It was to be an otherwise normal day in Nocteraia, the blazing noon sun pitching light and life to the bustling men and women, who went about their day in the city. Higglers sold their wares on the streets, soliciting buyers with raucous calls. Others walked to their workplace, oblivious to the significance of the day, while the intuitive remained silent, unable to articulate their bizarre sense that something was not quite right. They could not point to a single thing that aroused their suspicion, nor could they imagine the degree to which their clairvoyance was correct. Otherwise, they might have gone mad, or taken their own lives to forgo what was to be a divine evil.
It was true that Nocteraia had been experiencing more murders recently, the nature of them not only ghastly but demonic. But that only happened deep into the night, which everyone knew was when the devil and his children frolicked. Venturing out at night was a death sentence, the only persons who seemed to know exactly who the executioner was had their parts scattered throughout the city, unable to get themselves together to utter a single word. Hence, the denizens of Nocteraia worshipped the sun like their god who provided Providence.
In the dungeon of the old AshenHollow mansion on the southside of Nocteraia, four cloaked women sat cross-legged, their heads bowed. The dark space was cloistered and thick with smoke wafting from thirteen candles set in a candelabra before them. Each had their right hand hidden under their cloaks, a rough piece of parchment paper before them.
"Let us begin," the tallest of the women murmured, her voice rasping.
The woman to her right shivered under her cloak, then stiffened, running a hand through her long blood-red hair.
"Wait," another of the women whispered, "there is no room for error. Let us check our particulars once more." She wore a purple cloak distinct from the other three's black.
"Evangelina," the tall woman began, "time is running out, and we already..."
“This rite is already rushed, Clementine,” the woman in purple interjected. “It is extremely important that our Artageca triads cover all the elements. Our rising signs are all that matter, but just to be thorough, we shall restate our particulars…” Evangelina paused, wiping sweat from her pale face before she croaked, “October fourteenth, year sixteen eleven—Libra sun, Aquarius rising, Aquarius Moon." With that, she gazed at her parchment, which rose steadily under a controlled draught.
“All your signs are air,” Clementine outlined. “Mine is June thirtieth, year sixteen twenty—Cancer sun, Leo rising, Cancer moon.” Without warning, Clementine raised her hand, tracing an arc through the damp dungeon air. A trail of amber fire followed, crackling.
“Agatha?” Evangelina crowed.
Agatha fidgeted beside Clementine, clearing her throat.
“May third, sixteen thirty five—Taurus sun, Cancer rising, Scorpio moon.” Agatha freed a crescent-shaped brass clip from her hair. In the next second, a gurgling issued from above them, where a mass of water had congealed into a rippling bubble the size of a grapefruit. The quartet of witches pitched their heads upward to witness its aggressive, chaotic movement. Agatha ended the display, lodging the clip back into her hair.
“Good,” Evangelina said. “Grace, your turn.”
They all turned to face the final woman, who’d been mute until now. She raised her head slowly, almost mechanically, revealing a gaunt face with one eye. The other eye was covered with crusted skin. Grace’s deadpan voice rang out like a banshee.
“December tenth, year sixteen ten—Sagittarius sun, Capricorn rising, Libra moon.”
There was silence in the dungeon before Grace revealed her magic. Then her shrill voice erupted.
“Terra subsulto!”
The dungeon floor leaped, sending loose pebbles hurtling to the floor.
“We’re all set,” Evangelina announced. “This is the beginning of a new age. Our faction shall reign supreme in this land.”
Each witch unsheathed their left hand, all bleeding from the palm. And after joining hands, they erupted in a spirited chant.
We evoke the spirit of the elements
In this Chain of Glory which bleeds
By the fervor of our hearts
We pull from the darkness between stars
Fire, earth, air, water!
Ignis furens qui consumit
Terra adusta quae devorat
Spiritus diaboli ad iudicandum
Diluvium sanguinis ad baptizandum
Dea coronata lunae ad regendum!
After the sixth recital, Clementine fell face-first upon the dungeon floor, her nose spurting blood. The other three knew she was dead. Yet they continued their frenzied chanting, the space crackling with infernal energy. Fire gashed before them, casting twisted shadows over their faces. A strong, sentient wind snuffed out the candles, pitching the room into darkness. By the tenth recital, the entire Ashenhollow mansion was engulfed in flames. Evangelina watched her last sister fall. She halted her chanting, tears welling in her eyes as her flesh sizzled, her cloak undone. Then she smiled. It was done.
Outside was bedlam. The denizens of Nocteraia screamed, dashed, and wept, for midday had somehow transformed into the blackest night. They gazed upward at the sky where the sun, their god should have been. Only an obsidian darkness remained. Their twisted faces betrayed their thoughts: an age of nightmares had begun.
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