Her humming rattled faintly in her throat, out of tune but strangely faithful to the cadence above, as though her body no longer obeyed her mind but something deeper. The needle slipped in and out of her flesh without flinch or pause, each bead of blood rolling with reverence into the bowl. The seed pulsed brighter with every drip, veins in the crystal twitching like a predator dreaming of prey.
Asher lingered in the shadows, posture still and eyes measuring. The three anchors glimmered faintly—each was more than iron. The bolts were etched with runes that spiraled inward, drawing from the bones and blood crusted to the altars. The seed drank through them, siphoning both sacrifice and spirit. Severing those bonds would cripple its grasp—but not cleanly. There was always a backlash.
