Antonio buzzed around the room like a frantic bee, darting from place to place, adjusting the candles once, twice, and even a third time, his brow furrowed in obsessive concentration. Every flicker of flame seemed to deepen the sharp lines etched into his face. The others did their best to stay out of his way, leaping to task whenever Antonio barked a command but otherwise observing his meticulous preparations. When his back was turned, they exchanged smirks, mimicking his muttering or exaggerated gestures, their mockery careful not to reach his ears.

  On his hands and knees, Antonio painstakingly traced the shallow grooves of the pentagram, his chalk scratching against the stone floor. He muttered under his breath, frustrated by every imperfection, convinced that even the slightest break in the lines would doom the ritual. Kleo knelt behind him, retracing sections with her chalk, her deft fingers smoothing and blending the markings. Antonio bristled at first, shooting her a glare, but as he watched her methodical movements, he relaxed and nodded reluctantly. He returned to his work with renewed focus, moving faster, confident that her careful eye would catch any lingering flaws.

  Bart, Tholomew, and Jack hovered nearby, their boredom growing with each tedious moment. Bitter lay in the center of the circle, his golden eyes tracking Antonio's every movement. When the priest moved toward the wolf with the explicit intention of shooing him away, Bitter let out a low growl that froze him in his tracks. Antonio turned to Jack, hoping for intervention, but Jack only shrugged. "He's not hurting anyone," he said, his tone light but firm. Antonio muttered something about insubordination under his breath but, glancing at the massive wolf, decided it added a certain... gravitas to the ritual’s ambiance.

  The inverted pentagram pointed downward, its lowest tip aligned with the main entrance to the great room. Enclosed within a perfect circle, each point touched the arc, the whole symbol glowing under the flickering candlelight.

  During dinner, Kleo had explained the design to Jack and the brothers earlier.

  "The circle is a containment boundary. It keeps the summoned entity locked in place until the ritual ends, and the summoner dismisses it."

  Her words were calm, but her tone carried a weight that gave Bart and Tholomew pause. They rarely took Antonio seriously, but something in her voice unsettled them. When she added, "Tonight, Antonio plans to break the circle—to let the demon roam free," their unease deepened.

  Jack had placed a hand on their shoulders, his voice light and steady.

  "Come on, guys, it's Antonio."

  The brothers chuckled, though their laughter was thin, lacking its usual vigor. Jack’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, but if he felt any doubt, he kept it buried. Kleo had watched him closely, a flicker of pride warming her chest. He was exactly who she needed him to be: unflappable and focused, even when the stakes were high.

  The trio had resumed eating, soaking bread in the last of the lamb stew. Their usual banter returned, easing the tension. Kleo, however, had remained silent, her thoughts fixed on the ritual ahead. The outcome would rest on her shoulders—Antonio’s folly and Jack’s bravery would mean little if she couldn’t ensure the demon remained bound within the circle.

  With the outline of the pentagram complete, Antonio and Kleo used chalk to inscribe symbols at each point. Antonio drew the first rune, but Kleo knelt to correct it. After studying her work, he nodded his approval, and she drew the remaining four.

  He followed her, inspecting her work, and although the air in the main room was on the cool side, he wiped swaths of sweat from his brow and blinked his eyes spastically, using the sleeve of his robe to clear them so he could see the glyph before giving her his final approval.

  Once complete, Antonio surveyed their work and, with a grim smile of satisfaction, went to a small table near the back hallway's entrance, returning with a large bowl of salt. As he circled the pentagram, he grabbed handfuls of the gray-white crystals and cast them across the floor, repeating a litany in a low, steady voice.

  Kleo followed close behind, her hands and mouth moving in intricate, twisted motions, her words no more than a breath.

  The brothers, standing next to Jack, were clearly uneasy. They hadn't been prepared for this, expecting only Antonio's clumsy, amateurish effort. Kleo was making things far worse, giving the preparations a terrifying illusion of authenticity.

  Jack knew Kleo's intentions and tried to keep the brothers calm.

  "Wow, Kleo is really playing this up. If I didn't know better, I'd think we were actually going to summon Morghadus."

  This seemed to help, and Bart added,

  "Yeah, she's very convincing. It's like we're at the theater. I'm kind of excited to play my part."

  Tholomew nodded, and the brothers drew their hoods over their heads, lifted their hands in the air, and began a low, mumbling chant. They looked up to gauge Jack's reaction, and he gave them a big smile and a thumbs-up. "Perfect."

  Antonio commanded the brothers to gather the ritual implements.

  They hurried away and returned with a pedestal, a sacrificial bowl, and a ceremonial knife. They placed the pedestal near the inverted point of the pentagram and set the bowl on top. Antonio took the knife, then realized they had forgotten his crucial tome. He sent Bart back for the book and a small rock to use as a paperweight.

  Setting the book on the pedestal, he thumbed through its pages and, finding his place, placed the rock to hold them steady. His fingers traced over the words as he mumbled along, practicing his lines.

  Sensing it was time for him to move, Bitter got up and retreated down the back hallway.

  Antonio motioned to Kleo, and she arranged Jack and the brothers into a line before the pedestal.

  Starting with Tholomew at the front, she raised his hood until shadows masked his face. Leaning close to his ear, she whispered a short incantation, then stepped back with a reassuring smile. She guided him toward Antonio, who stood holding the knife—his hands trembling, betraying the mask of confidence plastered on his face.

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  Tholomew extended his right palm toward Antonio. The priest hesitated before steeling himself with determined eyes and drawing the knife across Tholomew's palm in a shallow cut. Blood welled up, and Tholomew turned his hand, letting crimson drops fall into the bowl as Antonio chanted in an incomprehensible tongue.

  Jack had been right about the rain. The gray clouds of the day now hung dark and heavy in the night sky, pressing down on the abbey like an ominous weight. Each flash of lightning filled the great room with a searing, staccato brilliance, carving sharp shadows into the stone walls before plunging the space back into suffocating darkness. The candles flared and guttered in response, their flames shrinking to desperate pinpricks before surging back, sending shadows skittering like frantic creatures.

  Kleo guided Tholomew to his position at the point to Antonio's right, her hands weaving a symbol over him. She then returned to Bart and performed the same ritual before leading him to Antonio's knife. The priest's earlier tremors had subsided, and after Bart's blood joined the others in the sacrificial bowl, she positioned him at the point to Antonio's left.

  Standing in front of Jack, Kleo wiggled her eyebrows with excitement. She pulled his hood up and gave him a gentle kiss. After speaking the incantation as she had for the brothers, she lingered a moment longer and whispered, "Showtime."

  Jack stepped forward, letting Antonio add his blood to the bowl, and then Kleo directed him to the far point on Antonio's right.

  Kleo stood before Antonio, drawing her hood around her face, and extended her open palm. She watched the seam open along her hand as the blade drew across it, warm blood welling up in crimson swells. Turning her palm downward, she let it splash into the bowl, waiting until the flow diminished to single drops. Finally, she took her position at the far point of the pentagram, with Jack to her left and Bart to her right.

  Outside, the storm was growing in intensity.

  She watched the brothers standing stiffly, their anxious faces illuminated in brief, haunting glimpses by the flickering light. With every blinding flash, their eyes darted to the high windows, bracing for the inevitable peal of thunder. It came hard and fast, rolling over the abbey with a deep, shuddering roar that seemed to vibrate through the very stones beneath them.

  Kleo’s gaze swept across the room, taking in the unease on every face. The storm’s fury mirrored the tension within—an unspoken warning of the power they were about to tempt.

  Antonio stood at the inverted point and drew his blood, his eyes feverish as it spilled into the bowl.

  Antonio began the summoning call, and the devotees joined in—arms raised high, heads bowed low—their voices ringing out in unison, chanting the mantra. Outside, the wind howled, its mournful cry echoing against the walls. Drafts slithered through unseen cracks, bringing a chill that sent the candle flames into a wild dance. Shadows flickered and warped, twisting into strange, unsettling shapes that writhed with seeming life. Each gust hammered against the abbey like a desperate force trying to claw its way inside.

  Then the fury calmed—the wind ceased, the lightning faded to nothing. One by one, the group members trailed off, their arms dropping to their sides as they glanced at each other, faces reflecting confusion and uncertainty. Jack turned to Kleo, but she gave him a subtle shake of her head and urged him to look toward the circle's center.

  As the air in the abbey grew unnaturally still, an overwhelming silence descended, pressing down on every soul present. Then, from nowhere and everywhere, it came—a resounding, resonant clang that shattered the stillness like a hammer striking the gates of the underworld.

  The sound was impossibly vast, its source unfathomable. It reverberated through stone and bone alike, a mournful, metallic toll that seemed to echo beyond hearing, vibrating in the chest and hollowing out the soul. A second toll followed, slower than the first, as if time had bent to accommodate its gravity. Dust shook loose from the rafters, drifting like ash, and the candles flickered wildly as if cowed by the sound.

  Each peel seemed to grow louder, resonating with an eerie finality as the heartbeat of a slumbering evil roused to wakefulness. The air quivered under its weight, thick with a sense of impending dread, a harbinger of doom. By the time the final toll faded into the abyss of silence, the world seemed to pause, breathless and waiting.

  As the bell toll faded into silence, the rain came all at once—a torrent crashing down with the fury of heaven’s divine wrath. It rode the lightning that split the sky, a jagged spear striking the heart of the abbey. The blinding flash burned their vision as thunder shook the earth beneath their feet.

  In that searing instant, the monstrous form of Morghadus emerged, towering and grotesque, its presence carving a shadow deeper than the storm itself.

  Midena was quiet, too quiet for Will’s liking. He and Maya had spent three days combing the streets for any trace of Jack or Kleo, speaking to merchants, innkeepers, and anyone else who might have seen them. But there was nothing—no whispers, no rumors, no strangers asking questions.

  “Nothing,” Will muttered as they walked along the cobblestone road, the evening sun casting long shadows over the town. “If they were here, someone would’ve noticed. I doubt they’d blend in.”

  Maya gave a faint smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “They might have passed through too quickly to leave a mark. Or—”

  Her words trailed off as her gaze shifted to the horizon. Will followed her line of sight and stopped mid-step.

  To the south, beyond the gentle hills and outstretched fields, the sky churned with an unnatural fury. Dark clouds twisted and coiled like living things; their edges tinged with an eerie, sickly green. Forked lightning crackled within the storm, illuminating its violent core, and the distant rumble of thunder reverberated through the town.

  “Storm’s coming,” Will said, his voice low.

  Around them, others had begun to notice. A small crowd gathered at the edge of the street, pointing and murmuring among themselves.

  “It’s centered near the abbey,” a young woman added, shielding her eyes from the glare of a distant lightning strike.

  Will stiffened. “Abbey?”

  The woman nodded. “South of here, at the edge of the wastes. A bunch of odd folks live there—call themselves the Cult of Morghadus or something like that.”

  She laughed, though it sounded uneasy.

  “Say they worship demons, but it’s probably a joke. The place has been there forever. Nobody bothers them.”

  Will exchanged a sharp look with Maya.

  “Maya,” he said, his voice tight and urgent.

  She nodded, already understanding. “It’s them. It has to be.”

  They didn’t need to discuss it further. Will grabbed the reins of their horses from where they were tied nearby, his movements swift and practiced. Maya checked her saddle, her fingers working to secure her gear as the first raindrops began to fall.

  “Riding into that storm’s going to be rough,” Will said as he mounted, his voice grim but resolute.

  Maya swung into her saddle, her eyes locked on the horizon. “If that’s where they are, we don’t have a choice.”

  With a sharp kick of their heels, they spurred the horses southward, leaving Midena's murmuring crowd behind. The wind picked up as they rode, carrying the scent of rain and something darker—acrid and unnatural.

  The storm grew as they approached, its swirling mass towering above them like a living thing, roaring with fury. Rain lashed at their faces, soaking through their clothes and stinging their skin. Lightning illuminated the landscape in stark, fleeting flashes, and the thunder that followed seemed to shake the ground beneath their horses’ hooves.

  But they pressed on, their determination unyielding.

  They crested a hill, and the distant silhouette of the abbey came into view, its spire visible through the torrential downpour. Around it, the storm’s energy seemed to concentrate, its lightning strikes more frequent and ferocious, illuminating the crumbling structure in bursts of ghostly white.

  “We’ll make it by dawn,” Will said, though the wind howled, drowning out his voice.

  Maya didn’t answer, her eyes fixed on the abbey ahead. She didn’t know what awaited them there, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she and Will were headed into the first of a long series of storms. The ground beneath them felt uncertain, but she would hold on. The thought of letting go again wasn’t one she could entertain.

  It was all or nothing. And nothing was not an option.