The blue-white flame writhed in the circle of bones, whispering with voices not its own. It hissed and cracked, sending flickers of shadow crawling up the walls of the throne room like writhing serpents. Every devil present felt its unnatural pull, a gravity that tugged at their marrow, yet none dared look away.
The fortune teller's veil fluttered though no wind stirred. She raised her staff above the flame, and the bones strung upon it rattled together in a soft cadence, as if marking the rhythm of a chant older than memory. Her voice seeped into the hall, brittle and low, carrying weight far heavier than its rasp should.
"History is a circle… a wheel that turns without end. It turns upon the hub of blood, and its spokes are crowned with crowns of ash."
