Epilogue

Every year, when the Blood Moon rose, Scáth Saoirái sent an emissary to their crown prince in the dead of night.

It didn’t matter where he was in Atlas. Whether he was on a mission halfway across the continent, safe behind the aetheric wards of Sophrosyne, or lurking somewhere in the Shadows in avoidance—on the eve of his birth, they always found him.

Though the identity of the emissary had changed from time to time over the years, the intent was always the same: To pass along messages from the Crones. To remind the prince of his duties, his destiny. To ensure that he never forgot about the prophecy, even if he had long since decided to leave it behind, letting those weighted words gather dust in the back of his mind.

This was his fate, they would remind him, year after year. Written in dark stars, before he had taken a single breath. There was no escaping what had been foretold, they would claim. No matter how long the prince chose to delay it.

They would try to convince him that the ruin of Aemos was inevitable, and that the survival of his people depended on the destruction of theirs.

His people. It had been a long, long time since the crown prince of the Shadow Plane had held on to any illusion that the people of Scáth Saoirái were his to serve, or even to rely upon.

Tonight, he did not bother to hide from the emissary. He would be waiting for them, whoever they were. He had questions of his own.

On the cusp of midnight, the envoy arrived as expected.

“Greetings, my prince.”

The man who stood at the threshold of his townhouse door shared just enough of the prince’s own bloodline for his features to read as a dismal mirror. Just looking at the brother of his sire was a reminder of his place amongst a family fueled by bloodshed and cruelty.

“Abraxas.”

As much as the heir to the throne of Hel had tried to pretend that he could escape the consequences of his birth, the curse of his own blood—he had already proven otherwise, just a few weeks ago. Cruelty would always be in his nature. He was a bitter, cold-hearted bastard, just like the rest of them.

At least now, she saw him for what he truly was.

“I come bearing messages from the King and the Crones,” Abraxas said, handing over the sealed scrolls.

The emissary flinched as his prince accepted the missives, and then promptly tossed them in the fireplace.

“Fuck the King. Fuck the Crones,” he replied, letting them all burn.

“So this is still the role that you choose to play, Kieran?”

“Did I fucking stutter, Abraxas?”

“You did not, Your Grace.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“As you wish. Still, it would be remiss of me not to make the observation that something appears to have changed in you. Your aura is… different.”

Abraxas Vistarii had what they called the Sight—the ability to detect reflections of the soul, the waves of energy that surrounded any living creature that apparently gave insight into their base natures and motivations. It was a rare gift, and Kieran didn’t particularly like that his uncle was reading his right now, but it was no exact science. Hardly a concern.

And he was not surprised to hear that his aura had changed, now that he had crossed paths with the second Harbinger.

Arken.

Her name had a sharp edge in his mind these days. It all seemed so obvious in hindsight.

The immediate familiarity he’d felt around her. The ease with which she’d entered his life. The inexplicable, unrelenting magnetism between them both.

Arken was his other half, in the worst possible way. A mirrored reflection of his crooked soul, and damning evidence of a fate he had fought so desperately to escape.

It had been so stupid of him, so incredibly naive, to presume that he had been successful. That he could have found something beautiful and holy that belonged to him—not that godsdamned prophecy. Several weeks had passed now, and the question still haunted him.

Had any of it been real?

“Your aura has not changed in all the years I’ve known you, Kieran,” Abraxas said slowly, eyes narrowing.

Kieran shrugged, donning the mask of the lax, arrogant princeling that his uncle expected him to be. It was a comfortable facade.

“My hair is also longer than it’s been in the last twenty-six years, if you’re collecting dull observations to bring back to the Crones,” he replied, sounding bored.

“The length suits you, my prince,” Abraxas replied, still eyeing him with suspicion.

He rolled his eyes. Of all the emissaries his father sent, Abraxas was the one who treated Kieran with the most undue reverence—the only one who seemed to respect his primogeniture. Abraxas was older than the others, and always spoke as if he had deluded himself into thinking that eventually, one day, Kieran would return home. He still seemed to believe that his nephew had some semblance of love left for the world he left behind. Abraxas still saw him as the promised prince. The Catalyst.

The others simply saw him as a traitor.

They stood there in silence for some time before Abraxas spoke again.

“I feel compelled to inform you that your father has fallen ill, considering you have reduced his missive to ash. The king is… quite unwell, I fear.”

Good, Kieran thought to himself.

“I suppose that would explain why Caen and his Ravenhounds have been sniffing around here as of late. Can none of Dagon’s advisors keep that little shit on a leash?” he asked sharply.

Abraxas Vistarii was one of said advisors on his father’s council.

“The other advisors see Caen as the most likely heir in your absence,” Abraxas replied, frowning. “Few would deign to condemn the actions of their future king, no matter how reckless they may be.”

“Even if he and his cadre are leaving traces of themselves everywhere? In Sophrosyne—within spitting distance of the Aetherborne? Even if they’re leaving half-open rifts between the realms, the very risk that damned Scáth Saoirái in the first place?” Kieran challenged.

“Krysx,” Abraxas swore, slipping back into their mother tongue.

Clearly, even the Council didn’t know what their presumptive heir had been up to as of late.

“I don’t know what any of you expected,” he replied. “Caen has always been foolish. A slave to his own impulses.”

“All the more reason for you to come home, Kieran.”

That was not an option.

“Or I could just kill him,” he replied, malice coating the dark prince’s tongue.

“Why are you so opposed to claiming your birthright?”

“Is it really so strange that I might be adverse to slaughtering millions of innocent people to save my abusers?”

He had never understood how men like Abraxas, who carried themselves with some manner of honor and empathy, could accept such a thing. All because three demented, accursed creatures claimed it to be the will of the Source.

“And what of the innocent lives in Scáth?”

“Last I heard, there were not many of those left, uncle. That blood is on Dagon’s hands, not mine. I am not the king who let Scáth fall to ruin through neglect.”

“No, you are not. But you could be the king that saves us. You could salvage our legacy.”

“No chance in Hel, Abraxas.”

“I understand that you are attached to this realm, Your Grace,” Abraxas said slowly. “But have you considered that you could save it yourself, if you just come home now? Return to Hel, and when Dagon dies, you can Ascend as king and even Caen would have to bend the knee. If you have yet to encounter the second Harbinger, the prophecy wouldn’t…”

He trailed off, and then his pale eyes widened.

“Oh, but you have, haven’t you?” Abraxas breathed, and Kieran’s hands instinctively met with the daggers at his side. “Your aura…”

“Not. Another. Word. Abraxas,” Kieran hissed, staring him down.

With the emissary’s gaze locked on his, a visage of sheer shock and disbelief, his prince nicked a single fingertip against the edge of his dagger, drawing blood. It wasn’t as difficult, this time, to draw upon that same dark force that he had used to subdue the Ravenhound. He dragged that bleeding forefinger against his wrist before Abraxas could even try to stop him, and the raw umbral power shot through his veins.

“That is none of your godsdamned business, Abraxas. You will not breathe a word of this. Not to my father, not to my brothers, and certainly not to those godsdamned Crones,” he said through grit teeth, focusing all of his energy into pouring the arcane exertion of his will.

“Your aura…” Abraxas repeated, shuddering under the weight of the compulsion. “The solys… the Light entwined… Who are they? What have you found, Kieran?”

The aether in his veins turned to ice.

“If you bring that information back to Hel, Abraxas, I will follow you. I will return to the Plane of Shadows just to flay you alive, and cast your body into the Pits of the Undying. Before I hunt Caen down and do the very same to him.”

The dark imperial magick was thrumming throughout his body now, emanating from his skin. Again, his Shadows began to whisper their sweet nothings, their promises of indomitable might like chains, attempting to wrap around his throat and pull him under. This power had a mind of its own—an insatiable desire to devour him whole, to force his hand towards the most base, carnal instincts of his ancestors. There was a reason he had kept it buried deep.

Sweat dripped from Abraxas’ brow as his knees buckled, his attempts to resist his prince thwarted. This was the Vistarii legacy—subjugation. Oppression. An unbroken bloodline of conquerors who held more power than they deserved to wield. The throne of Hel was beyond redemption.

“Understood, Your Grace.”

It was not enough.

“Swear yourself to me, Abraxas. I want a blood oath.”

Kieran could not trust that his influence would extend once the emissary returned back to their home realm, but he didn’t want to kill the man if he didn’t have to. A pathetic weakness, perhaps, but in the scant few pleasant memories that Kieran had of his childhood, Abraxas had been there. Abraxas, and his mother.

“If that is your will, it shall be done, my prince.”

He tossed one of his daggers to Abraxas, who caught the blade with a trembling hand. He expected to see resentment in his uncle’s eyes, anger as he forced him to carve the sigil of binding on his own wrist, to repeat the incantation. Kieran was forcing him to betray the crown, to withhold vital information that could have led to the salvation of the Shadow Plane, of his people, their people. For that, Kieran had expected nothing less than hatred.

Instead, he saw softness. As the rune sealed and bound the emissary to secrecy, Kieran saw gentle understanding.

“No matter how this unfolds, I am… I am happy for you, Your Grace.”

“I beg your pardon?” he asked, incredulous.

“I am comforted to know that you have finally found something you’ll fight to protect,” Abraxas explained. “Your solys.”

Your guiding light.

“I never said I was protecting anyone. Or anything,” Kieran bit out, hoping his tone could shroud the relief that he felt, knowing he already had Abraxas bound by a blood oath.

His uncle knew too much.

“You didn’t have to, Kieran. It is woven into your aura. That Light… It is inextricable from you, now. You found the Conduit. The other Harbinger… Gods. Their presence is exquisite. They have imprinted on your soul.”

The Harbinger of Hel swallowed any acknowledgement of those words in silence as Abraxas spoke, blood oath or not.

They could not have her. He would die first.

Still, Abraxas managed to stare straight through his soul, those pale blue eyes alight with awe as he spoke.

“And so it begins.”