“It’s been over a week now. Erik should have finished with the Upper Triad by this point” Mrs. Sigrún sighed softly, eyes on the antler chandelier overhead.

  “Oh—right！ I forgot to tell you. He messaged me this morning. The Coven is Gonna call us to meet tonight.” Mr. Ingvar set his teacup down and sank onto the sofa.

  “It’s already so late—still nothing?” Mrs. Sigrún glanced at the brass clock edging toward 11:30.

  “No. Let’s wait a little longer. The call should come any minute—”

  Before he finished, the golden holy medallion in his hand began to tremble—and heat. As the relief of Yggdrasil on its face flared a sharp red, he reflexively swallowed the still-scalding tea. Coughing hard, face flushing, he and Mrs. Sigrún suddenly felt their heads tipped back by an unseen force; their eyes rolled white and fixed. A solemn voice rose within their inner world:

  “By summons of the Golden-Robed Elder Council and the Deliberative Court, White-Robed brother Ingvar and sister Sigrún are commanded to proceed at once, by the spirit-division rite, to the inner dais for a round-table session. In light of the session’s special nature, before the division commences, lay down at your present locus a Ring-Seal of Containment as specified in Precept Seven of the Aegis Codex. Execute with precision.”

  “Kh—kh—” They came back to themselves.

  “They’re requiring a Ring-Seal?” A thread of fear leaked into Sigrún’s voice. “Ingvar, wasn’t this supposed to be a video call?” Her tone trembled. “I’m calling Erik. We need to know what’s happening. Love, don’t dawdle—take the ceremonial robes and meet me at the altar.

  “Beep—beep—beep… Hello, good evening, it’s Ingvar. How are— We just received—”

  “Not over the line,” Elder Erik cut in. “The Golden-Robes Council forbids discussing this by such means. Get There. Ravena and I are preparing. We will see you shortly.” He hurriedly hung up.

  “What on Earth…What is this supposed to be” Ingvar muttered, but unease had already pooled in his chest.

  ?

  In the altar room, they hurried into white linen ceremonial robes. Gold thread on their short mantles picked out a swallow, a grey-spotted cat, and Mj?lnir / the Goat, all glimmering in candlelight.

  “Lime, yew, sulfur, snakeshed, nettle, and bastard acacia—lay them out in a circle, counterclockwise. I’ll prepare the unguent and the candles,” said Sigrún, opening the ash-wood apothecary chest beside the shrine—Ash Wood inlaid with brass fittings and runes. She drew a deep-blue glass vial stoppered in gold, poured out the oil, and anointed nine beeswax-and-herb candles.

  Ingvar pulled on white cotton gloves and a mask, then dragged a slightly rusted iron trunk from the bottom of the cabinet. When the lid lifted, a heavy, acrid odor rushed out. He blinked, took up a pale orange chunk of raw sulfur, and dropped it into a broad mortar; with each fall of the iron pestle the rotten-egg stench thickened.

  “Shh. Softer. Don’t wake Eliza. We don’t yet know how this session will go. If she wakes and hears any of it—no good,” Sigrún said sharply over her shoulder.

  Ingvar paused, eyes moving quick. With one hand he traced Algiz ?, then murmured:

  “Hugir frá ljósi — t?r synir ráea nú yfir himni ok nóttu. Undir minni stjórn stígr tú inn í ríki drauma ok undra, tá er ek hefi signat.

  【Thoughts from the Light—those visions now reign over the sky and night. By my guidance, thou art stepping into the Realm of Dreams and Wonders, once I have signed · English Version】”

  At once they second-sighted into Eliza’s room. She lay fast asleep, phone in hand still streaming a YouTube movie channel. Both parents exhaled.

  “It’s been rain and cold for days—and the window’s still open.” Sigrún muttered. With a flick, the sash slid shut. She drew the blanket up over Eliza and, turning to go, caught the title on the phone: The Day After Tomorrow. Something dipped inside her. She sighed, withdrew from the vision. “Let’s continue.”

  Ingvar lifted the powdered mix from the mortar. “My hands are dusted with toxins—time to cast the circle. Mask up. Close your eyes; open them again in two minutes.”

  Black-yellow powder, laced with snakeskin shards, fell in a ring about them—roughly three metersacross. Ingvar raised his hand and, with a spark-calling cantrip, lit the nine oil-anointed candles. “Ready?”

  “Begin,” said Sigrún. They clasped hands and faced the tall brass mirror set in the eastern wall, its face engraved with Yggdrasil, the Nine Realms, and fabulous beasts.

  “Frá einum nú sundrskipeum í marga,ok g?ldrum stíg tann, er m?rgum heimfere veitir,tá r?er ok tjónar teim eina.

  Augu mín nú líta í tómie ok upphafit,sál mín ok hugr minn veiea sannindi ok lygi.

  Mee tessari seier geng ek um alla heima,lypt eldinn, tá verer fj?lkunn mín sterk ok haldin.

  【From The One Now Sundered Into Many, I Enchant The Path That Gives The Many Homeward Returns; Thereafter Are They Ruled And Obey The One.

  Mine Eyes Now Look Into The Void And The Beginning; My Soul And Mind Hunting Those Truth And Lies. By This Magic I Walk Through All Worlds; Lift This Flame—Then My Magic Strong And Stay · English Verison】

  As the words moved, both bodies went taut, trembling fine as wire. A white phantasm seeped from each chest and, like a blurred curtain, congealed before them—twin figures in their likeness. Seeing their spirits sunder and show, they let out a breath. They were practiced at this. Among the oldest and most dangerous arts, spirit-division was a blood-mage’s staple: to glean, to see, to act in distant places; to aid the Coven when called; to catch the storm a step before it broke. Even so, both were tense. Tonight’s purpose was to deliberate a terrible prophecy—and it concerned their daughter.

  “Opnist hlieie sk?punar; opnist stígrinn milli himins ok lands. Er vér h?fum stokkie í virki herlies ásgares, skal dyre níu heima veita oss nyja syn ok nytt verk.

  【Open The Gate Of Creation, Open The Path Between The Sky And The Land; Once We Leap Into The Stronghold of The Asgard Legion, The Glory Of The Nine Realms Shall Grant Us A New Vision And New Task · English Version】”

  At the last syllable the great mirror shuddered as if struck by an invisible key. The altar’s reflection rippled, grating into lattices of light; the image resolved into a golden altar bright with candle-flame, rows of robed Vitki,Seier and Elders already seated.

  At the sight, they lifted their hands; their eyes went white. Both spirits stepped forward together, passing through the mirror’s face into the sanctum that waited beyond.

  What opened before them was a broad stone hall, washed by the glow of hundreds of thick candles poured with herbs and dressed in gold leaf. Light slid over walls crowded with mirrors of gold, silver, and bronze; with longswords and round-bossed shields; with tall, orderly cases packed with herbs, unguents, scrolls, and old books. At the far end, a golden shrine and a triple-tiered altar burned with white-gold sacred flame.

  At the center, the High Triune of the Convocation had already taken their places by rank. The pair lifted their eyes and noted the white-ash high chair that stood empty in the midst.

  “The High Elder is away,” Elder Erik announced, reading the uncertainty in their faces, “but he set tonight’s agenda before he left, along with the preparations we will require after.”

  Ingvar and Sigrún wasted no further breath. They swept back their robes, sank to one knee with the other braced, and bowed toward the shrine. “We are late. Forgive us.”

  “Be seated.” The woman to the left of the empty chair spoke. Her gold-trimmed short-cape bore the same emblems stitched upon Sigrún’s—the swallow, the grey-spotted cat, and the Mj?lnir/ram sigil—but wrought in a higher hand: padded goldwork and filéed thread set the divine messengers in such lifelike relief they seemed a heartbeat from leaping free. The fabric of the gold and silver elders’ robes differed as well from the whites: somewhere in that peculiar weave, pure gold filaments and polished silver strands ran like metal surf along a dark sea, flashing as the candlelight moved.

  Ingvar and Sigrún took places on the left side of the altar, beside Elder Erik. No one came late to a Convocation sitting; the severity on the faces across the tiers only tightened the knot in their stomachs. Sigrún swallowed.

  “Per protocol: did all present enact the Poison Warding before entry?” asked the gold-robed elder to the right of the high chair.

  “Aye,” came the chorus.

  “Good. Then, Erik—report your joint findings with the Silver Robes.”

  Erik let his gaze pass over the stone table banded in gold and bronze, then lifted it to the eight gold-robed elders. “Per the prophetic phantasm described by probationary Brown-robe cleansing apprentice Eliza Ravn, we have combed every volume that could bear—histories, grimoires, even our sealed shelves. We can now say with some confidence that the twenty-four human figures first shown in the vision are the twenty-four offerings set out for a Myrkblot. What we cannot yet settle is what precise personae or life-forms those offerings correspond to. They do not align with the twenty-four pillars of the hour, nor with the zodiac or infernal dodecants in their mirrored oppositions. We also tested the hypothesis that they map to the twenty-four runes—the site in the recollection rite was our own megalithic circle on the forest’s edge—but when a twenty-fifth figure appeared, our trail went cold.”

  If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  Ingvar and Sigrún could not help but widen their eyes; sweat threaded from their hairlines. A gold-robed elder leaned forward. “Did you attempt to question the departed? Or consult brethren known to maintain private studies of forbidden texts?”

  “We did,” Erik answered. “But it is as if some force had blotted the record clean. We made formal approach to Hel in Helheim—she refused us. The Norns spoke only because the matter touches fate, and even then gave us a riddle and nothing more. If the twenty-four were truly the runes, the twenty-fifth still will not stand: she violates rune-law and rule. The figure appeared in blood and slaughter—an extraneous, intervening power, not part of the set.” The silver-robed elder at Erik’s side took the turn, helplessness and doubt in his eyes.

  Elder Erik turned his gold signet, glanced to Ravena; at her nod, he seemed to come to a decision. “Thank you, Elder Geirleifr, for the clarification. Our latest passes indicate the rite seen in the vision—this Myrkblot—has no direct analogue in our sealed shelves. Ritual provenance narrows to two lanes: first, direct instruction from a dark god; second, a veiled record in grimoires privately held by Vitki or Seidr outside our stacks. In either case, the terminal state pointed to by the cross-checks is deathand a state of ruin.”

  Murmurs spilled across the tiers; the gold robes exchanged glances.

  “The Norns…” Ingvar half-rose into his voice before he caught himself. He coughed, steadied. “What riddle did they give?”

  Erik sought and won the golds’ assent, then sighed. “Their words were: ‘Teir, er fela sik undir skuggum ok trá syn ok ljós; berir hamrar ok hin sofandi sál tala nú ok syna gátur sínar ok gervi sín.’ — ‘Those Who Hide Beneath the Shadows, who crave Sight and Light; the Bald Crags and the Dormant Soul now speak and spill their Riddles and Disguises.’” He looked to the couple, then to the hall. “Any Ideas or Thoughts?”

  Voices rose and braided, fell and rose again. At length, a silver-robed elder beside the golds said, “Shadows, barren heights, riddles, disguise—might the riddle point to that one who walks the deepest dark, the whisperer whom men avoid? And the presence that hunts beside him…?”

  Sigrún’s fingers tightened on her robe; fear roughened her voice. “Not long ago—that night at home—we chanced on a page depicting that thing and nearly fell under its sway,even almost possessed by it. Do you think—could that have been a sign?”

  A gold elder with greying temples and beard frowned. “Not impossible. It seems certain engines, shut in dust for centuries,Now is Awaking...”

  “Whatever the answer, the rite is a Myrkblot, and the final stage occurs at our stone circle,” the gold-robed woman said, turning to Ingvar. “This no longer concerns only the girl—it concerns all of us. The path forward is to identify the Twenty-Fifth, then work backward—the correspondences of the Twenty-Four will surface. Ingvar, the seiekona family keeps a house in your town. They hold the largest private cache on Myrkblot in the Convocation. Though they have half-withdrawn, I trust your standing and history with them. Have you tried to secure access to their forbidden holdings?”

  “We have considered it,” Ingvar said, weary. “But those shelves are sealed under Myrkblot ward-craft. Unless a family member opens them, any outsider who touches those folios or illuminations risks death or worse. Earlier we weighed dream-walking, summons, even a Mind-entry rite—but we cannot fix how far their counter-measures and their use of Myrkblot have grown. We do not fear death; we fear moving blind and failing—dragging my daughter and the Convocation into irrecoverable ruin.”

  “And the eighth figure?” Sigrún pressed, breath unsteady. “Eliza reported identical marks. Is that woman tied to Eliza? Could it be some torqued presentation of her true self within the prophecy?”

  “I, Ravena,my three daughters, and our fate-adept seiers have checked by ceremony,” Erik said. “The woman reads like Eliza’s vibration, but not in grain. What runs in her is the force of age and decay—the current of an elder witch. By vibratory profile, it is not her—at least not the soul within the flesh. As for the body, it bears staining by toxins. Even if age, height, and mark align, under those conditions the shape may be a projection—your daughter’s mind, shocked by the gore of what she witnessed, throwing an image onto the form she saw.”

  “Can’t we be certain?” Sigrún’s eyes brimmed.

  “This is no longer only your daughter’s safety,” a gold elder cut gently. “Be still, Sigrún. Thousands of years ago our stone circle was polluted by blood and flames, and what dragged all things down then was a foul thing and the fiend that moved with it in the dark. What Eliza witnessed differs in detail, but by several correspondences, we must reckon that something like it may come again.”after the gold-robed elder’s words, the chamber erupted—murmurs surging in an instant across the tiers.

  He struck the floor once with his spear. Fire leapt along the altar’s rim. “Be calm. Much of this is inference, but even inference requires preparation. This is why we ordered Poison Wards and sealed circles before tonight—to leave no scent for and dark creatures/beings or wights to follow.”

  The elder lifted his chin. “If the hazard proves real, we have centuries of measures preparation to bring and bear. Erik, Ravena—coordinate with the Silver robes and reach out to every bloodline who holding those Myrkblot lore. Comb through every forbidden grimoire and chronicle that we can lay our hands on, all of them. when elder óevarr’s return to the coven, we will use our remit to Invokes the gods and the Norns to figure out the particulars of prophecy and the likely costs. Ingvar, Sigrún—take care and watch over your daughter. If her health conditions or spirit shifts, if she receives furthersights or warnings by Three Mothers —report to the High Triune at once.”

  Ingvar and Sigrún bowed their assent and withdrew from the hall. Across the tiers, the others rose, bowed, and dispersed to their work—Erik and Lady Ravena already moving, summoning names and keys,opening the paths to every last Myrkblot page the Convocation could lawfully, or nearly lawfully, reach.

  After their spirits slid back into their bodies, Ingvar and Sigrún sat in silence a long while within the poison circle. At last Ingvar spoke, voice low. “There is one more. We have little to do with him, but apart from the Gold Robes and the seiekona line, he alone truly masters the ancient Myrkblot arts… I think—he might help.”

  “You mean Elder Leif?” Sigrún’s eyes flew wide. “I’ve heard he keeps lodgings in London—but he’s cold, elusive, always away on charge…” She faltered, a shadow crossing her face. “And for years he’s ridden circuit under orders, seldom dealing with the lower ranks. At a moment like this—and we barely know him—are you sure he will help us?”

  Ingvar sighed. “Do we have another way? We don’t even know how strong the seiekona wards on their shelves and their house have grown. If this gambit fails, our only hope is the Convocation’s inquiry—and Leif.” He tipped his head toward the sword laid before the altar’s board, and an idea kindled. “Love—since we’ve already set the Poison Circle tonight, I want to borrow its cover and protections—and go look in on the seiekona house.”

  “Are you mad?” Sigrún almost shouted. “We can part the spirit from the flesh—that’s not the risk. But if you use witchcraft over there and their curses bite, your body and soul will suffer by those damages that you can’t even draw back!”

  Ingvar stood. “We have no time to argue my love. This can’t wait. If the future truly runs as the Three Mothers and the Gold Robes warn, we have to move. If we do nothing—forget our daughter—there’ll be no road left for the Coven or the mortal world.” Sigrún gripped his hand. After a beat’s thought she rose too. “I’ll guard the body. But be careful. At the first sign of trouble—come back.” She went to the shrine, opened the ash-wood coffer, and drew out a fine golden vial.

  “Are you ready?” Her voice shook and caught.

  “Frá hinum eina, nú klofnum í marga, seiei ek veg tann er veitir hinum m?rgu heimleie; síean er teim styrt af hinum eina, ok eru teir honum hlyenir. Ef sál mín ok hold mitt verei sár ok fúnandi, tá sé hluti sálar minnar látinn eftir at vernda ok leiea virki mitt, meean ek lifi ok dvel.

  【From The One Now Sundered Into Many, I Enchant A Path That Grants The Many A Homeward Return; Thereafter Are They Ruled By, And Obedient To, The One. Should My Soul And Flesh Be Wounded And Decay, Let A Part Of My Soul Be Left To Guard And Guide My Stronghold So Long As I Live And Stay · English Version】”

  Before Sigrún could check him, the words left Ingvar’s mouth.

  “Ingvar!” she cried, nearly tearing her throat. But his eyes had already gone white: his spirit stood in Lexden, on Colchester’s western edge. He drew a deep breath and walked toward an aging house shrouded in black mist.

  The mist was not smoke, nor the simple clarity of morning fog. It writhed like a living thing around the house, steeped in oppression and the scent of rot. “Be careful,” Sigrún’s voice came through the bond. Ingvar’s mouth twitched; he nodded with a small smile, then let his face go hard. He gripped the golden Mj?lnir at his breast and the sacred image of Thor, and began the second stanza of spirit-sundering:

  “Augu margra nema nú ljósie ok skiptast í margvísar synir; mee tessum seiei er mér leyft at stíga um fen vélar ok lyga. Leita ek vegar tíns; verei skuggarnir birtir í nótt.

  【The Eyes Of Many Now Catch The Light And Sunder Into Manifold Sights; By This Craft I Am Permitted To Tread The Swamp Of Guile And Lies. What I Seek Is Thy Way; Let The Shadows Be Unveiled This Night · English Version】”

  At the final tone he crossed his arms over his chest, jaw clenched, fists hard as iron, then flung his arms wide. A white haze like a light-grating spilled from his spine and took shape to either side—six human silhouettes.

  He did not waste time. He pricked his tongue with a bite, and sprayed his blood across the shades. Where the drops struck, the phantoms coalesced—each wearing Ingvar’s face.

  “Love…” Through second-sight, Sigrún watched her husband split again, into many souls. Tears blurred her vision. She knew the price of this craft. She knew he was risking certain death to win a thread of hope for their daughter and the Coven. But what else was there? If they did not fight now, death would claim them all. She said nothing, swallowed the sob, uncapped the golden vial, and drew the long sword from the shrine’s second tier, setting her stance.

  Ingvar felt the tremor in her heart. He moved the left hand of his body, far away in their altar room, and brushed the tear from Sigrún’s cheek. Then, before the seiekona house, he sealed with his right hand and traced Tiwaz ? in the air; at his command, the six spirits fanned out to patrol the grounds.

  “Henbane. Belladonna. Grave-earth… Hm?” One of the split-souls bent, lifted a clump of wet loam to its nose, and sniffed. “They’ve strewn serpent-bones around the house—lizard’s blood, and rotting pig organs….” Suddenly the clod breathed a black-red smoke that lanced up the phantom’s nostrils. At the same instant, Ingvar’s body in the altar room shuddered; blood ran scarlet from his nose.

  “Drop it!” Sigrún snapped.

  The split-soul flung the filth away and gripped his Thisman. As the ward-spell rose and Mj?lnir began to glow a pale silver, the bleeding stopped.

  “I’m fine,” Ingvar said through his teeth. “But this family—death-wish. No wonder their warding holds so tight; they’ve wrapped the place in the power of death. Do they not see that at this rate every living thing inside this house will be dead in anytime?”

  He drew breath. “Still—if it’s the strength of death… I know a way. Love, fetch the bundled cloth from the black chest.”

  Sigrún did not delay. She knelt at the circle’s rim and, using the iron hook, dragged a great black trunk from beneath the dark shrine on the altar’s western side. “We hardly use these. Are you sure?”

  “There’s no room for caution now.”

  She was still tense, uneasy. A witch must know light and shadow both; the dark shrine existed to go forth—to glean the tidings of Hel, to call the dead, to speak to shadows. But such arts were knife-edges—all too easy to polluted themselves even wound the soul.

  After a moment’s thought, she opened the trunk. Inside were glass jars filled with dark red soil and poisonous herbs; a big cauldron raddled with rust; a fire-steel and a keen knife; the skulls of beasts carved all over with sigils; and a cloth packet bound hard with cords of black, red, and white. Sigrún unwound the knots with care and set into Ingvar’s hands a black wax poppet—compounded of belladonna powder, bat-bone, and Botrychium—and a silver dagger graven with runes.

  Feeling the weight of the tools, Ingvar shut his eyes, calmed his breath, and whispered a harsh incantation:

  “Tér, er grátie, og tér, er felie yer; undir minni forsjá talie ok vereie leiddir aptr í ljósie. Veslar sálir trés lífsins, verei tár year ok blóe borin í ljós af mínum oreum ok synum. Kalla ek yer: tá er ek reisi tenna storm, skulue tér koma til mín.

  【Ye Who Weep, Ye Who Hide; By My Guidance, Speak And Be Brought Back Into The Light. Wretched Souls Of The Tree Of Life, Let Thy Tears And Blood Be Laid Bare By My Words And Sights. I Summon Thee: When I Raise This Storm, Thou Shalt Come Unto Me · English Version】”

  As the last word fell, a pallid shape took form beside the wood—hunched, limping—coming slowly toward him. Only when it stood before him did Ingvar see it clearly: a face nearly torn to pieces, strewn with dead leaves, the whole body pocked with nauseating sores. He gagged, unbidden, then sealed with his right hand and beckoned one of the scouting souls back.

  “Dauei ok fúnandi draugr, hyljie ljós mitt ok hás?ti mitt; er ek stíg í myrkr, opnist augu Heljar, at ek megi kanna leyndardóm n?tur ok lyga.

  【By Death And The Decaying Ghost, Veil My Light And Throne; Once I Step Into Darkness, Open The Eyes Of Hel, That I May Probe The Secret Of Night And Lies · English Version】”

  The returned spirit shivered into star-grain, then seeped into the ghost’s chest—right into the place where a heart would be.

  At the altar, Sigrún set a bronze hourglass, ready to turn. Then a stench of corpses began to seep from Ingvar’s body. Her brow knotted. “The taint’s begun. For safety—ten minutes.” She flipped the glass.

  With Ingvar’s will inside it, the ghost turned and went into the black mist. The fog around the house was thick and wicked, breathing rot and raising thin screams. Cloaked in the dead’s breath, the shade crossed the veil and slipped through a door that was just as cursed—smeared with blood and pitch—and began the rounds within.

  Furniture stood haphazard. The deep green of the walls had blistered in the damp. He moved close, peering at the green on the paper. “Copper-arsenic. They’re truly mad. No wonder the Myrkblot strength runs wild here. For the sake of the darkness, they’re staking their lives.” He shivered. He could not fathom a mind that would spend the breath of self and kin for the rush of shadowed power.

  From upstairs came the rumble of snores. As he set a foot on the stair, he noticed a built-in cupboard off the hall exhaling a black-violet vapor. He tasted the upstairs air, found no watcher awake, and returned to the cupboard. “In a house of this age, this cupboard should open toward the cellar. The mist stinks worse here than outside. Those archives are likely below. I’m going in.” He sent the thought along the link.

  Neither of them expected what followed. As the ghost’s hand so much as brushed the sigil on the wood, a black-red flame roared up. In a blink the poor shade—Ingvar’s split-soul inside it—was ringed in hellfire and burned to ash with a single scream.

  Above, sleepers jerked awake; lights snapped on. At the same time, in the altar room, blisters like boiled pearls swelled along Ingvar’s right hand; the skin blackened and sloughed, the rot running up his forearm as if it had eyes.

  Sigrún ripped open his robe and poured Yggdrasil powder from the golden vial along the breaking flesh. “Come back!” she cried.

  Wracked by the soul’s injury, fighting for breath, Ingvar spat out sacred Poem and wrenched the other five spirits home, fusing them, flinging himself back across the mirror of worlds into his body.

  “A—ah!” He crashed to his knees, gulping air. He looked back at the right arm where the World-Tree powder had checked the rot and coaxed a scab. A crooked smile tugged his mouth.

  “They’re Unhinged and Mad,And Now You’re as mad as they are,” Sigrún said, fury blazing as she stared him down.

  “If we don’t test their strength, we’ll never know it.” He let himself fall flat on the floor. “That path is closed. Tomorrow I’ll take it to the High Triune… For now—we move step by step. See what the Coven can pry loose. See what Leif can do.”

  Sigrún sagged where she stood, then sat, still scowling, eyes lifting to the altar’s northern gold. “Gods above—give us a way.”

  Outside, a cock crowed. As the light grew, the night—full of dread—at last came to its end.