Prologue
In a shattered realm—one long lost to the fading memory of the Ancients—a solitary tower stood upon the peak of a mountain range, cloaked in mist and shadow.
Amidst those jagged ledges, crumbling with decay, arose a single stairway hewn from the very stone of the mountain itself. Carved by the royal Shadow Priests, each step was inlaid with protective warding runes, enchanted so that only those who werechosencould traverse from the Gates of Hel to the very pinnacle of this umbral domain.
The young prince had climbed nearly a thousand steps so far. It was no small feat—and with each step forward, he felt the weight of his crown grow heavier and heavier upon his brow. As they approached the summit, the atmosphere had grown deafeningly quiet. The only sounds that broke through the silence were those of boots against stone—the measured, reverberating footsteps of his father, his mother, and the kingsguard as they followed closely behind.
When the prince took a brief moment to pause and catch his breath, he could hear the faintest howl of wind in the distance. A storm beginning to brew somewhere just beyond the horizon.
“Go on, boy,” the Shadow King demanded.
The boy was trying so very hard to be brave, having set his jaw and mimicked his father’s intense stoicism all day long. But now that they were just a few feet from the ceremonial chambers...
“Father, I am frightened,” he confessed, head hung low with shame. Feeling the crown begin to slip, he quickly adjusted his posture, straightening his spine. Fates forbid he break decorumandshow his cowardice.
“No,” the Shadow King replied. “You are not.”
He did not look down at his son while he spoke, did not deign to lower his glacial gaze for even a moment. The regal, pale man simply stared ahead, emotionless eyes affixed to the Tower. As the boy—his heir—began to stammer out an apology, the King spoke over him.
“Enough. There is no room for fear in our bloodline. You will proceed.”
“Dagon,” the Queen whispered fiercely at his side. Her tone was admonishing as her dark brows furrowed over blue-gray eyes. “Have some semblance of patience. He is just a child.”
“He issoft,” the King snapped back at his wife. “The Fates damn us with such weakness in our firstborn. A useless, tenderheartedfool—and while I am certain this ceremony will prove fruitless yet again, it must be done.”
The command in his voice left no room for argument. “Be silent, Helena.”
Over two centuries had passed since the first foretelling: that somewhere within the patrilinear bloodline of the ruling family of Hel, a savior would be born. A solution. Aweapon.
That night, under a full Blood Moon—not unlike the one that shone overhead this eve—the Crones had received the very first inkling of a prophecy. One that promised there would be an heir whose blood held the power to restore their crumbling empire and heal the plague that had decimated their people.
The coming of this Catalyst was written in the stars, they said. And he would wreak havoc and vengeance upon those responsible for the blight that consumed their realm.
One day, the Crones had promised, all would kneel before the Harbinger of Hel.
The time had come for this young prince, just barely nine, to be tested as all who had come before him.
It was sheer strength of will that kept the boy from trembling as he approached the massive entryway to the Tower, knocking thrice as he had been instructed. As the old rosewood groaned out the echo of his arrival, his hair stood on end. He toyed anxiously at the silver pendant around his neck, a failed attempt at self-soothing. Every survival instinct that the little prince had told him to run, to somehow escape, but he could not.
Hewouldnot.
He would honor his duty, and he would honor his Father.
“Greetings, your Grace. Your Majesties,” a trio of voices called out in unison. “We welcome your arrival to the Tower of Scáth. You may enter.”
Two members of the kingsguard flanked the young prince, pushing open the heavy tower doors so that he could enter. The chance to flee was long gone, and all he could do was step forward into the center of the circular chambers. Dimly lit sconces hung on the stone walls, and there was a dismal looking wrought-iron chandelier which hung several floors overhead.
Three women stood before a large blackstone altar, their bodies and faces unknowable—obscured, somehow. The prince blinked several times, but he still could not ascertain if any ofthe three were short or tall, young or old, beautiful or haggard, though their presence was distinctly feminine. Darkly feminine, and deeply terrifying.
Before the Crones stood a single basalt pedestal that housed two objects: A simple silver chalice, and an obsidian athame. The boy knew what was to come next.
“In order for the ritual to begin, you must freely offer your blood to the Crones,” his mother had explained the night prior.
“One cut against each palm, like this,” she’d said as she traced the sacral pattern on his hands with a gentle fingertip. “Can you remember that? Show me, my little raven.”
He did remember, because he had practiced them for several hours before bed, repeating the motions alongside the words that he now spoke aloud, gripping the athame with sweating fingers.
“With the hand of my Father, I offer the Crones my blood,” he said, refusing to cringe as the black blade bit into the soft flesh of his palm. He was no stranger to pain. “So that they may taste the truth of my bloodline.”