The silence after the psychic wave was deafening.
It pressed against Garrik's eardrums like a physical weight, thick and unnatural. The usual forest sounds—chittering insects, rustling leaves, distant birdcalls—had been utterly erased, as if the world itself was holding its breath. Even his own ragged breathing sounded muffled in this eerie stillness.
Garrik sat on one knee, breathing heavily, blood still seeping slowly from the ritual cuts in his palm. The crimson droplets fell onto the ancient stone with soft, wet taps, each one absorbed almost instantly by the thirsty glyphs carved into its surface. His muscles trembled with exhaustion; the ritual had taken more from him than he'd anticipated.
