ADRIANA'S POV
That morning felt strangely warm.
Not in the way sunlight usually feels—gentle and passing—but in a way that settled deep inside my chest, filling it with something I had not felt since my brother's laughter still lived in our house. Hope. New beginnings. Memories that hurt, yet refused to fade.
The first rays of sunrise slipped through the narrow window of my room and rested softly against my face. I opened my eyes without hesitation, as though something unseen had called me awake. For a moment, I lay still, listening to the quiet of the house. No footsteps. No voices. Only silence—and my own breathing.
I rose quickly, washed my face, and changed into a simple linen dress. I tied my hair back with a strip of cloth and wrapped my woolen shawl tightly around my shoulders. My hands were steady.
My heart was not.
Today, I decided, would be the day.
I had to leave early. The materials required for the ritual were scattered across the village and beyond, and I did not have enough money to travel by bullock cart or carriage. Even if I had, I would not have used it. I needed time—time to think, to prepare my heart, to convince myself that what I was about to do was necessary.
The market was nearly two hours away from my home. I stepped onto the empty road and began walking.
With every step, my heart pounded with a strange mixture of hope and fear. This was the first time I would ever attempt to use my power. I had no certainty—only belief. No guidance—only memory.
My grandmother's voice echoed in my mind, clear and unwavering.
Never use this gift unless there is no other path left to you.
I believed this was the moment she had warned me about.
My brother was gone. Taken from me before I could speak properly, before I could tell him how much he mattered, before I could thank him for stepping in front of danger when I could not move. The guilt sat heavily in my chest, pressing down on every breath.
Once, long ago, I had asked my parents if I could perform a ritual to meet my grandmother's soul. I was young then—curious and fearless. They had reacted with panic. My father had snatched The Testament of the Chosen from my hands and thrown it far into the fields, as if the book itself carried a curse.
I remembered spending an entire day searching for it beneath the open sky, my hands scratched and bleeding, my knees aching—until I finally found it buried among tall grass and dry soil. Even then, I had not opened it.
Until now.
Lost in thought, I did not realize when I reached the market. The noise startled me—voices calling out prices, footsteps echoing against stone, wooden stalls creaking under the weight of goods. Life continued here, untouched by my grief.
I bought what I could afford.
Six plain candles.
A thin ritual thread.
A small flame source wrapped carefully in cloth.
I tied them together and placed them gently into my basket.
From there, I turned toward the jungle.
The herbs I needed did not grow near homes. They preferred silence, shadow, and neglect. I walked deeper until the sounds of the market faded completely. The forest air was cool and damp. I recognized the plants my grandmother had once shown me—leaves meant to calm wandering souls, roots used to steady the body during possession.
I plucked them carefully and wrapped them in cloth, placing them in my basket.
Ashes were next.
I knew exactly where to find them.
I walked quickly to the village temple, where people burned offerings for luck, for health, for forgiveness. The fire pits were quiet now, their embers pale and cold. With careful hands, I gathered the ashes into a large leaf, folding it neatly and placing it beside the herbs.
Only soil remained.
That was easy.
I scooped earth from the fields beyond my home—the same land where my brother and I had run as children. The soil was dark and rich, cool against my fingers.
By the time I finished, the sun had begun its slow descent. Panic stirred inside me.
I had to return home before nightfall.
I walked faster, exhaustion finally catching up with me. My legs ached. My shoulders burned. And then the thought struck me—
I no longer have a brother to walk beside me.
The sadness came suddenly, sharp and unexpected. I stopped, pressing my lips together until the tears retreated. I could cry later. Tonight required strength.
When I finally reached home, the house stood silent.
My parents were gone. They had traveled to the great temple of the village to complete my brother's final rites. They would not return for weeks.
I was alone.
And for the first time, that felt like a blessing.
The sun sank lower, staining the sky in shades of gold and red. I prepared the room carefully, sweeping the floor and opening the windows. I placed my basket at the center and sat beside it, breathing slowly.
As dusk deepened into night, my heartbeat grew louder.
I am ready, I told myself.
I must be.
I lit the oil lamp and began.
I mixed the ashes with the soil, drawing a careful circle on the floor. My hands did not shake. I placed the six candles evenly around it and lit them one by one, whispering nothing.
I tied the ritual thread around my wrist.
The room felt smaller as night settled fully outside, pressing its weight against the walls. I opened The Testament of the Chosen and reread the page by candlelight.
Stand outside the circle until the final word is spoken.
I nodded.
Then I began the invocation.
At first, nothing happened.
My voice echoed softly in the room, steady and controlled. The candle flames leaned inward, as if listening. The air grew colder, sharp against my skin. I felt the pull of something far away—distant, uncertain, searching.
My heart tightened.
I thought of my brother.
His smile.
His voice.
The way he fell.
Without realizing it, my voice wavered. Emotion slipped into the words. Longing replaced discipline. And as I reached the final line, my foot crossed the ash circle—just slightly, barely noticeable.
I did not step back.
The final word left my lips.
Silence followed.
For one breath, nothing happened.
Then the air shifted.
The candles flickered violently, their flames stretching unnaturally tall. The oil lamp dimmed, though no wind touched it. A pressure settled in the room, heavy and unmistakable, as if the space itself had been claimed.
My chest tightened.
"This is wrong," I whispered.
The ground beneath me felt cold—too cold.
The ash circle darkened, its lines blurring as though something unseen moved across it. The herbs at my side began to tremble. The ritual thread around my wrist burned sharply against my skin.
I tried to speak again.
No sound came out.
The air thickened, pressing against my lungs. Shadows pooled in the corners of the room, stretching and folding into shapes that did not belong to candlelight. The silence was no longer empty—it was listening.
Something had heard me.
Something had answered.
Not gently.
Not carefully.
The candles went out—all at once.
Darkness swallowed the room.
I stood frozen, heart hammering, breath shallow, aware of only one terrifying truth:
Whatever stood on the other side of the ritual circle—
It was not what I had called.
And the night had not finished responding.