Hadrian followed the group through the shadows of the city, his consciousness divided between his rodent and seabird vessels.
He kept a cautious distance, trailing them through the narrow, salt-crusted alleys of Twain.
They were twelve in number, just as they had been during the previous cycle, and though they took a different, more winding route this time, their destination remained the same: that jagged, secluded stretch of the beach where the cliffs hung low over the churning surf.
Six minutes later, they stood upon the damp sand, the same desolate place as last week.
From the vantage point of a seabird circling lazily above and a dozen rats scurrying among the rocks, Hadrian watched.
The group began their rhythmic chants and low, guttural hums. It was a haunting melody that seemed to vibrate against the stones.
This time, however, the heavy, cloying presence in the atmosphere arrived earlier.
