Tale of the False Prophet: A Medieval Fantasy LitRPG by Oswin Noam

Author:Oswin, Noam
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Noam Oswin
Published: 2025-06-04T00:00:00+00:00

“FROM THE FIRST FLAME, man was born, and to it, man will return. We gather to return our sister, daughter, friend, wife, and mother, Marianne Mire, to the First Flame.”

There were women, weeping, whom I’d never known my wife had been connected with. There were those mourning, I’d seen, perhaps in passing, once or twice, who had come to offer condolences, and spoke of how great a woman she was.

“She was kind, very kind.”

“Diligent, hardworking.”

“I’d never once failed to smile in her presence.”

“Without her, I’d never have learned the means to...”

“She’d always stopped by to check on me when I was...”

“In truth, I’d always been an admirer...”

They spoke of my wife and her impact on their lives. They spoke of the small kindnesses she offered that she’d never told. They spoke of the sides of her I’d known since when we were little, but I’d seen only in brief glimpses and drop-like doses since we wedded. There were more here, to mourn her, than there had been for my uncle.

She’d been my wife for five summers. Before that, envied as she was, she’d still been beloved by many. I’d not thought much of it. I’d not grasped it, even now, as she was returned to flame, as was my uncle, in the Mire Family Home. Married into the family, bearing my name, it was so, her right, to be returned to flame here. Where, in the future, I too, would return, beside her.

Many wept and many grieved, but none more so than one man.

“Bastard!”

Henry attacked me.

The man’s fist buried itself into my face and pounded against my eye. I saw only darkness and stars for a moment as my father-in-law’s meaty hands struck. Even as a man of fifty-five summers, his hands delivered blows akin to hammers. It’d taken Finn, Mikael, my nephew, Ishvi, who held a Battle Anointment, to pull him off me.

“I told her to check if the babe would be a boy or girl! If you’d done so she’d have known early t’was both! Now she’s gone! My daughter, my little girl — my darling Marianne!”

I held my battered, bruised eye, and said nothing in response. Henry, the man who none had ever seen so much as complain of an ache, or a pain, had collapsed unto his knees, a blubbering mess.

After Yelena emerged, the Midwife had told me her Miracles were effective upon all women, but less so as they aged. Most within Beatitude bore children from as early as sixteen summers to as late as twenty-nine. Had one crossed thirty summers, the Miracle began to falter. At thirty-and-four, Marianne was the oldest in the village the Midwife had ever helped with birth.

Had she been carrying a single child, though it would be perilous, mother and child would have pulled through.

Marianne had carried twins.

None of the three could withstand the Birthfire.

My sister-in-law aided me up, her eyes puffed and reddened. “It’s not your fault Nikolaos. Even — even had she known it was twins, she’d still have gone through with it.

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