There are moments where time becomes thick—like walking through molasses. That moment, blade in hand, Echo rising, Felix unconscious behind me—that was one of them.
The thing that formed from the altar didn't walk. It drifted, shoulders bowed under invisible chains, its face a crude imitation of a man long dead. Eyes hollow. Mouth sewn shut with threads made of ancestral guilt.
"Echo Binding: Stage Two," the Grimoire whispered from my side. "Manifestation confirmed. Warning: This spirit predates recorded rituals. Estimate—High risk. Proceed with deviation."
Thanks for the vote of confidence.
The Echo lunged.
I met it.
Steel shrieked against spectral weight. My body jolted from the impact, ribs threatening to buckle. But I held. The Severance Blade—a construct formed from intent and magic—glowed dimly in my grip. I willed it sharper. Meaner.
I didn't need finesse. I needed to cut.
