In the 7th year of His Majesty, King Oxlinge XV’s reign
In the Caves of the Archfiend Mountains: Lord Mor’s form dissolved into a sluggish river of crimson, the viscous blood gathering in shadowed pools. From the depths emerged a figure of taut muscle and red-stained skin—Mother Nyx, mistress of the coven.
Bodies, drenched in sweat, stirred from the cold stone floor. The evidence of the ritual’s carnal demands remained visible on their glistening skin. Seven men and seven women, entwined in fornication, had fulfilled the sacramental rite. Each bowed low, like flesh-tinged rubble circling a web meticulously painted with the blood of the sacrificed.
Mother Nyx had seen countless visions, but this one lingered, settling into her bones like a cold, inescapable presence. The image of Lord Mor, his cloak emitting an almost familiar, ominous power, haunted her. The cloak’s wearer is irrelevant, she told herself as she stepped from the crimson pool, blood rippling at her feet. A slight tremor quivered beneath her collarbone as she stiffened, forcing herself to focus. It’s the warrior who carries the rune that matters. It must hold powers beyond mere foresight. I should be the one to wield it—not a fucking Saggarin or Scorsorai.
With military-like discipline, the men, unadorned save for the grime of the cavern’s floor, rushed to wipe their mistress mother clean. She barely recorded their touch. Her thoughts remained on the vision, replaying each waver of Lord Mor’s posture. Fear gripped him—volatile and pointy, like an animal backed into a corner.
They draped her in a robe of exquisite malevolence, spun from silken threads as delicate and lethal as a spider’s snare. To Mother Nyx, it was merely another layer, another mask to wear. Once their duty was complete, the men scattered like rats before a predator’s talon, each one scurrying into the cave’s many halls.
A sneer curled her lips. They are rats! The thought made her grumble involuntarily. Filthy, scavenging animals. All were captured slaves, used solely in rituals. They were disposable; none would survive long. This was the natural order, and it was her duty to ensure it remained so.
Candlelight danced upon the coven sisters’ bare backs as their mistress mother’s cloak dragged past them. She vanished into the yawning shadows of the largest hall, the silence that followed dead as the last breath of a forgotten god.
As the coven mother stalked down the hall, she entered a chamber where the stench of blood and boiled flesh hung omnipresent. In the back corner, the sharp, acrid tang of arcane herbs lingered—bitter and musty, like crushed roots steeped in venom. The space was dominated by spider-like furnishings that appeared to crawl in the quivering light.
A murky blue fire gyrated in the cauldron, casting warped shadows on the ancient walls. Inside, troll remains churned in a viscous, bloodied whirl, sending wisps of vapor spiraling into the dim expanse. Around it, furniture twisted from the bones of long-dead beasts stood like watchers—spider-legged chairs surrounding a web-like table etched with skulls and arcane symbols, gleaming faintly with dark magic. Against the far wall loomed a throne of petrified arachnid remains, its empty sockets and tangled legs radiating a sense of inherent menace.
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Mother Nyx lowered herself onto her throne, the cold stone grounding her as she prepared to call forth ancient power. Once settled, she began chanting incantations in a language as old as time, her voice chittering, the words creeping from her lips like an assassin mantis. Each syllable resonated in the air, sinking into the walls and reverberating through the ground. The dark energies she summoned were more than just spells or enchantments; they were elemental forces, raw and untamed, bound only by the will of those powerful enough to control them.
As she recited, the chamber grew dim. The temperature dropped, a chill seeping into the bones, and the very soil beneath her feet trembled in response to her summons. The cauldron at the center of the room began to bubble more furiously, its contents a seething mass of viscous liquid that emitted a faint, phosphorescent glow. Shadows writhed, charged with a sinister energy.
Mother Nyx’s eyes gleamed with an unnatural light, her bond with the ethereal energies deepening with every breath. She could feel the power rising within her, a heady mix of terror and ecstasy that fueled her purpose. This was not just a ritual; It was a communion with the deepest shadows, a pact with the primal forces lurking in the world’s hidden depths. As the sinister powers coalesced around her, she knew she was tapping into something far greater than herself—something that could either bring her ultimate victory or consume her entirely.
Out of the cauldron, effervescent tendrils twisted into a vaporous visage. The apparition took the form of a fierce Scorsorai woman, her sneer sharp, eyes impatient, and hair wild as if storm-tossed. Though hazy and translucent, her features were unmistakable. A tattoo of a dragon’s malevolent maw stretched down the bridge of her nose, while its wings curled around her head, framing her sleek jawline.
Mother Nyx rose from her seat, bending as deeply as her trembling body allowed. “Airsil-hime, our ritual has ended. Lord Mor has formed an alliance with the Priest,” she said. The idea sprang again in her mind: Why have the Dinehin forced us to bow before a vile Scorsorai? Why favor one of their ill-descened ilk?
Airsil-hime’s growl rippled down Mother Nyx’s vertebra like a thousand needles. With impatient dissatisfaction, she said, “That worm’s cunt will be dealt with. What else did the ritual reveal? Who is the Gen?”
“My Lady, the fated rune-bearer is Saggarin.”
“A fucking mud eater?” Airsil-hime’s sneer twisted her lips, exposing her dagger-like incisors. “The Genieavesin’s indifference is an insult. If they think a Swamp Elf can stand against me...”
“That might not be required, my lady.”
“Explain,” Airsil-hime said, her tone laced with amusement.
With deliberate solemnity, Mother Nyx revealed the intricate details of the visions brought forth by the ritual, each word laden with the significance of dark prophecy.
“Pratel may be resolute, but the gods impose their will regardless. We must kill this Swamp Elf before he takes possession of the rune,” Airsil said.
Mother Nyx’s lips curled into a sinister smile. “After eight years and five months, at the third hour past midday, this Saggarin has a one-in-two chance of death,” she repeated. “That day is but a fortnight away. I will ensure his death becomes a certainty.”
“I leave it to you, Mother Nyx. My family is a greater threat to our cause. I’ll see to them.”
With that, Airsil-hime’s form began to dissipate. The vaporous Scorsorai wavered, her features blurring as the vapor unraveled. Her eyes, wild with madness, hovered like a curse long after her figure had vanished. The spectral tendrils spun and twisted, losing their shape until they became nothing but a thin, ephemeral mist that drifted back into the cauldron. Quiet settled over the room. Airsil’s words resonated in her head, but beneath them, deeper still, was the understanding that the gods’ will was rarely straightforward. I must act swiftly, but with care. One misstep could doom our Sisterhood.