The forest had gone quiet again. The kind of quiet that didn't just settle—it pushed. Like the air itself was pressing down on their skin, thick with tension and something older.
Something that didn't belong in the world they knew.
Most of the cultists had stopped chanting. A few kept mouthing the words in desperation, as if pretending the ritual was still active might protect them.
But the silence had weight now. It wasn't empty—it was full of something. And they all felt it.
The remaining guards circled up around the slab, weapons drawn, staves glowing faintly. Some held scrolls in shaking hands, eyes scanning the tree line.
They tried to keep their backs to each other, but there weren't enough of them anymore. There were too many shadows.
The deacon stood near the altar, one hand resting on the runes as he muttered to himself. The stone was pulsing. Faintly at first, but now stronger.
