The smoky scent of burning cedar hung oppressively in the warm, honey-tinted air of the temple. Linya stood motionless, her silhouette framed against the ethereal glow of cracked amethyst walls that glimmered like captured starlight. Her breath was deliberate, steady, though her heart hammered like the war drums she could faintly hear roaring on the horizon. Somewhere beyond the gilded columns and ivory mosaics, armies clashed—her fate, her nation’s fate, teetered upon the culmination of her next steps.
The woman cut a striking figure, a living enigma, poised between worlds both sacred and profane. Her face was olive-toned, with a luminous glow that caught the temple’s flickering torchlight. Her almond-shaped eyes were a piercing gray, flecked with gold, resembling ancient coinage forged by forgotten gods. Her midnight-black hair cascaded in intricately woven braids threaded with strands of hammered silver and violet-dyed wool, whispering of her royal lineage and her divine purpose. The braids fell in layered coronets, framing her strong, angular cheekbones and a faint scar trailing the bow of her upper lip—a relic of a childhood long since abandoned.
But it was her attire that held the soul of the chamber hostage. In this 10th-century echoes-of-Byzantine-inspired alternate world of court intrigue and celestial prophecy, her outfit was a masterpiece of haunting contradiction. The fabric shrouding her lithe frame was a violet so dark it bordered on the abyssal, interspersed with intricate constellations stitched in threads of lilac and shimmering mithril. Her outer cloak spread like bat wings clasped to her shoulders, fastened by twin brooches carved from lapis lazuli, their surfaces inscribed with ancient runes that seemed to pulse faintly with unspoken words. Beneath the deep cut of her mantle was a form-fitting gown of silk and velvet, layered with panels of translucent organza that caught the golden light and cast capricious glints of heliotrope onto her skin. The hem of her dress was heavy with embroidery: silver crescents engulfed in fiery dragon motifs—a declaration of resilience in the face of divine fire and mortal strife.
A belt of chained silver lattice hugged her waist, supporting a ceremonial dagger sheathed in blackened leather and intricately adorned with amethyst and obsidian stones. The blade had already tasted the blood of an oracle earlier in the week; now, it threatened to thirst once more. Metallic anklets chimed off her sandal-covered feet, accompanying the melody of dread and hope that rang faintly through the temple. Her violet attire clashed both magnificently and rebelliously with the divine whites and golds of the sanctum—an unmistakable defiance of the hierophants who had long sought to control her destiny. She was a goddess’ handmaiden, and she bore her celestial rebellion in her colored fineries with pride.
She reached forward. The light of the altar’s sacred fire illuminated her smooth hands, marked on her palm with the sigil of the god of endings and renewal—an ouroboros intertwined with a rose. The ancient crystal orb resting above the altar required her to make a choice, but before she touched it, her mind fluttered unwillingly to the sins of the last three days, unraveling her thoughts in a series of fragmented memories…
Three days ago, Linya betrayed her closest confidant, a sworn protector of the kingdom who loved her more than life itself. The memory assaulted her: the aching, raw scream that tore from his throat as she whispered, “I choose my people, Konath, not you.” He had begged her not to enter the temple, not to summon the prophecy of the dying gods—yet here she was, standing at destiny’s precipice, palms trembling, soul alight with unresolved torment.
Two days ago, she sold the last remnant of her family’s crest, her mother’s jade-encrusted ring, for a chance to bribe the seer’s council. She could still feel the heavy weight of the sapphire merchant’s gaze as he weighed the ring, smiling with avarice that slashed through her mounting guilt. Her fingers had itched to snatch it back, to undo that moment forever.
And one day ago, she killed. She still couldn’t comprehend the ease with which the blade slid between the ribs of the oracle—a placid expression flicking to shock and then blank stillness. “To save thousands,” she told herself, inhaling the cavernous chill of death as if it could cleanse her. Yet her violet robes, so vibrant and breathtaking, carried the ghost of blood in their fibers—it was as though the hem whispered softly of her sins as she walked.
A sudden burst of deafening wind slammed through the temple doors, scattering the braziers’ light and plunging everything into twilight. Linya’s hand pressed against the orb, and the artifact sprang to life. Rivers of gold light surged outward through veins in the marble floor, weaving along cracks and crevices, spiraling toward the amethyst walls now shimmering like liquid galaxies.
The apparition materialized slowly in the smoke before her eyes: the god of Time himself, towering as an ethereal, translucent form. His eyes were made of shifting starfields. “You call upon what you do not yet understand,” he boomed, his voice resonating deep into her ribcage. Though his form was nebulous, it seemed to bow low—a terrifying gesture. She stood straighter, her arms stretched outward as though embracing both defiance and despair.
“I call because there is no other path.” Her voice rang loud, unwavering. Even as her robe whipped violently in the wind like the battle banners outside, Linya refused to falter. “Give me your vision, or take my soul. But do not delay. The people need an answer.”
The god seemed to consider her, his form shimmering and distorting. Then, softly but undeniably, he laughed—a sound as infinite as collapsing stars. What he spoke next shattered both her spirit and the temple itself.
Debris from the collapsing structure scattered as Linya sprinted out into the burning light of the setting sun. There was no prophecy to guide her; the vision had revealed only chaos. What lay before her now was neither salvation nor reckoning—it was a throne wreathed in fire. She gripped the ceremonial dagger tighter, the violet of her robes impossibly vivid against the battlefield haze of dust and blood-red skies.
The woman who had walked into the temple was not the same as the one left standing outside of it. Linya’s violet robes still spoke their tale—a defiant streak of violent beauty etched against the tragedy of downfall. The sibyl-queen raised the dagger high above her head and whispered to herself, “If gods will not save us, mortals must rise.”
And so, on that bloodied eve, the last remnants of dusk bore witness to the rise of the Twilight Queen, shrouded in violet and wrath.
Genre: Dark Fantasy
The Source…check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: Teal Tailored Jumpsuit with Retro Flair, Luxe Crepe Fabric, and Minimalist-Chic Style
Disclaimer: This article may contain affiliate links. If you click on these links and make a purchase, we may receive a commission at no additional cost to you. Our recommendations and reviews are always independent and objective, aiming to provide you with the best information and resources.
Get Exclusive Stories, Photos, Art & Offers - Subscribe Today!
3 comments