Their earlier rituals had needed candles, chalk, crude blades fashioned from bone. But not this one. Darkness itself gave off a light stronger than flame, and in that black radiance the cult had gathered.
From the grooves of the circle rose wisps of shadow, thin at first, then thickening into strands that climbed into the air like smoke given purpose.
They reached upward until they wove into a dome that sealed the chamber from sight, a cocoon of black through which no mortal gaze could pierce.
At the rim of the circle, the Cult Master lifted his arms. His voice cut through the droning chant, raw and rasping, yet commanding as it clawed across the chamber's stone.
"Through blood, through devotion, through the tearing of the veil, rise!"
The word echoed. The others took it up, voices swelling in volume until the language dissolved, no longer words but a vibration that gnawed at the bones of all who heard it. The chamber shook.
