ahead, her black and red robes fluttering behind her as she started toward the rift.
The screams echoed again, louder now, joined by guttural growls—unnatural and ravenous. The die of rebellion and survival had been cast, and the gods were watching.
For now, she would fight. For now, she would believe that even invaders deserved to live. But she would survive. That much, she vowed.
As she stepped forward into the unknown, her crimson dress illuminated by flickers of black flame, she wondered if her ancestors had ever faced such creatures beneath their obsidian suns—or if she would be the last to bear their wrath.
Perhaps it no longer mattered.
She raised the blade, the storm swallowing them whole.
Genre: Dark Fantasy
The Source…check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: Black and Red Dress with Blonde Waves and Blue Eyes: Modern Sophistication and Femme Fatale Style
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