The word struck the room like a bell in an empty chapel—low, cold, undeniable.
"Stop."
The circle froze.
Melien turned first, her hands still lifted, fingers glowing faintly with runic energy. Her eyes widened—just slightly—before she cloaked the reaction behind a calm smile.
"You're not one of ours," she said softly, voice smooth as polished stone.
Gareth's hand went to the hilt of his sword, but he didn't draw. Not yet. The others simply stared, the ritual glow fading from their fingertips, the suspended blade lowering a hair's breadth but still poised.
Caliste took another step into the room.
He didn't rush.
Didn't raise his voice.
He only moved like gravity had shifted toward him.
"You're killing them," he said, his tone quiet. "Not converting. Not empowering. Hollowing."
Melien tilted her head. "You've seen much."
"I've seen enough."
"You misunderstand." She gestured gently toward the initiate, still kneeling. "They come willingly."
