The underground chamber stank of wax, salt, and burnt parchment.
Seven figures stood around a cracked ritual plate—drawn with chalk, blood, and something darker. The walls pulsed faintly from old enchantments barely held together with glue and desperation.
A single lantern flickered in the corner, casting their shadows long and twitching.
"He fits," said the younger acolyte, voice steady this time. "Walks like someone who's survived something."
The elder cultist—face lined, one eye milky—ran his hand along the outer rim of the summoning ring.
"We don't summon with emotion," he said. "We summon with weight. With silence. With the right kind of echo."
He stood, brushing chalk dust from his hands.
"Was he alone?"
"No," said the acolyte. "He had someone with him. A woman. Strong presence. But she's just noise."
"Good. Then we wait for the boy to be quiet again."
