THIRD POV
The room no longer resembled anything natural.
It had become a sealed point of convergence—where life, death, and something far older than both were being forced to overlap under Helen’s command.
The markings etched across the floor pulsed in violent, irregular waves, no longer responding smoothly to rhythm or intention, but instead reacting as though something inside them was waking up and fighting for dominance.
Helen stood at the center of it all.
Her voice never broke.
Even as her body began to betray her.
A thin line of blood traced from her nose, slipping down over her upper lip before falling onto the glowing markings beneath her. The moment it touched the sigil-work, it hissed faintly—absorbed instantly into the structure as if the ritual itself demanded repayment
