The air thickened as Daniela stepped deeper into the chapel's ruined sanctum, where light seemed to curl inward rather than push out the dark.
The walls groaned—no, breathed—as if the chapel remembered every secret spoken in its presence, every vow broken beneath its rafters.
She felt the cold brush of memory tug at her skin. The veil between time and consequence had thinned.
The air began to murmur again, but it was no longer just whispers—it was a voice crawling through the marrow of her bones, threading through each pulse like poisoned silk.
"But remember," it whispered, from somewhere behind the veil, "the door is not merely opened — it is owed."
Daniela froze. Her hand hovered near the old pendant she'd worn since the ritual, though she couldn't remember who had given it to her. The symbol on it had begun to bleed ink across her skin like it was trying to rewrite her veins.
