The sky was bleeding.

A wound had broken the cold, blue expanse of the day sky, seeping vibrant reds across it like the surface of an opal. From her place upon a stony precipice, an old woman needn’t crane her neck to see it. She stared at this heavens’ hemorrhage with a dark gaze and a stern face worn from countless years; the heavy lines and loose jowls only deepened the look of displeasure at what she saw. An untold time of silent judgement gave way as she looked down upon the valley below her, with its winding river and dotted villages, and then gave a tertiary glance to the land beyond. Far to the south, almost beyond the reach of vision, a thin, dark structure stretched skyward like an emaciated mountain. In that moment, displeasure turned to disgust. Turning, the woman hobbled away from the ledge and toward the jutting, snowcapped peaks that framed the valley. Her gnarled hands gripped a twisted, ash-colored staff with a strength that defied her great age. Such disparity was the prerogative of the Crone of Sparkwood Eyrie.

The wind bent around her as she moved, encasing her like an egg. Land and space rushed away in a dark blur until her feet came to rest upon smooth stone and stillness took dominion of the air around her. The Crone ventured deeper into the cave, leaving the bleeding sky behind her. It opened into a large temple, hewn into the mountain through magicks cast by witches long before her reign. The floor transformed into one of polished onyx that shined darkly from the flickering light cast by a series of braziers.

Two women stood in the room’s center, a circular dais bathed in sunlight from a large window carved out of the mountain; they immediately looked to the Crone as she entered. One of them was a young maiden, not yet twenty, a wild beauty dressed in white. The second was elder to the first, though nowhere near the age of the Crone. In her hands she held a snow-colored rabbit, its pink nose twitching and eyes filled with fear.

“What have you seen?” asked the Maiden.

“The world screams, the sky is torn.” Slowly, the Crone joined the others. Where they were poised tall and proud, she hunched forward. Where their robes were clean and embroidered with finery, hers were worn and tattered. Only a stole of wolf fur, draped around each of their shoulders, united them in a regal motif as the three stood in a triangle upon the onyx structure.

“And what of that which fell?” the Maiden pressed with youthful curiosity, “see you it, as well?”

“Beyond my sight,” came the Crone’s short reply, her patience to indulge long scraped bare by her years.

Sensing such, the Mother chimed in her cool voice, “We have caught the thief.” Her fingers tightened around the rabbit, “Perhaps he has seen it.”

“Then questions we shall ask,” the Crone began as she leveled her gaze upon the frightened animal. Two voices joined her in unison, “before his judgment is rendered.”

With a grasping motion, the Crone clawed the air with a hand. Her long, withered fingers bent inward, then released, and with them went a black smoke streaked with deep purple. It enveloped the rabbit and tossed it to the ground where it coated it like a cocoon; the form within twisted and bent as it elongated. Within seconds, the smoke dissipated, leaving behind a naked man who choked and writhed in pain. He was perhaps fifty years, older than the Mother, dark hair and beard peppered with time’s grey. While the two surveyed him, the Crone let out a hushed gasp as new pain coursed through her aging joints and caused her fingers to bend into claws from the weight of swelling knuckles. She pressed forward, yet.

“Have mercy, m’lady,” the man moaned as he gripped his arms and curled his torso forward, “I beg ye.”

“Why have you come to the feet of the Eyrie?” Echoed the Crone’s voice, harsh and unforgiving.

“Our village is no more, we had no place else to go but to beg the favor of the Ladies of the Mountain.”

The Maiden retorted with a laugh, “And you seek it by stealing our offerings?”

Her voice was cut short as the Crone demanded, “What wrought this doom?”

“A spear from the sky fell near the river. It pierced the earth, caused it to flood-- everything washed away, so many screams.” Though he answered, the layman did not dare raise his eyes.

“And of the land?"

“The sky falls to the earth, the earth lifts into the sky, and all withers beneath the bloody eye--please!” His hands reached for the Crone’s dirty feet, “Please help us!”

“We do not know you,” her voice dripped with venomous judgment, “you have never laid gifts upon our door. No, my sister speaks true,” the words became a hiss, “you have taken them, instead.”

The man’s protests were interrupted by gasps of desperate breath, “We had nothing-- my family, we would have starved! Let us make it right, I beg of ye, we will serve the Ladies of the Mountain!”

As terror gripped his heart, his cries filled the empty temple. Looking up to her sisters, the Crone began to lead them in a slow circle around the man’s prostrated body. Their voices one, they chanted, “The Maiden learns, the Mother protects, the Crone punishes…”

Thrice around they circled him; again and again their phrase drummed, growing louder to drown out the layman’s fear. Their shadows danced upon the wall and the flickering fire seemed to give them a life of their own. As the circle turned for a fourth time, the Crone stopped behind behind him and, with it, the temple fell into utter silence.

“What is the Crone’s judgment?” The two asked of her.

“Bring no harm to my family,” came the layman’s final plea, “no wrong have they wrought to ye. I alone am the thief.”

With that same defiant strength, the Crone lifted him to her by his neck. “We shall not harm your family. They shall join the village, at the feet of Eyrie, and live under our protection.”

She felt his tears drip across the withered flesh of her fingers.

“Thank ye, m’lady,” his voice was a whimper, “for your mercy.”

One long, hooked nail like a talon dragged over his temple toward his eye. “Your sin and sacrifice will allow us to protect them from what may next come.”

“The Ladies be praised...”

It was swift and painless; the Crone felt liquid warmth run down across the back of her hand. She breathed deep, a freedom in her chest that had long been unfelt. Loose, wrinkled skin tightened and her jowls drew back into an aged, but defined jawline. Patches of thin, silvery hair grew into a wild, raven mane. As the body in her arms slumped and fell still, the Crone drank in what years yet remained in him. She was still older than the Mother, who looked on with silent eagerness, but only just.

“How do you feel, sister?” It was the Maiden who broke the spell’s silence.

“Capable,” another short reply, for the verisimilitude of her age had done nothing to repair her decayed patience. The layman’s body hit the floor with a thud as her arms released; for the first time in years the Crone felt the pain in her limbs subside as she straightened her back. Now it was she who carried the long limb of ashen sparkwood, not the other way around.

“Mother, call the mists.” Her voice now echoed with the proper authority, “Encircle the Eyrie and obscure the valley. Maiden, call the northern covens for the Moot of Moons. This has gone on long enough.”

“And you, sister,” came two voices as one, “where will you go?”

“Once again shall I ride the winds,” the Crone of Sparkwood Eyrie proclaimed, “and know that which lies at the skyspear’s heart.”

The air bent around her as she clutched the limb of the sparkwood tree tight. Her stony surroundings ceased, replaced instead by the womb of the heavens. Above her, it raged with bloody red. Onward she flew, east beyond the mountain and the valley below. Still, far to the south, there was a sight that could not escape her: a jagged tower that challenged the sky’s dominion. To her, it was a canker upon the horizon.

Somewhere within, a boy awoke gasping for air.