The chanting of the Cultists began very low, and slowly slithered. A murmur that crawled along the ground and climbed the trunks of dead trees, vibrating through the cracked basin like a pulse trying to synchronize a dying heart.
The Abyssal anchor responded immediately, crimson veins brightening, the half-formed structure shuddering as if something inside had taken a breath.
Albedo felt it in his bones.
"That's new," he muttered, sensing something he hadn't felt in his previous encounters with Abyssal Worshippers.
The cultists didn't rush them, instead they spread out.
Figures slipped between warped trees and jagged rock formations, forming a loose, deliberate perimeter around the basin. Their movements weren't frantic or fanatical the way Abyssal Worshippers usually were.
They were calm, obviously very prepared.
Raphaeline's wings flexed slightly as she took a step forward, eyes narrowing, "They're stalling."
Lucian nodded, jaw tight. "They want time."
