The Prophecy: Prologue

Thus spake the Oracle:

When the Dark Lord’s journey has been complete
For the very first time, he shall feel fear
The brethren swords shall signal defeat
And his empire will crumble and disappear

An unlikely Hero, the last of a line
With Allies to help in the time of most need.
Shall be Dark Lord’s equal with powers divine
But only with help shall the Hero succeed.


Prologue

Azethrius rushed down the black halls of the castle after his master. “But my Lord, it hasn’t been tested yet! We don’t know if it’s safe!”
The Dark Lord, clad in stygian armor forged out of the very shadows, continued on undisturbed.
“I’m aware of that, but we don’t have any choice. I have received word that the Chosen One is on his way.”
“What?” Azethrius’ pointed, Elven ears perked up. “But he just started his training!”
“Apparently he's a quick learner,” the Dark Lord responded.
“Then we must send out the Ravager!”
“We did.”
Shadows poured off the Dark Lord, fluttering close behind. Sometimes they appeared as ebony wings, sometimes as a tattered, flowing cape. It was impossible to discern what was truly there, for to gaze upon the Dark Lord's true form was to invite madness into one's mind, even by those loyal to him. Only vaguely humanoid in shape, he stood a full head above the tallest man. Raw power emanated from him like a blast of a winter gale. Those who dared face him were left broken and trampled by his might.
And yet he was running away.
The Dark Lord’s destination was a room hidden deep under his castle, surrounded by concealment spells strong enough to hide an armada. It was a room designed with a single purpose: to keep him safe from what was coming. And, ironically, it posed almost as great a threat to him currently. It wasn’t far to the room, but getting there wasn't the concern – it was whether or not he would be leaving it.
An explosion rocked the hall as one of the defensive catapults crashed through the wall where the pair had been a moment ago. A huge piece of rubble hurtled toward the Azethrius. Before he had time to react, the Dark Lord stepped in front and caught the stone in one hand.
“You’re still too useful to me to die yet,” he said, tossing the rubble aside.
With the integrity of the hall breached, the sounds of the orcish army struggling to defend their Lord slipped inside.
“No," Azethrius breathed. "He can't be here already.”
The Dark Lord stayed silent, concealing his surprise. The Hero's progress was astounding. To go from discovering his destiny to assaulting the castle directly so quickly was completely unheard of. Had the Dark Lord’s designs been discovered by the Hero or his teacher somehow? Or perhaps it went even higher…
The Dark Lord drew his sword, Fylgja, the jet-black blade sucking in light around it. It pulsed in his grip, calling out to its twin. The pulses were frequent – it was near.
Azethrius spoke up once again as they continued on their way, “My Lord, if I may ask?”
“Continue.”
“Are you certain this is the correct course of action? After all, we’ve had years to prepare for his arrival, so it’s quite possible we might be able to defeat him this time.”
The castle trembled as the outer fortifications fell.
“I am aware of the state of our defenses, Azethrius,” the Dark Lord said as he pushed through a hidden door in the wall, revealing a dark hole leading beneath the castle.
“I know, my Lord. I’m simply attempting to change your mind. If your mortal form didn't survive, it would be a rather ignominious end.”
The Dark Lord chose not to respond as he descended. The door closed behind them.
“I’ve considered every possibility. There is no denying a Great Prophecy once it has been spoken. The ability to trick one, however, is less definite.”
Azethrius had to jog to keep up with his Lord's lengthy stride. “Perhaps I might be more approving of this plan if it were explained to me.”
“Since when did I need to explain myself to you?”
"I would never imply that you must do anything, my Lord, but I cannot do my duty of advising you without the relevant information."
The Dark Lord went silent for a moment. There was no sound except for their footfalls reverberating through the cramped tunnels like a racing heartbeat.
Finally, the Dark Lord spoke up, “You know the Prophecy.”
“Of course. It stipulates that you will be defeated when your quest is complete. And seeing as how you have successfully overthrown the world’s forces, it would seem the first line is fulfilled. So naturally, the next part involves the Hero defeating you and bringing down your empire.”
“Precisely.”
“But I fail to see how giving up will help you avoid that.”
“Then let's consider if I step aside and allow my empire to crumble unimpeded. Would it fulfill the terms of the Prophecy?”
“Given that your death is not strictly specified…”
“Yet it would also allow me to once again rise to power, this time free of the shackles of any interfering prophecies. Hypothetically,” he added. "The emergence of a new Great Prophecy is tied to my return to the mortal realm. But what if I never leave it?"
Azethrius took a moment to absorb what he'd heard. “As always, you show your brilliance, my Lord. I'm sure that–”
At that moment, a loud thud radiated down the tunnels from the direction they had come, stopping the two in their tracks. A warm glow illuminated the area: the light from the Hero’s blade. A booming, valorous call followed a few seconds later, “Halt, you fiend! You cannot flee from your fate! Your evil plans end here!”
The voice exuded divine magic that none but the Dark Lord could sense – the voice of the Chosen One.
Azethrius turned to the Dark Lord, his pale eyes wide with shock.
“Run, my Lord! I'll try to hold him off.”
“Wait!” The Dark Lord grabbed his shoulder and held out Fylgja. “Take this.”
Azethrius’ mouth dropped open. “But… my Lord…”
“Take it! This is one of the brethren swords. You’ll need it to fulfill the third line!”
Azethrius gripped the handle and bowed.
“My Lord, do you think this will be written in the histories?”
The Dark Lord considered what answer would inspire the elf to survive a few seconds longer.
“The Dark Lord’s lieutenant standing his ground against the Hero? Yes, this will be remembered.”
Azethrius smiled, his desires sated.
The Dark Lord gave a nod and charged down the tunnels. The entrance to the secret was nearby, it was just a question of if he could get there before the Hero could reach him. Azethrius’ sacrifice wouldn't buy much time.
The passage shook as the brethren swords clashed, followed by cries of, “Have at thee!” Then a few seconds later silence descended.
The Dark Lord reached a wall. Two paths stretched out, one to the left and one to the right. He could travel down either path, but neither led to his destination - they were simply distractions. Instead, he went straight to the wall in front of him and pressed his hand against it, sending a stream of magical energy coursing through the rock. Instantaneously, the floor beneath him became incorporeal, dropping him onto a ramp that led down to the secret room.
The chamber was small, barely big enough to hold a small bed imbued with magic designed to keep him in suspended animation until it was safe to awaken. It was devoid of anything else that might interfere with the delicate enchantments.
The moment he hit the bottom of the ramp he lay down on the stasis bed. He closed his eyes and felt the magic seep into his mortal form. It saturated his essence, every cell of his body, as it began the process of freezing him in time. His bodily functions began shutting down one by one. His heartbeat gradually slowed to nothing, and then he saw no more.