Contents
About Prompt
- Prompt Type – Scene-by-Scene
- Prompt Platform – Google Veo
- Language – English
- Category – Video/Story
- Prompt Title – VEO 3 Prompt – The Fire Priest of Azura
Prompt Details
🎬 Scene 1
The vast, cavernous heart of the Azura Temple is a study in decay and defiant grandeur, a space carved from the living rock of a dormant volcano. The air is thick with the scent of ancient stone, cold incense, and the subterranean dampness that seeps through fissures in the obsidian walls. Moonlight, thin and ethereal like watered-down milk, struggles to penetrate the gloom, piercing through a high, fractured oculus in the ceiling to cast a single, spectral pillar of light onto the centre of the chamber. This lonely beam illuminates a circular dais of polished black basalt, upon which rests a colossal, unlit brazier forged from pitted, blackened iron, its wide bowl empty and waiting. The surrounding chamber is a symphony of shadow and texture; colossal pillars, their surfaces covered in barely-legible, eroded glyphs telling tales of forgotten gods and cataclysmic battles, recede into an oppressive darkness. The floor is a mosaic of hexagonal stones, each one cracked and uneven, their grout long since turned to dust, making every footstep a soft crunch. Water drips from unseen stalactites high above, the rhythmic, echoing plinks the only sound in the profound silence. Standing before the dais is Kaelen, the Fire Priest. His crimson robes seem to drink the darkness, the faded gold embroidery barely catching the stray moonlight. His posture is rigid, a pillar of unwavering resolve, yet his shoulders betray a deep, bone-wearying exhaustion. He faces the brazier, his back to the camera, his silver-ash hair stark against the deep red of his vestments. In the deeper shadows near a crumbling archway, Lyra watches him. She is a sliver of motion in the stillness, her form partially obscured by a column. The pale moonlight catches the sharp line of her jaw and the questioning intensity in her vibrant green eyes. Her hand rests on the cold stone of the pillar, her fingers tracing the gritty surface, her knuckles white. She is not merely observing; she is judging, weighing the silence, the man, and the impending ritual with a skepticism that feels almost sacrilegious in this hallowed, forgotten place.
🎵 Tone: Somber / Anticipatory
🎬 Scene 2
The moment of ignition is intimate and agonizingly slow. Kaelen raises his hands, palms down, holding them directly over the cold, cavernous maw of the iron brazier. His movements are a study in practiced grace, yet a subtle tremor runs through his forearms, betraying the immense focus and dread coiled within him. The camera is tight on his hands and face, capturing every minute detail. His hands are not those of a scholar; they are weathered, the skin calloused, the knuckles scarred, with old burn marks tracing faint, white patterns across his skin like lightning strikes. The obsidian amulet on his chest swings forward slightly, its polished surface reflecting a distorted, dark image of the chamber. He closes his eyes, his face a mask of intense concentration. The fine lines around his eyes and mouth deepen. A single bead of sweat traces a path from his temple down his gaunt cheek. He inhales sharply, his chest rising beneath the heavy crimson robes, and on the exhale, a low, guttural chant escapes his lips—a single, resonant word in a forgotten tongue. As the sound dies, a faint, orange glow emanates from his palms. It begins as a delicate web of light, like incandescent veins spreading across his skin, before coalescing into two spheres of pure, liquid fire. The fire does not burn his flesh but seems to spring from it, a raw, magical energy made manifest. The light is fierce, casting the sharp angles of his face in a dramatic, hellish chiaroscuro, making his pale grey eyes gleam like hot coals. He winces, a sharp intake of breath hissing through his teeth as the flames detach from his hands and drop into the brazier. With a sudden, explosive ‘WHOOMPH’, the fire erupts, filling the bowl and roaring upwards in a vortex of orange, yellow, and scarlet. The sudden light banishes the shadows, revealing the full, crumbling scale of the chamber in a flickering, violent dance of light and darkness.
🎵 Tone: Painful / Awe-inspiring
🎬 Scene 3
The roaring flames cast a frantic, living light across the chamber, making the shadows writhe like tormented spirits. Lyra steps out from behind the pillar, her face illuminated by the flickering fire, her expression a mixture of awe and profound unease. The warmth of the blaze does not seem to touch her; her posture is tense, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as if to ward off a chill. She takes a few deliberate steps towards the dais, her soft boots making no sound on the cracked stone, her eyes fixed not on the magnificent fire but on Kaelen. He stands with his head bowed, his hands now clenched into fists at his sides, his knuckles white. His breathing is ragged, the aftershocks of the magical exertion still coursing through him. The light catches the sheen of sweat on his brow and the weary sag of his shoulders. Lyra stops a respectful distance away, the fire between them. The heat distorts the air, making Kaelen’s formidable figure shimmer as if he were a phantom. Her voice, when she speaks, is low but cuts through the roar of the fire with startling clarity. It is not the voice of a fearful acolyte but of an equal challenging a flawed premise. Her green eyes are wide and earnest, searching his face for a sign of reason, of doubt, of anything other than this blind, painful devotion. Kaelen lifts his head slowly, the firelight carving deep shadows into the hollows of his cheeks. His pale grey eyes meet hers, and for a moment, they are not the eyes of a priest but of a tired, cornered man. The air crackles with more than just magical heat; it is thick with the weight of unspoken history, of tradition clashing with logic, of a chasm opening between two generations bound to the same dying faith.
🎵 Tone: Confrontational / Tense
🎬 Scene 4
As Kaelen finishes speaking, the very nature of the fire in the brazier changes. The chaotic, roaring inferno of orange and yellow begins to coalesce, the flames drawing inward as if pulled by an unseen gravity. The roaring sound deepens into a resonant, humming thrum, and the light intensifies, shifting from a warm orange to a brilliant, almost blinding sapphire blue. The sudden change washes the chamber in a cold, ethereal light, leeching the warmth from the scene and replacing it with a divine, terrifying luminescence. The glyphs on the pillars seem to pulse with faint blue energy, and the air grows heavy and static, like the moment before a lightning strike. Kaelen and Lyra are frozen, their argument forgotten, both transfixed by the impossible spectacle. In the heart of the blue vortex, the flames twist and weave, forming a distinct, horrifying image: a colossal, weeping eye. It is not a perfect representation but a fluid, fiery sculpture of sorrow. The eye itself is a swirling nucleus of white-hot fire, while the iris is a deep, vibrant cobalt. A single, slow-motion ‘tear’ of molten blue flame detaches from the bottom of the eye and drips back into the fiery mass below, the splash silent but sending out a ripple of light that washes over the characters’ stunned faces. Kaelen lets out a sharp, choked gasp, a sound of pure, unadulterated shock. His stoic mask shatters, replaced by an expression of raw awe and terror. He takes an involuntary step back, his hand flying to the obsidian amulet at his chest as if to ward off the vision or draw strength from it. Lyra is equally stunned, her skepticism vaporized in the face of this divine manifestation. Her mouth is slightly agape, her green eyes wide, reflecting the terrible, beautiful vision in the flames.
🎵 Tone: Supernatural / Terrifying
🎬 Scene 5
The vision of the weeping eye holds for a breathtaking second before it implodes, the blue flames collapsing back into a chaotic, normal orange fire with a deafening roar. The instant it does, the entire temple is seized by a violent, deep-seated tremor. This is not the gentle shaking of a distant quake; it is a fundamental upheaval, as if the mountain itself is groaning in agony. The ground lurches violently, throwing Lyra off balance. She stumbles, her arms flailing for a moment before she catches herself against a pillar, her face pale with fright. Kaelen, more accustomed to the mountain’s moods, plants his feet, his body swaying with the motion like an old tree in a storm. High above, the fractured oculus groans, and a web of new cracks spiders across the stone ceiling. A shower of dust and small pebbles rains down, pattering onto the floor and hissing as they land in the brazier’s fire. The rhythmic dripping of water is replaced by a cascade as new fissures open. A deep, grinding roar echoes from the bowels of the earth, a sound that vibrates through the soles of their boots and into their bones. The pillars around them seem to shift, the ancient glyphs blurring as dust shakes loose from their crevices. The fire in the brazier leaps and dances wildly, its flames unnaturally tall and ragged, casting panicked, distorted shadows that jump and retreat across the walls. The very foundations of their world are coming apart. The moment is one of pure, primal chaos. Lyra presses herself against the stone pillar, her knuckles white, her eyes wide with terror as she looks up at the groaning ceiling. Kaelen’s expression is grim, his jaw tight. He is no longer looking at the fire, but around the chamber, at the tangible evidence of his goddess’s weakening power, the decay of her divine protection made terrifyingly real.
🎵 Tone: Chaotic / Dangerous
🎬 Scene 6
The tremor subsides as quickly as it began, leaving behind a ringing silence broken only by the crackle of the fire and the drip of water from new wounds in the ceiling. The air is thick with chalky dust, which swirls in the firelight like a dense fog, creating visible rays and beams. Lyra pushes herself away from the pillar, her body still trembling slightly from adrenaline. She coughs, waving a hand in front of her face to clear the air, her eyes wide and still reflecting the terror of the moment. She turns her gaze to Kaelen, her question already forming on her lips. But Kaelen has moved. He now stands directly before her, his tall frame blocking her view of the brazier. The fire behind him creates a fearsome silhouette, but the light that spills around his shoulders illuminates his face with a terrible clarity. The weary priest is gone, replaced by a grim harbinger of fate. His expression is stripped of all emotion save for a profound, chilling certainty. The pale grey of his eyes seems to have hardened into flint. He looks down at Lyra, and the weight of his gaze is immense, a physical pressure. The dust motes dance between them, a glittering, ephemeral veil separating them. His crimson robes are now coated in a fine layer of grey dust, dulling their colour. The obsidian amulet on his chest is the only thing that seems untouched, a void of perfect blackness against the muted red. He speaks, and his voice is no longer just weary; it is hollowed out, a mere vessel for the terrifying decree he is about to deliver. Every syllable is precise, cold, and utterly devoid of hope, landing in the silent chamber with the finality of a coffin lid shutting.
🎵 Tone: Grim / Foreboding
🎬 Scene 7
The meaning of Kaelen’s words crashes over Lyra with the force of a physical blow. For a split second, her expression is one of pure incomprehension, her brow furrowed as her mind races to dissect the cryptic, horrifying pronouncement. Then, understanding dawns, and the colour drains from her face, leaving her skin ashen in the firelight. Her vibrant green eyes, moments before filled with fear for the temple, now widen with a far more personal and profound horror. A small, almost inaudible gasp escapes her lips. The air around her seems to grow colder, the fire’s heat unable to penetrate the icy dread that has seized her. She takes a half-step back, a reflexive, instinctual retreat from the man she has known for years, who has suddenly become a stranger, a monster cloaked in the familiar crimson robes of a priest. Her hands, which were clenched at her sides, fly up to her mouth, as if to physically stifle the scream building in her throat. Her gaze is locked on Kaelen, searching his flint-like eyes for any sign of madness, any flicker of the compassionate mentor she once knew, but she finds nothing but grim, terrifying purpose. The dust swirling in the air seems to thicken between them, a tangible representation of the unbridgeable gulf that has just opened. Her breath hitches, and when she finally speaks, her voice is a ragged, trembling whisper, laced with disbelief and revulsion. The pragmatic, questioning acolyte is gone, replaced by a young woman staring into the abyss of fanaticism and seeing her own reflection in its dark waters. The tarnished silver locket at her throat seems to burn cold against her skin, a forgotten link to a world outside this chamber of fire and madness.
🎵 Tone: Horrified / Accusatory
🎬 Scene 8
Kaelen’s face remains an impassive mask, his grey eyes watching Lyra’s horror without a flicker of response. He does not acknowledge her accusation of murder, dismissing it as irrelevant. Instead, he turns away from her, a slow, deliberate movement that is both a rejection of her plea and a commitment to his path. He faces the roaring fire once more, the heat washing over him, the light playing across the hard lines of his face. Then, with a fluid, practiced motion, he reaches across his body with his right hand and unfastens the buckle on the hardened leather bracer on his left forearm. The sound of the leather creaking and the metal buckle scraping is unnaturally loud in the tense silence. He pulls the bracer off, revealing the pale skin beneath. His forearm is a roadmap of old, silvery scars, but what draws the eye is a complex, swirling glyph that has been branded into his flesh just below the elbow. It is an ancient symbol of Azura, one not seen in texts for centuries, a mark of the highest, most painful devotion. He tosses the bracer aside; it clatters onto the stone floor with a sharp, final sound. He holds his bare arm out, not towards the fire, but angled slightly so that Lyra can see it clearly. His gaze then shifts, not to her, but to his own marked flesh. A flicker of something—not doubt, but a deep, profound sorrow—finally breaks through his stoic facade. His jaw clenches, and a deep line forms between his brows. The firelight gleams on the branded symbol, making it seem to writhe like a living thing. The air is thick with unspoken finality. This is not the act of a murderer choosing a victim; it is the act of a martyr choosing his own pyre. The sacrifice was never her; it was him. His doubt, his faith, his very being.
🎵 Tone: Tragic / Resolute
🎬 Scene 9
Without another word, without a moment’s hesitation that might betray him, Kaelen takes a final, resolute step towards the brazier. He is no longer a priest performing a ritual; he is an offering walking to the altar. He raises his marked arm, the branded glyph seeming to pulse with a dark energy in the intense heat. He closes his eyes, a final, fleeting expression of pain and acceptance crossing his features, and then he acts. He plunges his forearm deep into the roaring heart of the fire. The effect is instantaneous and cataclysmic. The moment his flesh touches the magical flames, the fire explodes. It is not a normal combustion; it is a divine detonation. The colour of the fire shifts instantly from orange to a searing, brilliant white, a light so intense it bleaches all colour from the chamber, turning everything into a stark, high-contrast tableau of black and blinding white. The roar of the fire transforms into a deafening, high-pitched shriek of pure energy. A wave of force and heat blasts outwards from the brazier, sending Lyra stumbling backwards, her arm thrown up to shield her eyes from the incandescent light. Kaelen is engulfed. His body arches back, every muscle locked in a spasm of unimaginable agony. A scream is torn from his throat, a sound that is not entirely human. It is a fusion of excruciating pain and ecstatic release, the sound of a soul being simultaneously destroyed and reborn. The white fire clings to him, consuming his robes, his flesh, the very air around him, yet it is not a fire of simple destruction. It is a fire of purification, of transmutation. The ancient glyph on his arm burns the brightest, a beacon of pure energy at the center of the celestial inferno. His sacrifice is being accepted.
🎵 Tone: Agonizing / Climactic
🎬 Scene 10
The blinding white light and the deafening shriek vanish in an instant, plunging the chamber into absolute silence and a darkness more profound than before. The fire in the brazier is gone, not even a single ember remains, only a wisp of grey smoke curling up from the cold iron. The sudden absence of sound is a physical presence, a heavy blanket that smothers everything. As Lyra lowers her arm, her eyes slowly adjusting to the gloom, the scene before her is one of quiet devastation. Kaelen lies crumpled on the floor at the base of the dais, his body a heap of scorched crimson cloth. He is unconscious, or perhaps worse. His sacrificed arm is horrifically burned, but there is no blood; the flesh is cauterized into a blackened, obsidian-like substance. The rest of him seems miraculously unharmed. The chamber is still. The tremors have ceased. The air, once thick with dust and magic, is now clear and strangely calm. Then, a new light begins to bloom. It is not the violent light of the fire, but a soft, gentle, and impossibly warm glow emanating from the obsidian amulet on Kaelen’s chest. The stone, once a light-devouring void, now pulses with an inner luminescence, the colour of a sunrise. It casts a soft, golden light on Kaelen’s still face, smoothing away the lines of pain and exhaustion, leaving him looking peaceful for the first time. The light from the amulet grows, pushing back the oppressive darkness, touching the pillars and the walls, but this time the light reveals not decay, but solidity. The new cracks in the ceiling are gone. A faint, almost imperceptible warmth fills the chamber. Lyra stands frozen, her terror replaced by a profound, shell-shocked awe. The sacrifice was accepted. The price was paid. But as she looks at the broken form of the Fire Priest and the miraculous, glowing heart of his goddess resting on his chest, she cannot tell if this is a victory or the most tragic defeat of all.
🎵 Tone: Ambiguous / Awe-filled