Once Betrayed Never Forgotten

Chapter 90: The Fire’s Truth–1

We stand among the remnants of battle, the air tinged with the scent of scorched earth and smoldering embers. I’m breathless, not from the fight, but from the display of sheer power and grace by Pyra, the High Priestess of Rathika the Blood Scribe. She’s like a figure from a legend, a warrior bathed in the glow of her own fiery strength. Her strawberry blonde hair cascades over her shoulders, shining like threads of gold spun from firelight. Her golden eyes, reflecting a fierce and indomitable will, meet mine, and I feel a surge of admiration–not envy, but the pure awe of witnessing something extraordinary. She’s so beautiful, and so frikkin badass.

As I’m lost in my thoughts, marveling at her prowess, Bloodbane’s voice cuts through the silence, sharp and suspicious. “You are lying,” he asserts, his tone edged with a distrust that snaps me out of my reverie. “The Blood Scribe is a Blood Wraith. You are a Fire Wraith. Our races are mortal enemies. The Blood Scribe would never take a Fire Wraith as her high priestess.

Pyra’s expression doesn’t waver; instead, a grim smile plays upon her lips as she faces Bloodbane. “You think in terms too black and white, Blood Wraith,” she begins, her voice calm yet resonating with an underlying strength. “Yes, traditionally, our races have been enemies, but life… life finds a way to blur those lines.

She takes a deep breath, her golden gaze shifting to the horizon for a moment before returning to us. “I was but a child when my parents, dissenters of the Fire Wraiths brutal ways, fled with me. They sought peace, a life away from eternal conflict and flames. They found sanctuary with the Blood Scribe. She raised me, taught me, showed me that one’s birth does not dictate one’s fate.”

“When my parents were slain in a raid, the Blood Scribe took me under her wing. I was trained not just in the arts of fire but in the ways of blood magic, the very essence that flows through all creatures. The same magic you possess. Through my mistress teachings, I have learned to wield a unique combination of the powers of fire and blood.”

Bloodbane frowns, his skepticism apparent. “And how did you come to be held captive by these Fire Wraith barbarians?” he probes, seeking a crack in her armor of words. The Priestesses of the Blood Scribe never leave the Scarlet Peaks.”

“Never is too strong a word,” she replies. “We leave when we are needed, during times of war, famine and disaster. I was tending to the wounded on the outskirts of our realm when the Fire Wraiths captured me. They despised my allegiance to the Blood Scribe and sought to punish what they saw as treachery,” she explains, her voice steady despite the haunting memories.

Each time Bloodbane attempts to challenge her story, she meets his doubts with clear, unwavering explanations. I find myself trusting her, drawn in by her sincerity and the resonating truth in her words. Bloodbane remains unconvinced, his glawing red eyes narrowing slightly as he processes her story.

Pyra turns

to me, her gaze softening. “I am in your debt, and you seek an audience with the Blood Scribe. I will take you to her, and I will vouch for you,” she declares with a regal nod.

Astonished, I ask, “How did you know where we were headed?”

Her slight smile returns. There is only one destination in the direction you were traveling. And only one reason anyone would dare venture into these perilous lands.

The weight of her words settles between us, and I feel a mixture of relief and anticipation. Here is someone who has bridged the divide between fire and blood, who might help us navigate the challenges ahead.

Bloodbane, though still visibly wary, gives a reluctant nod. “We should move,” he says gruffly, glancing around the smoldering battlefield. “Night is approaching, and with it, the dangers of this realm grow.”

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Chapter 90: The Fire’s Truth–2

Nightfall drapes a velvety cloak over the world, the shadows deepening and the air growing chill as we ascend through the increasingly rugged terrain. The only sounds are our footsteps, the crunch of scorched earth beneath our boots, and the occasional distant howl of some nocturnal creature–its cry echoing eerily across the desolate landscape…

Bloodbane walks beside me, his presence a silent, brooding force. I can feel the tension radiating from him, a tangible aura of vigilance and mistrust. He keeps casting wary glances at Pyra, who leads our small band with unwavering confidence. Her form is a mesmerizing spectacle, enveloped in gentle flames that dance around her like ethereal guardians. The fire illuminates our path, casting everything in a warm, otherworldly glow that starkly contrasts with the cool darkness of the night.

For hours we walk in silence, the incline growing steeper as we approach our destination. My legs burn with the effort of the climb, but the sight ahead fuels my determination. The Scarlet Peaks loom before us, their jagged summits slicing into the night sky like wounds. The mountains are an awe- inspiring sight, composed of deep red stone that seems to bleed into the darkness around them. Steps hewn into the rock lead upwards, winding and

steep.

Pyra’s fiery aura grows brighter as we approach the steps, her flames intensifying in response to the sacred ground she treads. She is a beacon in the darkness, a living bonfire whose light wards off the more malevolent shadows that linger at the edges of our vision.

Bloodbane’s hand rests near the hilt of a weapon forged from his own blood–a constant reminder of his readiness to defend, or perhaps to challenge. His voice, when he finally breaks the silence, is low and tense. “Keep your wits about you,” he murmurs, his gaze fixed on the flaming figure ahead. “Not all that guides us is benevolent

I nod, understanding his caution but feeling an inexplicable trust in Pyra. Her strength and serenity under such relentless scrutiny speak volumes of her character and the truth of her story. Yet, I can’t dismiss Bloodbane’s instincts–his experiences in these realms far surpass my own, and his suspicion could well be our salvation.

As we ascend the ancient steps, the wind picks up, howling through the peaks with mournful tones. It carries with it the scent of iron and age, the breath of the mountain mingling with the heat of Pyra’s flames. The contrast is surreal, like walking through a doorway from one world into another- threshold between what was known and what is yet to be discovered.

Pyra pauses at a particularly narrow ledge, turning back to face us. Her eyes, glowing like molten gold, reflect the flames that envelop her. “We are close now,” she says, her voice carrying over the wind. The sanctuary of the Blood Scribe is just beyond this ascent. If you wish to turn back, now is the time. She will look into your heart when you kneel before her throne, and if your heart is filled with wickedness, it will be at your peril.” NôvelDrama.Org owns © this.

ng in the air. Bloodbane exchanges a look with me, an unspoken agreement in his nod. Whatever lies ahead, it’s too late to turn back now.

Her words hang

With renewed resolve, we follow Pyra’s flaming form, each step taking us higher into the heart of the Scarlet Peaks. The mountains seem to acknowledge our presence, the red stones glowing faintly as if warmed by the fire that leads us.

As we reach the summit, the landscape o opens up

to reveal a vast plateau, dominated by a structure carved directly into the mountain itself. It is both fortress and temple, its walls and spires etched with runes that shimmer under Pyra’s light.

As we draw nearer to the temple, I take in a strange and awe–inspiring sight. Flanking the entrance to the temple, two colossal trees stand as guardians. On the left, a massive tree crafted entirely of gold reaches towards the dark night sky. Its twisted branches, thick as ancient roots, are adorned with leaves made of pure gold that drip elegantly from every limb. The leaves glimmer under the firelight from Pyra’s flames, casting a golden glow that bathes the entrance in a warm, radiant light, making the tree shimmer like a living sun. Opposite it, the tree on the right is forged from silver, its surface polished to a mirror–like sheen that reflects the moonlight. Its branches stretch out gracefully, covered in silver leaves that flutter slightly in the wind, shining with a luminescent quality that gives the impression of moonlight captured in solid form. Together, these metallic trees frame the temple’s entrance, creating a breathtaking spectacle of day and night standing in eternal watch over the sacred threshold.

“Are you ready to enter the Sanctuary of the Blood Scribe?” Pyra asks solemnly, pausing at the entrance.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I say.

And so, we enter