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 were chosen could 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 decorum and show 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 is soft,” the King snapped back at his wife. “The Fates damn us with such weakness in our firstborn. A useless, tenderhearted fool—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. A weapon.

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.

He would not.

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 of the 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.”

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, more deserving men. 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.

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 to burn.

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 promised one Harbinger. 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.”

The Crones began to grow weary, and their tender, whimpering canvas was on the cusp of losing consciousness yet again, but the Shadow King had one final question.

“And you are absolutely certain that it’s him? This child? Of all the heirs who have come before him, this is who the Source has selected?”

It was the eldest of the Crones who replied, her tone curt and clipped. They were offended to have their divine gifts called into question, as it was known: the Crones of the Tower always spoke true. Always.

“Yes, your Majesty. We are certain. The blood can sing, but it cannot lie. The prophecy could not have been read from the aether of any other. The boy is our salvation.”

Slowly and meticulously, the eldest Crone undid the ties that had kept the child bound—both physical and arcane. He remained there on the table, light-headed and listless even as the stylus was put away. An attendant appeared out of nowhere to drench his wounds in some sort of black, foul-smelling medicinal liquid. It burned even worse than the ink had, and yet now, he didn’t even flinch.

For once, the Shadow King experienced a small swell of pride towards his son.

“All will kneel before the Harbinger of Hel one day,” the middle, more matronly Crone supplied, gently cupping the boy’s cheek as she offered him water.

“Even you, my King,” the youngest of them added, a wicked gleam in her pitch black eyes as she handed the Shadow King a scroll of parchment. A copy of the prophecy for his records.

“Even you.”