The room dimmed further as the witch began to chant, her voice rough and ancient, carrying the weight of old, forbidden tongues. The candle's flame flickered erratically, casting long shadows on the cracked walls.
Isadora knelt before the shallow silver bowl, watching as the image of Lucien writhed in the water's reflection — his skin fevered, his eyes occasionally flashing crimson, his face twisted in torment.
Cedric remained by the door, sword unsheathed. He wasn't a man easily rattled, but the atmosphere in the room made his grip tighten.
The witch held out the dagger.
"Your blood binds. His essence is connected to yours now. To anchor his mind, you must call his true name while blood meets water."
Isadora swallowed the knot in her throat, took the dagger, and with trembling fingers, cut a shallow line across her palm. The crimson drops slid into the bowl. The water hissed, its surface rippling like liquid glass.
"Call him."
