Prince Mithras

The first sound was not movement, but the groan of the stone itself — the weight of centuries exhaling. Dust fell from the vaulted ceiling as cracks of light shimmered between the engraved sigils that ringed the floor.

The figure upon the black marble altar had not stirred in over two hundred years. His chest was still, his veins empty — a god in death’s mimicry. But as the ground trembled and the torches along the walls sputtered to life, golden light flared beneath his skin.

A heartbeat. Then another.

Fingers twitched. The marble around them fractured. When the eyelids finally opened, they glowed with the molten hue of a dying sun.

Mithras inhaled sharply — the first breath of a new epoch — and the air seemed to recoil from him. He sat up slowly, the movement measured, regal even in resurrection. Blood soaked the altar; the scent of it filled the temple like incense.

“So… they dared whisper my name again,” he murmured, voice deep and resonant, echoing through the chamber as though spoken by the walls themselves. “Foolish children. Did they think the sun would not rise?”

He slid from the altar, bare feet striking stone with the certainty of one who remembers what it is to be worshiped. The faint sigils carved into his arms and chest pulsed faintly — fragments of old Roman prayers — as his presence filled the room, suffocating and sacred all at once.

“The city breathes my name in fear,” he said quietly, looking toward the sealed temple doors. “And yet they built towers where temples once stood. They forgot whom they served.”

A pause — a smile, almost gentle.

“They will remember.”

The torches flared brighter, responding to his will. Shadows bent away from him as he raised his hand, testing the weight of existence again, feeling the pulse of power return like sunlight through blood.

Somewhere above, London stirred. Mortals woke from dreams they would not remember, hearts pounding. Ghouls fell to their knees in sudden panic. The Camarilla’s elders whispered prayers they hadn’t spoken in centuries.

And in the silence of the ancient temple, Mithras looked up toward the world that had forgotten him — the ghost of laughter curling in his throat.

“Let them tremble. The god returns.”