"I see Raven has grown up. You did well." A lady walked out of the midst of the crowd, a proud full smirk tugged on her lips.
Her black pants and jacket hugged her body, accentuating her curves. Her long, dark wavy hair bounced over her shoulders as her boots made a sharp click-clack with every step on the stone floor.
Raven couldn't move. Her knees felt weak. She unconsciously took a step back, her throat tightening, her fingers trembling before they curled into fists.
Every step the woman took closer echoed with ominous weight, as if death followed behind her in silence.
Raven lowered her eyes. Her heart pounded, beating against her chest like a trapped bird. The air around her felt heavier with each breath, thick with fear and power she couldn't match.
A pair of boots stopped in front of her.
"Welcome to the Sisterhood," the woman said, her voice smooth and sharp, like velvet lined with blades. "You've finally come of age."
Raven lifted her eyes slowly.
Phoebe.
The name alone was enough to strike fear into grown men. Raven had heard of her—heard whispers of the blood she had spilled, of the shadows that crawled in her wake. Yet seeing her up close was different. Her presence devoured the room.
Phoebe flashed her a lopsided smile, one corner of her lips tugging upward with amusement. "You look like you're about to pass out. Breathe, little Raven. You're one of us now. You should be proud."
Raven didn't answer. Her voice was stuck somewhere between her chest and her throat. She could only manage a small nod, hoping it was enough to satisfy the woman.
Phoebe turned to the crowd that stood close to the old stone walls like shadows themselves. Some wore masks that covered their entire faces, others only half, revealing empty expressions and hollow eyes that had long forgotten softness. The dim light of the torches lining the cave flickered wildly, casting distorted shadows across the jagged stone. The air was thick—moist, cold, and carrying the scent of burnt incense mixed with something unnatural.
The walls of the cave looked as though they were carved by clawed hands rather than tools, with symbols etched in dried crimson lining every corner. Bones decorated the higher shelves, placed like trophies, while black candles burned on crooked stands that leaned in different directions. The ground beneath their feet was uneven, almost like the earth itself recoiled from what this place had become.
Phoebe addressed the others, her tone sharp. "She passed the test. She is now one of us, an Al'Morthal!"
Suddenly, a burst of cheers exploded from the crowd. It came like a wave, starting low before rising into a roar that echoed off the stone and made the flame of every torch flicker. Swords clanked against each other. Sabers were raised into the air. Fists pounded against armored chests. Raven flinched at the sound, overwhelmed by the sheer force of it.
"She's one of us now!" a voice called from the back, and the rest answered with thunderous approval.
A push came from behind. Then another. Before Raven could process what was happening, she was shoved into the center of the circle. Dozens of figures towered around her, their faces hidden behind masks, their eyes gleaming in the dim light.
Phoebe stepped forward again, holding a thin ceremonial dagger. She simply grabbed Raven's hand and made a clean slice across her palm.
Raven gasped sharply, but didn't pull away.
The blood dripped down in thick, slow drops into a wide bowl carved from dark stone, placed atop an elevated slab that rose from the center of the ground. The moment her blood touched the bottom, the surface of the liquid shimmered faintly, as if reacting.
Without a word, Phoebe turned to the others.
One by one, each member of the Al'Morthals stepped forward.
They cut their palms, letting their blood drip into the same bowl. By the time the last drop fell, the bowl had turned a deep, unnatural red, thicker than normal blood.
Phoebe lifted the bowl and turned to Raven.
Her voice was soft, but it silenced the crowd. "Drink."
Raven's eyes widened.
"What?"
"You heard me." Phoebe's voice left no room for negotiation. "Drink from the blood of the Al'Morthals. Let it mark you… Let it claim you."
Raven hesitated. Her stomach twisted at the thought. Her fingers curled, and the cut on her palm throbbed in response.
Phoebe stepped closer. "You said you wanted to protect your brother, didn't you? That you'd do anything to keep him safe?" Her tone softened—mocking, yet laced with cruel truth. "This is the only way. The Al'Morthals are feared not because of what we say, but because of what we've become. And to become one of us… you must swallow your fear. Literally."
Raven didn't move. Her heart was racing. Her eyes drifted to the bowl, which was still warm, and still glowing faintly.
Then she thought of her baby brother.
His tiny hand. His small smile. The memory of that day when they were dragged apart. The scream that left her mouth and never reached his ears.
She reached for the bowl.
The surface rippled once as her hands took hold. And she drank it.
The liquid was thick, metallic, and warm, and as it slid down her throat, she felt it burn in her chest. Like her soul was scattering and merging altogether.
The crowd around her cheered once again, louder than before.
Swords clashed together. Some howled. Some laughed like madwomen.
Raven stumbled, her breath catching in her throat. Her eyes burned. Her vision blurred, but she did not fall.
Phoebe smiled and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Now," she whispered, "you are one of us. The blood will guide you. And when the time comes… it will call you."
Then she leaned closer, her voice like a promise carved into stone.
"If you truly want to see him again… to protect him from the world that wants him dead… you'll need power. Real power. And this is the strongest gift you'll ever receive."
Raven looked up at her, the taste of blood still lingering on her tongue.
And though her hands trembled, her eyes no longer held fear.
Only fire.
.....
In a room veiled in darkness, smoke drifted through the air in lazy spirals. The soft glow of red embers lit the end of a long pipe between the fingers of a man who sat on his throne in silence, his blue eyes narrowed, staring at the dying embers in front of him.
His robes were undone at the collar, and a fur-lined cloak draped loosely over his shoulders. The chamber was cold, though the fire crackled faintly. He didn't seem to feel it.
A silver tray sat on the table beside him, holding a half-empty goblet of wine and a small sealed scroll. The seal was broken, but the message lay untouched since he had finished reading it.
A message from the tower.
The prophecy had moved.
The clouds had turned red. The stars had hidden.
And the Star of Doom had chosen his household.
He took another slow drag from the pipe. Smoke filled his lungs before he exhaled in a long stream, watching it coil toward the ceiling.
The door burst open, a hurried footstep entered the dimly lit room. The man fell on his knees.
"Emperor," he bowed with his hand across his chest. "We have located the star of doom."