Bethany 
Ritual of Power: The moment the ink shimmered on the page, Edward Crowley knew there was no going. ack. The air in his dimly lit room thickened, pressing against his skin like an unseen presence, waiting- scrutinizing. He barely breathed as the candle erratically flickered, casting jagged shadows across the walls.
The book before him was ancient, its leather cover worn from time and touch. The words and encantations were written in a lingo he could not understand. He ran his fingers across the curling script, meaning unraveled in his mind like a whisper carried on the wind.
“Blood is the key. Will is the door. Speak, and the unseen shall listen.”
Edward’s pulse quickened as he heard the whispers a single drop of his blood, dark and glistening on the yellowed page, seemed to pulse with a life of its own. He swallowed hard gulping down all his doubts he began.
Drawing a deep breath, he traced a symbol in the dust beside his bed—one of the sigils he had memorized from the book. Its meaning was lingering just beyond the grasp of full understanding. A summoning he beloved, though what, he did not yet know. The room grew colder and the air grew thicker. Bending as though caught in an unseen breeze. Edward straightened his back and began to chant the words. In all, the glory of darkness that resided within him came to life in his voice. The flame of the candle shrank, bending as though caught in the unseen darkness that was coming to life.
Intially his voice was small, uncertain. The syllables felt foreign to his mouth. But as they came forth the words began to become clear. Rolling off of his tongue as though they had always been waiting for him to speak them. As he repeated the chant, his voice grew stronger, more sure and firm. The shadows around the room grew stronger darker and profound. Edward’s breath hitched. The air crackled, tinged with the scent of something erratic. A rush of exhilaration coursed through his veins. This was working, the pages of the book fluttered aggressively.
For an instant, something in the shadows shifted. Edward’s fingers clenched against the wooden floor. His pulse hammered in his ears as he watched the darkness take shape, coiling in on itself. The whisper-his whisper- was no longer alone.
Another voice joined it.
Deeper. Stronger. Ancient.
“Who calls?”
Edward’s mouth went dry. His skin prickled as a cold current of air ghosted across his cheek. He had known something would answer, but the reality of it struck him like a blow to the chest.
A lesser boy would have fled.
Edward did not.
Instead, he straightened, his tender hands steadying against the floor. “I do.”
The whisper-like voice chuckled—a low, reverberating sound that sent shivers down his spine. The darkness in the corner of the room seemed to deepen, stretching beyond what should have been possible.
“You are bold, child. But boldness alone does not grant power.”
Edward swallowed his fear. “Then what does?”
A pause. The air thickened, pressing against him from all sides. Then, the whisper became something more.
Not words, but knowledge. It rushed into him- images symbols, equations of magic that made his mind spin. He gasped, hands flying to his temples as a torrent of understanding flooded through him. He saw lines of power, invisible to the untrained eye, running through the earth like veins. He saw symbols glowing in the dark, each one a key to unlocking forces far beyond human comprehension.
He saw fire that did not burn, light not shine, and a presence that lurked just beyond the veil of reality, waiting for those foolish or fearless enough to reach for it.
When the rush of knowledge finally settled, Edward slumped forward, gasping. His heart pounded, sweat beading on his forehead. His hands shook, but not from fear. From hunger.
This was power.
Not in the form of meaningless prayers or hollow faith. Not the way his mother whispered of divine mercy, nor the way the preachers in church warned of damnation.
This was real.
The voice hummed in approval. “You learn quickly. Good.”
Edward forced himself upright, his vision swimming for a moment before stabilizing. He felt different—as though something fundamental inside him had shifted, expanding to accommodate the knowledge now embedded in his mind.
“Teach me more,” he said.
A soft chuckle, like the rustling of dead leaves. “In time, child. For now, practice what you have been given. Strengthen your will. Expand your sight. And when you are ready…”
The shadows receded. The candle’s flame settled. The air in the room lightened, the heavy presence retreating like the tide pulling back from the shore. The whisper’s final words curled around him before fading completely:
“We will speak again.”
Silence.
Edward exhaled, his fingers tracing the symbols in the dust. They no longer seemed foreign. He understood them now—understood what they could do.
For the first time in his life, he knew what he was meant to be.
Not a child of God. Not a preacher’s son. Not a servant to a faith that had never given him answers.
He was something else. The Ritual was a unexpected way to find out the power in him.
Something greater. Keep Reading Dip Dives to discover the secrets of Crowley.
About The Author
