He didn't come back.
There was no scream. No shout. No sound at all.
Back in the clearing, the seconds ticked by. Then a minute. Someone looked around.
"Where's Coren?" a voice asked, low and unsure.
Heads turned. No answer.
The deacon didn't stop chanting. But his voice shifted. Just a bit. Slower. Lower. Like him, he had also felt the change.
The ground under the altar pulsed again.
One of the staves sparked—a small pop of light. The cultist holding it jerked slightly, surprised.
Then, in the far distance, birds exploded from the trees. Dozens, maybe hundreds of them, fleeing in all directions. Their wings flapped in panic, but nothing followed.
The forest returned to silence.
The cultists didn't stop.
They couldn't stop.
But now, many of them had begun glancing sideways.
More staff started humming.
The dirt at their feet cracked.
Still no sign of Coren.
And at the very back of the circle, the nervous young cultist looked into the trees.
He was sure now.
