A torso, neck, and head have appeared in the red beam. The face is non-descript—it could be anyone. One part of it is unmissable: the wide-open screaming mouth, which silently exudes the feeling of torture, the longer I stare at it.
“Pain, in so many forms,” Crone all but sings, her hands still clasped to Arga’s. “Pain is the key to it all, and you wield it well.”
Arga’s slight smirk returns, a self-satisfied smile.
Crone releases him and takes a step back, but the red beam remains above him, the screaming face visible for all to see. She holds both hands out, palms facing Arga, and another white light bursts from them, thumping him in the chest. He stands firm, and the crimson image above him doesn’t waver, continuing to float there, unaffected by the new blast, which is so bright that it’s near blinding.
Power tingles across the air as the lights fade and Crone’s lips twitch upward.
“Your power is cleansed,” she announces.
With those words, the crowd erupts, screaming Arga’s name.
Crone claps her hands again, and the crowd quiets as she moves on to the next royal: the male with shoulder-length, grass-green hair. Crone calls him Sotain, the second son of Jareth, and announces his power as sadness, which she says is passive but lethal because it has active components. She doesn’t give any more explanation than that, but I can deduce my own thoughts on it. Sadness is just as destructive as pain, in its own way. When the light changes between them, it turns a very pale teal, and I try not to be affected by the tears streaming down the featureless face that appears above them.
Next is the first female—the one with the navy hair that falls straight to her shoulders where the tips curl inward. Her face is oval and she has thick brows and full lips like the other royals. She’s beautiful, in a strong and capable way, standing almost as tall as Arga.
“Bera, first daughter of Jareth, are you ready to purify your soul?” Crone asks. “Are you ready to fight for your chance to rule Pyra-Mortem?”
It’s a repeat of the previous purifications, and Bera is confident in her responses. Like her two older brothers, this demon will not be an easy target.
Crone announces her power as jealousy, a passive power with active elements that can be used to incite unrest. The light between their hands turns deep green, drawing out highlights of the same color in Bera’s hair that I hadn’t noticed before.
After that is Ollie, third son of Jareth, who has the long, burnt orange hair. He’s slightly smaller than his older brothers in stature. Crone refers to his power as regret, which she says is also a passive power. The streaming orange light is the same color as his hair, and the image that appears above him shows swirling leaves, like those that have fallen, never to return to the tree again.
All of the royals so far have followed a pattern I’m coming to recognize. The light that streams around them matches their hair color and meshes with their power. Also, we’re moving from the oldest to the youngest—which means I’ll be called last.
There are only three of us left now: Esta, Koda, and me.
Esta gives a small smile when Crone calls for her to step up, but unlike the smirks worn by most of her siblings, her smile seems genuine and relaxed.
I can’t help but notice the way the watching elites seem to warm to her—the sweetness of her demeanor, her lack of guile—leaning forward in their seats and murmuring in hushed tones.
Crone doesn’t seem to miss the crowd’s response, either, and a nasty scowl descends over her face. It looks like she doesn’t like that Esta is the darling of Pyra-Mortem—even if Arga is the one the elites want to rule this world.
Crone seems to hurry through the purification this time, speaking more rapidly and with reduced dramatic effect. When she reaches the part about powers, the light that rises between them remains white with sparkles of gold flickering throughout. Some of the gold sparkles form the shapes of feathers, while others widen into what look like sunbeams.
“The power of soul,” Crone announces, and it matches my impression of Esta so far. It may be difficult, if not impossible, for a demon to ever feel compassion or empathy, but Esta seems to come close.
Right at the last minute when Crone’s white light hits Esta, I catch another image within the gold specks shining above her, a glistening object with a sharp point like the tip of a blade, but it’s gone before I get a decent look, and I decide it must have been the tip of one of the feathers.
Koda is the last of my demon siblings to be purified, and I’m most curious to know what his power is since he was using stolen energy on Earth.
“Koda, fourth son of Jareth. The wayward son.” Crone addresses him in an unpleasant tone. “Are you ready to purify your soul?”
I wait a beat for her to ask him the second question:Are you ready to fight for your chance to rule Pyra-Mortem?
He appears to wait too, but Crone doesn’t follow up, simply tipping her head at him as if she’s impatient. When Esta shuffles uncomfortably where she stands on my left, I assume that Crone must be trying to shame him in front of the crowd.
In response, it almost sounds like Koda mutters, “Hell, no,”before he says, “As if I have a choice.”
A brief silence is followed by jeers from the onlookers before Crone silences them with a single clap of her hands.
“You have the power of weather,” she says to Koda, her black eyes raking across him. “Strong and active, yet you’ve failed to master its thrall.”
Weather?I’m puzzled by this, given that the other powers so far have related to emotions or feelings: pain, sadness, jealousy, regret… My own power is nightmares—or, in its most pure form, fear. The power of weather seems strangely out of place.
Koda doesn’t acknowledge Crone’s insult to his abilities other than to press his lips together and stare out over her head.
