The magical circle above ignited in response.
An even massive sigil — a mandala of interlocking runes in the same crude, furious script — slammed downward like a guillotine of light. It crashed into the azure radiance and contained it, forcing the light to churn and roil within the living room like a bottled supernova and back into Danton.
The pressure was immense — the stone pillar cracked wider with a sound like continental plates grinding, the chains binding Danton groaned and glowed white-hot, the hooded figures staggered as the shared burden tried to rip their souls from their bodies and scatter them across dimensions.
Harold — still smiling through his broken face, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth — nodded once.
He produced three small glass bottles from within his robes.
The old man beside him nodded in return.
Harold held them high so every figure in the circle could see the labels: Victoria. Delilah. Sienna.
