Chapter 50: The Voice of the Dead
The flames in the brazier flickered unnaturally, casting long, dancing shadows across the stone walls of Heath's chamber. The air shimmered, thick with the pungent scent of myrrh and bitterroot—a scent that clung to the tongue and wouldn't leave, no matter how much one swallowed. The ritual circle glowed faintly beneath his feet, drawn with ash and powdered bone.
Heath knelt, his knees pressing into the cold stone, hands trembling despite the heat radiating from the brazier before him. A single drop of sweat slid from his temple, trailing down his jaw and disappearing into the collar of his robe.
He reached forward and cast a pinch of bone dust into the fire. The flames flared—a brief burst of sickly green—and then began to twist unnaturally, spiraling inward as though inhaled by an invisible mouth.
"Father," he whispered into the thick smoke. "Can you hear me?"
For a moment, there was only silence and the faint crackling of bone-fed fire.
