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At midnight the ritual begins, chanting weaved in the voices of eight. The soul struggles and yet never wins, and at the thirteenth hour a new power wakes.

In a city sustained by magic and intrigue, power is currency, sustenance, life. Power is all. How far can one go to achieve it? How far did eight go to possess it? The room is silent but for the otherworldy chanting, dark but for the dim light of candles as the body takes form. Only one woman steps forward in greeting, her face hidden under a mask that matches those of her sisters. Her voice is intoxicating; it fills the mind with the urge to do naught but listen. “You are here,” says she, “because you have sinned.”

Do her words ring true? Do they breed doubt? She gives only a moment to consider, reaches to stroke hair or cheek soothingly before she speaks again. “But worry not. The Devil earns more souls than he needs, and we have paid your transgressions in full. Your cost is ours, and through good service you may repay it. Perhaps settling your debt will be all the reward you seek. Or...” A goblet of the sweetest white wine is handed to her, and she offers it in turn. The sight of it inspires a thirst unlike any other. “Perhaps freedom will not be enough to satisfy?”

And will you drink?