The altar throbbed under his hand, as if some malignant heart still tried to beat within it. The veins of black stone trembled, light pulsing faintly like a last breath refusing to fade. Asher closed his eyes, extending his will deeper—not with his weapon, but with the force that had silenced the chamber.
The altar resisted. A shadow pressed back against him, oily and cold, whispering in fragments of voices that bled together: "Devour… chain… open…" It was the same madness he had heard in the cult leader's cries, but rawer, older.
Asher's grip tightened, his aura flaring. The last traces of blood that clung to the altar walls shivered, peeled free, and raced into his palm. The whispers grew louder, shrieking, as though he was tearing a tongue out of the darkness itself. The veins across the altar split apart, black ichor spilling from within.
Then something struck back.
