“You’re late,” he said.
I lifted my chin. “I came as fast as I could.”
His gaze drifted to the soul-vessel, narrowing. “Your father is already slipping.”
My chest tightened. “You said—”
“I said I would help,” he interrupted. “Not that I would reverse decay. Bring him.”
He turned without waiting, striding back into the chamber beyond. I followed, legs numb, heart pounding so loudly I feared he could hear it.
The altar chamber was not beautiful.
It was terrifying.
A massive black root—petrified, twisted, glowing faintly silver from within—rose from the stone floor, its branches embedded into the walls like veins. Ancient runes crawled across its surface, not carved but grown, pulsing in slow rhythm with the Moon far above.
The Moon-root.
The last remnant of the First Howl.
“This will not feel gentle,” Nicero said, stepping toward it. “And once we begin, you cannot pull back.”
“I don’t care about pain,” I said.
He turned sharply. “You should. Because this will not be your pain alone.”
He extended his hand. I hesitated only a moment before placing the soul-vessel into his palm.
His eyes closed.
The chamber trembled.