Page 51 of Ringmaster
I should be on edge. Everything I know about this man was told to me by Lucifer and the Ringmaster. He’s a traitor. A thronethief whose downfall is supposed to be my destiny. But I don’t feel fear. Not even discomfort. I don’t sense any real danger. There’s no menace in the air, no tension on the faces of those gathered. The court isn’t glaring or whispering behind cupped hands. In fact, they look… pleased. Curious. Like they’ve been waiting for this moment far longer than I have. Some of them even smile, as if they know something I don’t.
“And why’s that, Father?” I ask, wary now. Magic curls at my feet, thick with shadow, pulsing with my suspicion. It answers before I can give it form, coiling up my spine and wrapping my nerves tight.
“Come,” he says, gesturing to the throne. “You’ll see.”
The crowd parts, giving me a clear path. I stroll slowly, each step feeling like it should be a trap, but it’s not. Nothing happens and soon I stand before the man who abandoned me for his own selfish ambitions to rule Hell by conquering each kingdom one by one.
Between us stands a pedestal draped in the ancient cloth, threadbare in places and embroidered with shimmering runes that catch the mage lights like starlight on black water. Shadow magic dances above it, hiding what lies beneath.
“Kneel,” my father commands. His voice is calm, but there’s weight behind it.
I cock my head to the side in confusion. “What’s this about?”
“Kneel, Azrael,” he repeats, this time fighting back a grin.
Cautiously, I drop to one knee, bowing my head as the shadows swarm protectively, circling my form like armor.
“It’s okay. Pull them back,” he says, softer now. “I mean you no harm.”
The room has gone silent, save for the whisper of my shadows as they hesitate, then retreat under my command.
“Azrael,” his deep voice rumbles. “As the true heir to the throne of Hell, I return to you what I once swore to protect. You’ll need it for the battles ahead.”
I glance up, my brows pulling tight.The one true heir?Gifts?I don’t understand. One of his advisors leans in and murmurs something in his ear. My father nods. “There’s little time in the dreamscape,” he continues, tone shifting. “You must not fail. Only you can break the curse and unite the kingdoms of Hell once more.”
“But the Fates—”
“Donotspeak of the Fates’ prophecy in the open,” he interrupts.
I press my lips together and lower my gaze. “I still don’t understand.”
“All will be revealed. In time.” His voice softens again. “Until then, I return these gifts to you.”
Another man from his court steps forward, presenting him with a sword—sleek, deadly, and utterly unlike anything I’ve seen. “Forged of hellfire, engraved with runes older than time.”
The spells on the sword sparkle briefly before they’re swallowed by the red and violet flames licking up the blade, encompassing the handle. My father doesn’t flinch as the fire wraps around his hands, consuming them.
He taps the blade against each one of my shoulders. When it touches me, pain sears through my body. I bite my lip until it’s dripping with blood.
“Remember your rightful place and accept the sword of the Kingdom of Shadow and Bone. Soul Slayer belongs to you. Rise and accept your weapon, bound by blood oath and hellfire. Present your hand.”
I do as he says, standing and holding out the palm of my hand. A member of the court uncovers the item on the pedestal—a chalice carved from bone and wrapped in shadow. He lifts it, slices into his own arm, and allows his blood to spill into the ancient cup. Then he turns to me, cutting into my flesh with the blade. I grit my teeth as fire explodes through my hand, racing up my arm and etching an ashen tattoo from my palm, across my shoulder, and down to my heart.
The blood fills the chalice. The final member of his court steps forward, carrying a small bone-carved lantern. Hellfire flickers inside. My father pours it into the chalice, then thrusts it toward me. “Drink, and complete the blood rite.”
I hesitate, eyeing him warily.
“Azrael, you must complete the ceremony to wield Soul Slayer. You’ll need it to succeed in the battle against the Leyak and the Hunter.”
How does he know about the battle?Our eyes lock. He pleads once more, quieter this time. “Drink, Azrael—Prince of Shadow and Bone.”
My fingers close around the chalice. It pulses—warm, alive, ancient. Blood and fire. Lineage and damnation. I’m not just claiming a weapon. I’m swearing allegiance to everything that makes me a monster. It’s a vow. A tether. With shaky hands, I bring it to my lips and drink. The mixture scorches its way down my throat, each swallow a battle. Darkness flashes in my eyes. Cold. Bottomless. Then flame. I can feel the flame consuming the cold, melting it away before I burst into my true form.
The pain hits like lightning. My spine arches, every bone snapping into something else. My shoulder blades split open, wings clawing their way free—massive and smoke-drenched, each feather laced with bone. My breath turns to ash as my mouth stretches wide—rows and rows of teeth unfurling like something out of a nightmare. This... this is who I truly am.
Now my jaw aches with the overwhelming desire to feed.
“Go now, Azrael. The ceremony is complete. Wake up and feed. He’s coming. Wake up!”
