A sickening stillness fell over the space—like even time itself was holding its breath.
The flickering glyphs under their feet began to dim, but they didn't vanish. Instead, they pulsed in time with something that felt deeply wrong. A rhythm none of them could place, but every one of them recognized in their bones.
It was the rhythm of the ritual.
Harith's grip on the knife tightened, his knuckles pale, blood drying across his fingers like a forgotten offering. He didn't know why, but the moment they all locked eyes, the ache in his mind cracked wider—like a dam ready to burst.
Ziya was the first to speak again, but this time softer, as if not to wake something. "Do you remember the masks?"
Everyone froze.
Jin whimpered. "Don't talk about the masks."
But now it was too late.
The images came unbidden—sharp, scattered. Shards of memory piercing through the veil.
