Ben had trouble falling asleep the day of the ghost strike. He tossed and turned restlessly from one side of his bed to the other, and when he finally did succumb to slumber, he squirmed in response to vivid nightmares.
It was no wonder he felt so groggy and ill-tempered when he was yanked awake, his chambers pitch-black in the dead of night. He felt anger surge within him. “Syb, are you crazy? I’m not stepping one inch out of the manor this time.”
“There won’t be any leaving the premises; rest assured, lad,” Wilhelm assured Ben. Ben rubbed his eyes, and as his vision grew accustomed to the darkness, he noticed it was Lightfoot and not Sybil who had entered the bedroom. “Get dressed. I’ll be waiting outside. There’s important business to discuss. Let me give you a hand. Allay the night with gleaming bright.”
The fae-lamp on his nightstand immediately shone with a warm, mauve light, and Wilhelm exited so Ben could get ready to join him. He contemplated countless scenarios as his curiosity grew. Was this related to the Solomonari? He wondered what else could merit such urgency.
Ever since his arrival at Sweeney Manor, Orangier had been steadily supplying him with new pieces of clothing. He threw in an ensemble as fast as he could: a cotton shirt coupled with an olive-green tweed jacket, along with a pair of brown trousers. Once he was ready, he stormed into the hallway.
Wilhelm stopped his enthusiasm in its tracks. “Hold your horses, my friend,” he said, producing a plain white ribbon from his pocket. “We need to follow protocol.”
“Protocol?” Ben questioned, but Wilhelm remained silent. His curiosity piqued even further, and eager to quell it, he agreed to the odd proposition. Once the ribbon was securely tied around his eyes, a hand fell on his shoulder and began to dictate his own pace across the hallway.
At first, Ben felt disoriented, but he quickly regained his bearings. Even though he could not see, he could loosely guess their location from the distances they walked and the turns that they made. A left in the third hall. A right as soon as one can. Down the stairs... He’d taken this same course countless times over the past six months. If he calculated correctly, they were heading to the dining room.
But why the secrecy, then? Another left, then another right. Then, ignore the mysterious stairs, they don’t go anywhere. Then you continue straight. Ben raised an eyebrow. Something was off. If his instincts were correct, they seemed to have halted before the unserviceable stairs. Maybe there was more to them than he thought.
“Fix it through and make it true.” Wilhelm intoned. Ben heard the familiar hum of magic, followed by the creak of wooden planks as the stairs snapped back into repair. Even blindfolded, he could sense the subtle shift in the atmosphere, in the hallway’s air drafts: there now lay a path before them.
Once the lowspell had finished its work, they started their descent down the new flight of stairs. Every single scaffold groaned in protest under their weight but proved sturdy enough to support them. A minute passed, then two. Just how far are we going down? He wondered.
“We’ve been going down for a while, huh?” Ben entreated, but he might as well have spoken to himself, for there was no reply. With a jolt of panic, Ben realized that Wilhelm had long stopped guiding him. His hand reflexively went to the blindfold in order to take it off, but he stopped himself in the act.
What if this is a test of some sort? He decided to press on with his descent, determined to uncover the mystery that lay ahead. He regained his determination, and Ben continued to advance in utter blindness, one ginger step at a time, so as not to tumble down.
His outstretched hand finally touched a firm surface. He examined it with his fingertips, identifying it as a door. Where does it lead, I wonder? It didn’t take him long to find the knob—a cold, iron-cast sphere. He steeled himself and swung the door open.
Even as visually impaired as he temporarily was, Ben could still sense he had entered a well-lit room. He could hear the murmur of many voices as he got closer to its middle. There were at least half a dozen, he reckoned. The chatter died away, and Ben stopped when one of them addressed him.
“Ah, the second and last inductee has arrived! Let us commence, my brothers and sisters.” Under its dramatic flair, he recognized the voice as Sweeney’s. Someone removed his blindfold from behind. He jumped slightly, startled by the lack of noise in their approach. It was Wilhelm, of course, enjoying his part in all of this.
His eyes were sensitive and unused to the sudden influx of light, which stung and became teary as he blinked the discomfort away. Ben instinctually raised his arm to shield his face, but his vision gradually adjusted. He took in his surroundings as soon as he could.
The room, more than anything, resembled a cavern. It appeared to have been hand-hewn from solid rock, and it felt out-of-place attached to the rest of the manor. Far too old and far too primitive. Will-o’-wisps floated aimlessly about, small orbs of light casting long shadows across the walls.
This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.
In front of him lay a weathered and desiccated well, its stones lined meticulously. There were seven people around it, clad in hooded robes not dissimilar to the Solomonari’s but silver instead of black. Masks made of writhing blue flames concealed their faces, unharmed by them.
Beside Ben stood Sybil, equally confused, her brows furrowed in puzzlement as she surveyed the eerie scene. She squinted her eyes, and her face lit up in recognition as she realized who some of the strangers were, based on their silhouettes: alongside Sweeney and Wilhelm, there was no hiding Orangier’s hulking frame.
Sweeney took a step forward, his arms open wide in a welcoming gesture as he addressed everyone present. “Testis sum sanguis. We, as current oath-keepers of the Grigori Society, have gathered here this night of our own free will. As instructed centuries ago by our founder, Hero-Sorcerer Darius, to safeguard the Blake bloodline our lifelong charge, and that of our past brothers and sisters who have passed the torch unto us. To fend off the ever-reaching hand of the Solomonari, and to foil their unholy plans to bring about a second coming of the One-Eyed Lion our endless toil.”
He paused as his gaze swept over the assembled group. The blue flames of his mask added grandeur to his Shakespearean delivery as he extended a hand toward Sybil. “Times have changed. ‘Twas a decade and a half ago that our sworn enemies finally succeeded in one of their fell undertakings. I need not remind you of our most momentous failure... That night, they almost quelled the bloodline of the Hero-Sorcerer. Yet here we are, with Lady Blake before us, a second chance to make amends for past mistakes.”
With a ponderous nod, Sweeney retreated to his place and allowed the Grigori next to him to step forward in his stead. It was a woman judging from her frame, her voice that of someone used to being obeyed. “We can endure no longer to keep you at a safe distance, Sybil Blake—if such a thing is even possible nowadays. The Solomonari grow bolder and more active. No. Our surest bet is for you to learn how to make use of that powerful blood that flows through your veins. You need not be a target when you can be a weapon.”
The Grigori woman took a step backward, making way for the next member to speak. It was Orangier, solemn as always. “This chamber is no mere section of Sweeney Manor. It is the place where the original members of the Grigori Society swore the first oath to Darius, an ancestor of my master among them. Through methods unbeknownst to us, they managed to spirit it away here, to Dool, and it has since been House Sweeney’s duty to oversee the induction ceremony,” he paused briefly and then continued in a friendlier tone. “I think you should know where this is going.”
Wilhelm picked up where Orangier left off. “Sybil Blake. I have three questions for you. Plain and simple. If you are ready to answer them, step forward.”
Sybil hesitated for a moment, but Ben saw her set her jaw in evident resolve and comply with her teacher’s instructions. Wilhelm moved next to the rock-lined hole in the ground and extended a hand over it. Suddenly, the gurgling of water echoed in the room, and the previously dry well was filled with luminescent water.
“Initiate, will thou drink from the Water of Vows and make our purpose thine own?” Wilhelm demanded.
She shot the glowing liquid a quick, worried look before replying. “I will.” Sybil cupped her hands and submerged them into the well. She took a sip from the water and immediately coughed, wrinkling her nose in disgust.
Wilhelm proceeded to the second question. Ben could imagine the smile hidden beneath his fiery mask. “Initiate, will thou don the Hero-Sorcerer’s Flame and make it thine own mark?”
“I will.” Sybil affirmed, her voice raspy from the previous ordeal. Wilhelm rested a hand on her forehead, and blue fire blazed forth and enveloped her face. She instinctively tried to pry away, but he held fast to her and impeded it.
Despite her initial reflex to recoil, Sybil found the flames to be harmless and apyretic. She caressed the outline of her face with a gentle touch—a mask like that of the other Grigori concealed her countenance.
“Initiate,” Wilhelm said, moving on to the third and final question. “Will thou place the Blake progeny before thine own and ensure its continued survival at any personal cost?”
Sybil looked perplexed for a moment before she responded. “But I am a Blake. That doesn’t make sense.”
“Hmm. In your case, it means not to play hero; be selfish with your life if the occasion arises. The Solomonari cannot get hold of you under any circumstances. Will you?” She agreed, and he handed her a ceremonial dagger. “Make a small incision in the palm of thy hand, a symbol of bloodshed for our cause.” Sybil did as she was compelled, wincing slightly at the sharp sting of the blade’s edge.
“I bid you welcome to the Society. We are student and teacher no more, but equals,” Wilhelm declared, and the room erupted into applause. As the celebration winded down and Sybil returned the dagger to Wilhelm, his attention shifted to Ben. “Benjamin Umber. Quite the wild card you are. We did not expect you, nor did you expect us. Yet, perhaps through the whims of Fortune, you ended up sharing the same enemies as us.”
Ben stared intently; his mouth suddenly dried as everyone’s attention turned to him. He attempted to catch Sybil’s eye for reassurance, but the flames of her mask obscured any visual contact, leaving him feeling isolated in the moment.
“You have this last chance to disembark the boat, so to speak. Before you truly make our battle your battle,” Wilhelm continued. “As things stand, Sybil will need every ally she can muster, especially one her age that can protect her where we can’t. So, what do you say—are you ready to join our merry band?”
Ben had already given it much thought over the course of the past six months. He was steadfast in his decision. “I am.” There were no other alternatives for him. Not really. He shot a look at Sybil again, and then at each of the other assembled sorcerers. Strange as it was, these people had already become the family he never had.
Wilhelm nodded in approval and guided him through the initiation process, sealing his pledge to the Grigori. Once they were done, the room erupted into a second round of applause.
They waved a hand over their faces and extinguished the flames of their masks. Sybil struggled to follow suit, her hand movement uncertain. Orangier walked her through it with fatherly patience. Meanwhile, the other members of the Society congregated around Ben and offered him congratulations as they introduced themselves.
There was the Lady Boudicca Dio, a refined woman with short, graying hair and the owner of the authoritative voice from earlier; there was a pleasant, down-to-earth-couple who hadn’t spoken yet, Samborn and Deirdra Cairn, who felt oddly familiar to Ben; and finally, there was a wizened man with bushy eyebrows and an amicable mien who presented himself as Master Chronicler Malto, a professor tenured at Mag Mell.
As the gathering transformed into a brief and peculiar soiree, the names of other Society members were mentioned—apparently not all of them had been available or in the vicinity due to the particular assignments they were undertaking as Grigori. The ambience was lively despite the late hour.
Subsequently, the Society members excused themselves individually, followed by the residents of Sweeney Manor heading to their respective dormitories. Ben and Sybil were caught in the sensation of being in the midst of a waking dream. He stared at her as they parted ways.
Ben couldn’t shake the weight of the commitment he had just undertaken to keep her safe, but he resolved to do so at any cost. Back in bed, a full-fledged member of the Grigori Society, and entertained with imaginary future heroics, he drifted to a restful sleep.