– The Pact Beneath the Mountain
Psalm 10:7 (NIV)
"His mouth is full of lies and threats; trouble and evil are under his tongue."
The fires in the witches' courtyard burned low, contained in iron braziers shaped like open hands. Their smoke curled through the rafters, staining the banners that hung above the stone floor. Each banner bore the seal of a House that had fallen or been absorbed—proof of victories, reminders of debts unpaid. The night smelled of sage, salt, and the faint sweetness of old blood.
Ashley sat on the dais at the far end, the seat reserved for the Keeper of the Flame. The title was not royal, but in this world, it was higher. Her posture was perfect—back straight, shoulders aligned, head lifted so the torchlight kissed the line of her jaw. Around her, acolytes knelt in concentric rings, silent except for the rhythmic hiss of their breathing. Order was the spine of power. Chaos was a thing she permitted only when it served her.
The sound of approaching footsteps broke the stillness. Margaret crossed the courtyard, cloak dragging against the stone. Her knees hit the floor before she reached the second ring of acolytes. The impact echoed, a hollow sound swallowed by the air.
"Rise," Ashley said. The word was soft, yet it carried.
Margaret obeyed, eyes lowered. "My High One."
Ashley's gaze did not lift from the flame before her. "You failed."
Margaret flinched, a visible tremor along her spine. "The path was clear, my Lady. The village lay open. But something stirred—something unseen. A wall of light around the valley. When I tried to pass, my fire died in my hands."
Ashley's eyes flicked up, bright as embers. "Your fire died."
"Yes."
"Then you carried weakness in your palms." Ashley's tone was precise, not loud, but each syllable found its mark. "Did you believe the village could defy us? That mere soil and faith could resist the Houses?"
Margaret's voice broke. "No, High One. It was not soil or faith. It was… power. Different from ours. It felt alive, as if the mountain itself breathed against me."
A murmur rippled through the acolytes—fear disguised as curiosity. Ashley silenced it with a single lift of her hand. The air stilled.
"Alive?" she repeated. "Our craft draws from life. Do you suggest something greater?"
Margaret swallowed. "I don't know what it was. The moment I neared the stream, the torches dimmed. My spirit strained to hold the channel, and the name of the Elder burned bitter on my tongue. Something stopped me, something I cannot name."
Ashley descended the dais. Her steps made no sound. She moved until she stood inches from Margaret, close enough for the smaller woman to feel the heat radiating from her skin. "You disappoint me," Ashley murmured. "Twice this season you've come back empty. And now you bring me tales of invisible walls."
Margaret's lips parted, but Ashley raised a finger. "Do not speak yet. Look around you."
Margaret's eyes darted across the courtyard. The acolytes remained motionless, their faces blank, their robes identical. Each carried a small blade, edge turned inward in the gesture of silence. Ashley's voice slid through the space between them.
"Every flame here burns because I allow it," she said. "Every oath holds because I spoke it into being. You think the mountain opposes us? Mountains fall when commanded to kneel. You think a whisper of light can stand against the old fires?"
Margaret bowed her head. "Forgive me, High One. I will make this right."
"You will," Ashley said. "But not alone. I will not waste another hour on uncertainty."
She turned away, walking back toward the dais. The hem of her cloak left faint black streaks on the floor. "Tell me," she said without looking back, "what else you saw."
Margaret hesitated. "There were people in the village—a family of travelers. Strangers from beyond the hills. They speak of a god who listens. A girl follows them now. They call her Elena."
Ashley stopped mid-step. For the first time, her breath caught. "A name?" she said quietly. "They give her a name?"
"Yes."
Ashley turned, eyes narrowing. "Describe the girl."
"Young. Barely grown. But her presence…" Margaret struggled for words. "It bends the air. Even from a distance, I felt it—heat, but not ours. She bears a fire that does not burn."
Ashley studied her. "Then the story is true."
Margaret blinked. "High One?"
"An old prophecy," Ashley said. "From the first wars. 'When the night swallows the moon, a child of ashes shall bear a living flame.' We burned the scrolls centuries ago." Her voice thinned to a hiss. "Apparently not all of them turned to ash."
Margaret dared to lift her head. "You think she is the one?"
"I think," Ashley said slowly, "that the name Yeshua has returned—and with it, trouble we thought buried."
The torches flickered as if in answer. For a moment, even the braziers leaned away from her fury.
Ashley gathered her composure with visible effort. "Prepare the lower circle. We ride for the mountain before dawn. If light shields them, we will unmake its source."
Margaret bowed deeply. "As you command."
Ashley's eyes gleamed. "And bring the banners of pact. If they have faith, we will meet it with betrayal."
The mountain loomed , its slopes streaked with shadow. The witches' retinue moved like smoke across the ridges—silent riders dressed in black leather and ash-gray silk. At their head, Ashley rode beneath a veil of thin metal chains that shimmered with faint heat. Behind her came Margaret, her face pale from sleeplessness, carrying a satchel heavy with offerings: blood, salt, and three stones carved with sigils of truth reversed.
At the foot of the mountain, where the valley widened into scrub and stone, they halted. The witches dismounted. The air was thick, heavy, expectant. A shallow altar stood nearby, half-buried beneath moss, carved with the symbols of Houses long vanished. Ashley brushed dust from it with the back of her hand and placed one of the carved stones upon its center.
"They'll come," she said. "Fear always drives them down from their holes."
And they did. As the last light thinned, two figures approached from the path below—Teuwa and Regbolo. Their silhouettes wavered against the mist, shoulders stooped, the gait of men who had already bargained too much with the dark.
When they entered the hollow, they fell to their knees. "Great ones," Teuwa said, voice cracking, "we come as called."
Ashley watched them for a long moment, saying nothing. Margaret stood at her side, expression unreadable.
"You serve the village," Ashley said finally. "You guard its faith."
Teuwa's throat worked as he swallowed. "I did. But faith has turned against me. A new god rises among them. A girl—Elena—speaks his name."
Regbolo nodded, his hands twisting together. "They say her words heal fear. Even the children listen."
Ashley's tone stayed calm. "And this disturbs you?"
"It ruins me," Teuwa said bitterly. "The people no longer bring offerings. They no longer bow. They look to her, to the strangers who whisper light into darkness. My power weakens by the day."
Ashley tilted her head. "Then we share a problem. You fear losing control; I fear delay. Perhaps we can correct both."
Teuwa's eyes lifted, cautious. "You would help me?"
"Help is a poor word," Ashley said. "I propose a pact."
She extended her hand, palm up. Her nails were blackened at the tips, the mark of blood-oath. "You and your man will serve us. You will sow doubt, turn whispers into unrest. Make the villagers question this new faith. We will do the rest."
Regbolo's gaze darted toward the satchel of offerings, then back to her face. "And if we refuse?"
Margaret's lips curved faintly. "Then you will serve still. Only differently."
Ashley smiled without warmth. "Cooperation brings favor. Defiance brings flame. Choose which you prefer to live with."
Teuwa's pride wavered against his fear. He looked at the ground. "If we obey, what becomes of the girl?"
Ashley's voice softened, which made it more dangerous. "When belief collapses, she will have no power left. The light will choke itself out. Then, and only then, will we collect what remains."
Margaret placed the second stone on the altar. Its surface flared red, lines of ancient script glowing briefly before fading to black. "The pact is written," she said. "But it must be sealed."
Ashley nodded. "Blood binds words. Speak the vow."
Teuwa hesitated. Regbolo whispered something under his breath, perhaps a prayer, perhaps a curse. Then Teuwa drew a small knife from his belt, cutting the pad of his thumb. Blood welled up, dark and slow. "By the fire beneath the mountain," he said, repeating the old formula, "I swear obedience."
Regbolo followed, though his hand shook so violently the blade nicked his palm twice. "By the shadow that watches, I swear."
Ashley turned her wrist and pressed her thumb to the stone between them. The sigil drank the blood greedily, turning deep crimson. The air shivered; the smell of iron thickened.
"It is done," Ashley said. "You will go back to your people. You will speak against this Yeshua. You will mock His miracles and twist His mercy. You will make the villagers ashamed of hope."
Teuwa looked up, uneasy. "And if this light they follow fights back?"
Ashley's smile was small, almost kind. "Then you will stand closer to the darkness. It always wins, in time."
Margaret handed each man a charm bound with red thread. "Keep these hidden. When the time comes, they will open the way."
Regbolo took his quickly, eyes darting toward the woods. Teuwa accepted his with slower hands, studying the symbol etched into the clay—a circle broken by flame. "And if the girl sees through this?"
"Then she will learn," Ashley said, "that mercy burns slower than wrath."
A distant rumble echoed from within the mountain, faint but unmistakable. The witches and the men all turned toward it instinctively. The sound faded, but the ground held a slight tremor after it stopped.
Ashley's expression didn't change. "It stirs," she said softly. "The barrier weakens already."
Margaret's eyes widened. "High One—could it mean—"
"It means," Ashley interrupted, "that our work begins."
She turned to Teuwa and Regbolo. "Go. Return before sunrise. Speak what must be spoken. The more the people doubt, the stronger our reach becomes."
The men bowed low, eager to leave. Their footsteps faded into the fog, swallowed by the slope.
When they were gone, Margaret let out a slow breath. "You trust them?"
Ashley looked toward the distant lights of Mahogany, small and flickering like stars drowning in mist. "Trust is a luxury," she said. "I need only their greed. Fear will keep them loyal longer than devotion ever could."
She lifted the last stone from her satchel and placed it atop the altar. It flared once—brighter than the others—then cracked cleanly down the middle, smoke curling from its core.
"Let the village choose its god," she murmured. "We will choose what remains when faith fails."
The torches around them dimmed in perfect unison. The air smelled of iron and rain. Somewhere above, a hawk circled, its cry slicing through the silence before fading into the mist.
Margaret watched the valley with narrowed eyes. "And if the fire they follow does not fade?"
Ashley's answer was almost tender. "Then we teach them what fire truly is."
The mountain kept its counsel, its slopes veined with shadow. The witches stood for a while longer, unmoving, listening to the wind drag across the rocks like breath. When they finally turned to leave, the altar still smoked, the broken stone pulsing faintly in the dark—heartbeat of a promise not yet fulfilled.