As he opened his fist above the chalice, several rivulets of blood trickled inside, and he could only hope it was enough. Wielding the athame now with his non-dominant hand, he continued the ritual.
“With the hand of my Mother, I offer the Crones my aether,” he said, carving the next rune. “So that they may taste the truth of my fate.”
This time, a quicksilver substance swirled alongside the blood from his palm as it dribbled into the chalice, and it was an effort for the boy not to sigh with relief.
It had worked, he thought.He had done it right.
“We welcome your offerings, princeling,” the Crones replied as one.
As the trio stepped forward towards the pedestal, the boy could begin to make out their shapes—but just barely. They were still somehow shrouded from clear view, though they were only a few feet away. A silent attendant approached to wrap his hands in gauze before motioning him to step into the center of the room, the space between the altar and pedestal.
It was said that the Tower stood at the intersection of every single leyline across the Shadow Plane, and that it was here where the veil between their realm and the Divine Source of All Life was thinnest. Only the Crones could survive an extended stay in this sacred space, both blessed and cursed to be bound to the leylines. Guarding them for eternity.
The boy glanced back at his mother briefly, who offered him a reassuring smile and a nod as he stepped forward and took his place.
The Crones joined hands as they encircled the pedestal and chalice. He could see now that one pair of hands was soft and smooth as a young maiden, another more akin to the hands of a matron—delicately aged, not unlike his mother’s hands. And then there was the last pair, wrinkled and pockmarked, blue veins bulging as the owner gripped the hands of her sisters. They all began to hum and chant.
“O Blessed Source, we welcome thee,” the Crones began, tilting their heads back, casting their eyes towards the heavens. “Through we of three, speak your will. We offer open arms and open minds, to chart the course of Fate. If the prophecy is to continue this night, let us know through the aether, through the blood that has been freely offered.”
Though they spoke in unison, it was also discordant, somehow—grating upon the ears of the young prince. His skin prickled with discomfort as they raised the silver chalice to the skies, and then one by one, each of the Crones drank.
When the final Crone had sipped the last of the sanguine liquid, she gasped—the cup slipping from her hands, dropping to the floor with a startling clatter.
“Could it be?”
“Such Resonance!”
The Crone with the eldest aura stepped forward then, towards the Shadow King, offering a slight bow of the head in reverence.
“His blood sings true, your Majesty. He is the Catalyst. It is time to read what remains of the prophecy.”
The King scowled for a moment, appearing almost displeased before offering a curt nod and turning towards his guards and his wife.
“Leave us,” he commanded.
Though the Queen of the Shadow Plane knew her place, she hesitated—casting a pained expression towards her son. She had not prepared him for this. Even if she had known… there was no way one could ever prepare a child for what was to come. Her eyes drifted to the ornate raven skull that hung around his neck and she released a shaky exhale, still lingering. She could only hope it would be enough.
“Helena!” the King barked.
With one final, apologetic glance at the pale, dark-haired boy who bore the eyes of his father, the Queen turned and left in silence, flanked by what remained of the kingsguard. Helena did not allow her tears to fall until she was well beyond her husband’s line of sight.
The Shadow King took several slow, measured steps towards the Throne of Hel, the dark seat of power—his rightful place. It was not until the room was emptied, leaving only the Crones and his trembling heir, that Dagon deigned to speak again.
“You are certain?”
“Yes, my king,” they sang together, harmonizing with strange euphoria. “Yes, at long last, He has arrived! It is time!”
After an immeasurable length of silence, the Shadow King nodded once more.
“Proceed.”
The young prince could barely process what happened next, as he’d had no idea what to expect. Every heir to the throne had failed this test before—stronger men, better men, more ruthless men, moredeservingmen. All who came before him had apparently lacked the inexplicable qualities the Crones had been seeking from their blood. But bony hands, meaty hands, warm-yet-trembling hands took hold of his limbs, picking him up off the ground and laying him face down on the obsidian altar.
He felt the aetheric power of the inlaid runes begin to activate, the thrumming of magick coursing through the air as his arms and legs were splayed apart and bound to each corner of the table with leather straps.
There is no room for fear in our bloodline, the prince repeated to himself, over and over.There is no room for fear in our bloodline. There is no room for fear, Father is right there, I am not alone.
He was the heir apparent to the throne of Hel, and he would not cower from his duty.