CHAPTER 709: [BLOOD MOON WAR] [50] VIESSA’S ROLE

Four long days had crawled by since Edward’s reckless assault on the capital of Valachia.

What was supposed to have been a carefully executed infiltration—meant to slip quietly into the city, rescue both Alicia and Levina, and vanish without a trace—had instead turned into something far louder, far bloodier. Edward had charged straight into the heart of the enemy capital and, in doing so, left behind chaos, destruction, and questions no one could ignore.

Word of the attack spread like wildfire. It didn’t take long for the news to reach every corner of the Resistance, and when it did, the reactions were sharp. Many shook their heads in disbelief, while others whispered in awe. Even Ernest and the other Heroes, usually so difficult to impress, were left questioning Edward’s sanity.

He had, after all picked a fight with the strongest fortress in Valachia, the Palace itself...

And yet... even those who disliked him, those who saw him as too stubborn, too brash, couldn’t help but feel a flicker of respect. To risk everything, to storm an enemy capital just for the sake of saving two people dear to him—it was madness, yes, but it was also the kind of madness that inspired people.

Viessa, when she first heard what had happened there, had been sick with worry. But all that fear gave way to relief when Edward finally returned. Or rather, when he was brought back. He wasn’t conscious, wasn’t even able to stand on his own, but he was alive. Sylvia had carried him back along Alicia, and Lisandra had returned with Levina safe and sound.

But someone was missing.

The one who had never left Edward’s side, the one who clung to him with an almost obsessive devotion—Amaya.

Viessa hadn’t pressed for details. She could see that asking would only make things heavier, and besides, Lisandra had already muttered a few words about Amaya still being alive, though her expression had been... complicated. That single look had said more than words ever could.

For now, the Resistance’s immediate concern was Edward himself. He hadn’t opened his eyes in four days. His wounds, though serious, were not fatal. Amaya’s strike hadn’t been deep enough to kill him obviously, and the healers assured them his body was mending. But still, he lingered in that quiet place between sleep and waking, as though weighed down by something unseen. Perhaps it wasn’t the body that was broken, but the heart. He had saved Alicia and Levina, yes, but at the cost of losing Amaya.

He lay now in one of the royal guest chambers, wrapped in silk sheets, the best healers the Resistance had to offer tending to him around the clock. Sylvia and Lisandra visited him daily, never failing to check on his condition.

What exactly they were hoping for, Viessa wasn’t sure. She wondered, too, where Amael had disappeared to, though she kept those questions locked behind her lips. There were things better left unsaid, and besides, her duties weighed too heavily on her shoulders to allow much time for speculation. She was, after all, one of the leaders of the Resistance.

And the storm of war was nearly upon them.

The full-scale assault on Valachia loomed on the horizon like a gathering thundercloud. Hundreds of thousands of knights were readying for battle, their banners raised, their armor gleaming. Reinforcements had poured in from kingdoms across Sancta Vedelia, all with a single purpose: to march against Valachia, against Regent King Rucain, and against the dreaded Vampire Witch herself.

Each passing day the pressure grew sharper, heavier, pressing down on the hearts of every soldier and commander alike. Viessa could feel it most of all but she had also another role to play it seems.

She stood in a place of overwhelming whiteness, where roots the color of ivory pulsed faintly beneath her feet. They stretched out in every direction, thick and alive, twisting into corridors that disappeared into endless light.

It was strange. Alien. And yet, there was a holiness to it that settled into her bones.

She knew this place.

The Holy Tree of Eden.

And standing before her, calmlu, was the one who had summoned her here—the Prophetess herself.

Viessa’s lips parted.

"This place..."

Her eyes flickered from the glowing roots to the Prophetess, searching for answers.

"The heart of the Holy Tree," the Prophetess said softly. "A sacred place only I, and the Guardian, may enter."

Viessa’s gaze wandered, wide-eyed, over the glowing corridors of white roots that pulsed with a slow rhythm, like veins carrying life itself. The light clung to her skin, bathing her in a glow that made the place feel both holy and otherworldly.

"It’s... beautiful," she whispered.

The Prophetess gave her a small, knowing smile. "I think you’ve already felt it, Viessa. The truth. You are destined to become the next Prophetess."

For a moment, Viessa could only stare, her lips parting as her heart hammered inside her chest. Those words were heavy, terrifying, and yet... something inside her had already known. Slowly, she nodded, lowering her head in quiet acceptance.

The Prophetess’s smile widened gently. Without another word, she turned and began walking deeper into the glowing corridors. The walls themselves seemed alive, the roots crawling and throbbing as if urging them forward.

"Why the hurry?" Viessa asked, quickening her pace to keep up, her boots echoing softly against the luminous floor.

The Prophetess did not slow. "Because we are reaching the final phase of this war," she said simply. "And I... do not have much time left."

"Prophetess..." Viessa’s twisted sadly.

But the older woman only offered her a serene glance. "You need not worry for me. I have done my role faithfully, until now. What matters is that you understand yours."

They walked in silence after that, their footsteps swallowed by the humming pulse of the tree. The sound grew louder the further they went, a deep, rhythmic thrum that reverberated in Viessa’s bones. She had noticed it faintly when she first arrived, but now it filled her ears entirely, like the heartbeat of something impossibly vast.

And then they entered the chamber.

The space was circular, vast and white, with roots from every corridor converging at the center. There, they wove together into a great, throbbing mass of light—an enormous, beating heart made of living wood and radiant energy.

Viessa froze, her breath caught in her throat. Inside that heart, bound within its pulsing embrace, was a figure.

A woman.

Her head hung low, white gold hair spilling forward like strands of silver light. Her arms were stretched outward, bound by countless white roots that slithered across her shoulders and limbs like chains. The sight was both holy and horrifying, as if divinity itself had been shackled.

"I present to you," the Prophetess said, her hands folded before her, "the Goddess whom you, and all Elves, have worshipped across the ages—Freyja."

"...!" Viessa’s entire body jolted, her eyes snapping wide. She turned sharply to the Prophetess, searching her face for some trace of jest, then back at the bound figure at the heart of the tree. "I–Impossible..."

The Prophetess’s expression was calm, almost mournful. "She is the reason the Holy Tree remains as stable as it is. She sacrificed herself to—"

"How laughable."

It was deep, feminine, dripping with scorn, and it echoed from everywhere at once, reverberating off the pulsating walls.

"...!"

Viessa whipped her head around, searching for the source, her breath quick and shallow. But there was no one else here. Only the chained Goddess, her head still bowed, unmoving.

Yet the voice had come from her.

"Goddess Freyja..." The Prophetess sank to one knee instantly, bowing her head low.

Viessa felt her knees buckle, and almost without thinking, she dropped beside her, pale and trembling. Her heart raced with disbelief, her mind struggling to accept that the Goddess herself was speaking before her eyes.

"What brings you here again, Celeste?" Freyja’s voice rolled through the chamber, weighty and cold.

The Prophetess remained bowed, silent.

And then Viessa felt it. That dreadful, unshakable sensation of being watched. The Goddess’s attention had shifted, and it was on her now. Viessa’s entire body stiffened, as though a thousand invisible chains had bound her where she knelt.

"The next Prophetess," Freyja said at last. The words were neither question nor blessing—only a fact.

"She will be taking good care of you," Celeste answered quickly softly.

But Freyja gave a low, amused hum. "I have no need of a mere human to care for me."

Her words rattled Viessa to her core, leaving her cold and breathless as she tried to steady herself.

"Are you certain of that, my Goddess?" the Prophetess asked, her lips curving into a quiet chuckle as she gazed upon Freyja’s bound form. The Goddess’s head remained bowed, her body seemingly lifeless within the pulsing heart of the tree—yet her voice rang through the chamber with quite clarity.

"Age has made you bold, Celeste," Freyja said, not the least bit upset. "But it matters little. I will soon be set free."

The Prophetess’s expression flickered, just for a heartbeat. "The consequences will be terrible for Sancta Vedelia," she warned softly.

Freyja’s laugh was bitter, devoid of mirth. "I have already given Sancta Vedelia more of myself than it ever deserved. My blood, my divinity, my very existence. This place has feasted long enough on my sacrifice."

The Prophetess bowed her head. "Indeed. And for that, we will be eternally grateful."

"Hmph." The sound Freyja made was dismissive, almost disdainful, yet there was no true heat behind it—only exhaustion.

The Prophetess’s smile returned, warm and strangely serene despite the Goddess’s coldness. "Then this may be the last time we speak like this," she said. "I came only to wish you well, Goddess Freyja. May you reach all your objectives."

"Even though my objective is to tear Eden apart?" Freyja’s voice rippled snarkily. "To destroy his pathetic utopia and burn it all to ash?"

Viessa flinched as if struck.

She had thought the Goddess terrifying when she first spoke, but this—this open declaration of hatred and destruction—was far more dreadful.

The Prophetess, however, did not falter. She merely smiled again, her eyes soft with a strange kind of faith. "The future is never set in stone, my Goddess. Perhaps even you, after thousands of years of aimless obedience, will find happiness. Bliss, even."

"You speak too much." Freyja’s retort was sharp, though not as venomous as Viessa expected.

Her eyes widened. The Prophetess was daring to speak to the Goddess as though they were equals—teasing even—and yet Freyja tolerated it. She wasn’t furious. In fact... it almost felt like there was a fragile, unspoken bond between them.

Which was normal.

Celeste had been the first Prophetess, serving for over three centuries. For three hundred years she had been the only one to visit Freyja here, to kneel before her, to converse with her. In that long span of time, even a vengeful goddess could grow accustomed to a single mortal’s presence. Perhaps, in her own way, Freyja had grown a sliver of affection for the old woman.

The Prophetess chuckled lightly, her smile deepening. "I thank you, my Goddess. For supporting me all this long. And though I will soon pass, I pray you find happiness in what lies ahead. Never forget your prophecy."

For once, Freyja fell silent. No mocking, no retort.

Celeste turned gracefully, her robes brushing against the glowing floor as she began to walk away. Viessa hurried after her, still shaken.

"Prophetess..." She called hesitantly.

The Prophetess didn’t stop walking.

"Viessa," she said. "When I die, and the mantle of Prophetess passes to you, all will become clear. You will understand. Your role. Your purpose."

"My... role?" Viessa asked, her brows furrowing as confusion swirled inside her.

The Prophetess nodded and, without breaking stride, reached into her sleeve. She withdrew a small ornate box and held it out to Viessa.

Startled, Viessa took it with trembling hands. Slowly, carefully, she lifted the lid.

Inside, resting upon a silken cushion, was a crystal no larger than a thumb. It glowed with a pure, white radiance, pulsing gently like the roots of the Holy Tree itself.