Chapter 6: Princeling, Part 1
Six hundred years ago, twelve countries had fallen into a bitter war that waged for three centuries. By the end of it, two of those countries had been rendered uninhabitable. The many sides were so locked in hate they had resorted to means that still made the world shudder at the memorymeans that had left scars that would never fade, wounds that would never close.
Magic had reached to great heights and terrifying lows. Monsters had been called, beasts created, and demons summoned. Chaos reigned for centuries, and when it all finally ended, the world had changed. The remaining ten countries were united under one queen, though it was not a victory she won easily. The remaining population was but a sliver of the masses that had once filled the land, and recovering those lost numbers was a war yet to be won.
The monsters and terrible magic remained, across the land and in the blood. Mere humans could not conquer the nightmare creatures or fight the hellish magic that could not be unlearned, and it was to the very blood they had fought that the people turned for help. In order to maintain her tenuous grip on her fragile new kingdom, the queen built an army of people who were all part human, part something else. They became known as the Queen's Legion, fourteen branches of elite and powerful warriors and mages whose sole purpose was to defend and die for the kingdom: Dragoons, Titans, Summoners, Sorcerers, Priests, Paladins, Geomancers, Gremlins, Dredknights, Shades, Shadowmarch, Tamers, Alchemists, and the Princes of the Blood.
Most notorious of her Legion were the Princes of the Blood, those who carried a measure of demon blood in their veins. Dark, secret magic woke the demon blood, turned them into half-demons of fearsome strength and magical prowess. Their only weakness was a need for the blood of pure humans.
To join the ranks of the Princes of the Blood was the highest honor in the kingdom. Repeating that to himself as he walked down a long flight of worn, slippery, dark stone steps did nothing to reassure Raffé. Men died attempting to become Princes, and those who succeeded eventually died in battle. No Prince of the Blood had ever died of old age.
Guards had escorted him through the castle to the entrance to the lower levels where few were permitted. Then they'd left him there alone, which was surprising. Surely after his brother's behavior they would have wanted to ensure he went the whole way? They had left him, though, and so he'd shrugged and walked on, opening a door painted black and marked with the rune and thorn crest of the Princes.
The stairs were as black as the door, worn from decades of use, and he was halfway down them before he realized they were made of marble and likely once had been smooth and gleaming and beautiful. At the bottom of the stairs was a hallway of more black marble carved with hundreds of thousands of runes that shimmered with red and blue light as he walked past themprotection and warding to keep in something that was too dangerous to be let out. He'd heard stories of Bloodings gone wrong, where the ceremony turned the candidate into a full demon instead of a half-demon. Selecting pr-9oper candidates was a difficult matter. Some had too much demon blood, some too little, and some possessed the blood of demons far too dangerous to ever wake. Once, the kingdoms might have kept track of such things better, but nearly all knowledge had been lost in the fighting.
At the end of the black marble hallway, a vaguely familiar figure stood waiting for him in front of a door. Prince Dalibor, the king's nephew and a Prince of the Blood for more than a decade. Rumor had it he'd married one of the elusive and nigh-legendary Wolves of the Moon. "Little prince," he greeted. "You did, indeed, come." He smiled in a way that bared his sharp fangs, eyes a bright yellow.
"I said I would," Raffé replied quietly. "I was surprised nobody escorted me."
Dalibor laughed in a rough but easy way. "The last walk is your own, little prince. Come." He pushed open the door and led the way into what proved to be a wide, circular room at least as big as Raffé's bedroom.
All around the perimeter stood the Princes of the Blood. Each had yellow eyes with that shine peculiar to animals. They varied in shape and size but shared a predator's stillness. Each wore a dark red tunic trimmed in silver, chests emblazoned with the crest of the Princes: a cluster of thorns inside a circle of runes.
On the far end of the room, directly opposite the door through which he'd come, stood the king and two men in dark red robes, deep hoods hiding their faces. Priests of the Blood, their identities hidden for their own safety, for they were the only ones who knew the whole of the ceremony that would wake his demon blood, transforming him forever into something less than demon but far more than human.
Well, that was what would happen if he survived. The Blooding was arduous, dangerous, and Raffé would only be the latest in a long line of men who simply lacked the strength to survive the transformation.
The taller of the two Priests stepped forward, beckoning to Raffé. "Come into the circle, little prince."
To Raffé's surprise, Dalibor gripped his shoulder in a friendly fashion and smiled before he slipped away to take his place along the wall. Raffé obeyed the Priest, stepping further into the room and over a white line that had been chalked onto the slate floor.
"Strip," the Priest ordered.
Raffé started to ask if he was serious but stopped at the last moment. The Blooding was no place to fool around; of course the Priest was serious. He removed his clothes quickly, handing the bundle over to the Priest and trying not to show his discomfort. The room was damp and cold, and it was difficult not to be acutely aware his pale, skinny, unremarkable body was a weak imitation of the warriors around him.