That wellspring of courage ran dry once one of the Crones stripped him of his tunic, exposing his bare flesh to the cold stone and he began to writhe in discomfort.
“Be still!” they commanded, and suddenly the boy could not move at all.
Tendrils of shadow began to reinforce the leather bindings, locking his limbs in place. The youngest of the Crones flitted across the room, returning with a pot of black ink and what appeared to be some sort of stylus or quill... with a razor-sharp tip.
In his panicked confusion, the young prince did not understand what was happening until the Crones began to carve into his back, starting at the very top of his shoulder blade. At first, it was not unlike the self-inflicted pain as he had cut into his palms for the offering. And then it began toburn.
As one of the Crones continued to cut into him, pausing only to dip her tool back into the acidic ink, the others began to cackle and hiss out their morbid approval, drowning out his cries. They read the words aloud, as if his body were an open tome.
“Betwixt the realms where balance has been upset, a debt must be paid. Those who have stolen life and spread filth will pay their due tenfold,” one whispered.
“Vitality shall be restored to the Plane of Shadows. That which plagues us shall be banished within an age,” the other replied.
The Shadow King tapped one foot with clear impatience. He knew this much already, they were simply reiterating the first foretelling. Thunder rumbled through the mountain as the storm drew near, yet another omen to be interpreted.
“Yes, yes!” the Crones hissed in unison as a bolt of lightning shot through the sky. “One shall wield All, the other shall wield None.”
The eldest Crone spoke out alone now.
“He who has been chosen, this star-split soul, shall be the Catalyst to this prophecy of mirrored fates. He is our reckoning. The other, our deliverance. Together, they are our salvation.”
“The other?” the Shadow King snarled, growing irritated.
He paid no mind to his son, whose sobs had grown audible, instead focused on his own mounting frustration. Though he knew that the Crones spoke in riddles, that understanding did little to keep his temper in check. Very little ever did.
“What do you mean,the other? We were promisedoneHarbinger. One weapon.”
“No, my king, no,” the youngest Crone crooned before succumbing to a fit of mad giggles, her wild eyes rolling back into her skull as she clutched at her temples with ink-stained fingers. A trickle of blood ran down her chin unceremoniously as she returned to the tattooing of the prophecy, their dark magicks interpreting the fate of the prince simultaneously as the story was cut into his flesh.
“There is another…”
“A Catalyst and a Conduit,” the others chanted. “All and none, all and one. Mirrors, my King.Mirrors. Not one Harbinger, but two—one yet to be reborn! Two fates entangled, another entwined. The Source, it gives and takes and gives and takes and gives and takes. They are life and death. They are the cycle, preserved. They are vengeance and mercy, incarnate.”
“Mercy?” the Shadow King repeated, eyes narrowing. “There shall be no mercy for that which has been wrought upon our kind. Keep going. What is to come next?”
“Father,please!” the boy cried out, his voice hoarse, choking on a sob as the pain grew unbearable. This was agony unlike any he had ever known.
The flames within the room flickered, several candles from the chandelier snuffed out by the growing winds that were seeping through cracks and crevices in the stonework.
“Silence, boy. I did not raise you to be weak. You will face your fate.”
The Crones continued to carve into his flesh, meticulous and unforgiving, the ears of all three seemingly deaf to the pleas of their crown prince.
“Ah, yes, your Majesty. The threads of fate bleed ever so freely from the flesh. The path is clear. Our chosen Catalyst must find the Conduit before his ascension of the throne. Only then can destruction rain down upon the souls responsible for our suffering.”
Three times, the boy lost consciousness to the pain as his blood mixed with ink and ichor.
Three times, the Crones revived him with smelling salts, requiring his cognizance in order to complete the prophecy.
“Wake up, my prince,” they crooned. “Your blood won’t sing unless you’re awake, little one. We’re not done yet. It hurts, we know. It always does, wresting the threads of fate away from the Source…”
None of their words made any sense to him, and yet he saw both malice and understanding glittering in the eyes of his father as he peppered the ancient women with questions. And every time the Shadow King asked for more, it was the prince’s flesh that paid the price.
“How will we know when the next Harbinger is born? Where will we find him? How will we identify him?” the King demanded, his penultimate inquiries.
Dawn was soon approaching, which would turn the Crones to stone until the next nightfall. Such was their curse. To remain so close to the Source came at great cost to what had once been three mortal women of Scáth.
“A seed shall soon be planted within the heart of our enemies, your Majesty. Bearing fruit that will leave poison on their tongues and burn the aether from their veins. In the realm where few can wield one, He must find the one who wields all.”