CHAPTER 37: CHAPTER 37:

The underground chamber stank of wax, salt, and burnt parchment.

Seven figures stood around a cracked ritual plate—drawn with chalk, blood, and something darker. The walls pulsed faintly from old enchantments barely held together with glue and desperation.

A single lantern flickered in the corner, casting their shadows long and twitching.

"He fits," said the younger acolyte, voice steady this time. "Walks like someone who’s survived something."

The elder cultist—face lined, one eye milky—ran his hand along the outer rim of the summoning ring.

"We don’t summon with emotion," he said. "We summon with weight. With silence. With the right kind of echo."

He stood, brushing chalk dust from his hands.

"Was he alone?"

"No," said the acolyte. "He had someone with him. A woman. Strong presence. But she’s just noise."

"Good. Then we wait for the boy to be quiet again."

A third figure, hunched and robed in frayed blue, leaned forward. "You’re sure the entity will come?"

The elder didn’t answer immediately.

Then: "It came last time. It answered the glyph. It moved. That’s enough."

"But it didn’t speak."

"No. But it watched."

The third cultist hesitated. "We don’t even know what it wants."

"We know what it needs," the elder snapped. "A vessel. And a call."

He looked to the acolyte.

"You said he shimmered."

The younger man nodded. "For half a second. Something peeled off his back like light—like he left something somewhere else."

The elder smiled.

"Good. That means he’s thin between places. That means the door opens easier."

The others began moving around the chamber—preparing components, binding parchment, grinding ash.

The youngest hesitated by the corner, then asked quietly, "We’re not... killing him, are we?"

The room went silent.

The elder approached him slowly. Laid a hand on his shoulder.

"No," he said gently.

"We’re just not giving him back."

"Mark the corners," the elder said, voice gruff, eyes sharp. "The blood circle won’t hold if it’s crooked again."

The floor of the chamber was damp with cold and rust. Thin chalk lines had already been drawn, now being retraced with a mixture of ash, animal fat, and wine-dark liquid soaked from cloth.

Three cultists worked silently around the edges, careful not to smudge the central glyph—a crude five-point sigil carved directly into the stone floor, ringed with copper nails hammered into cracked rock.

"This site’s old," muttered one of them, wiping his hands on a dirty cloth. "The walls still hum when we chant."

"They hum because they remember," the elder said, setting down a weathered book with half the spine missing. "This place has seen offerings before."

The younger acolyte—the one who had first seen Frank—unrolled a scroll of paper, its edges burned.

"I’ve marked the location," he said, pointing to a spot on a hand-drawn map of the city. "Old train tunnel. Blocked from both ends. No cameras. No foot traffic. And just enough space for the circle."

The elder studied it, nodding. "We’ll set the trap there."

Another cultist entered with a crate of supplies—candles, bone shards, copper wire, and a heavy black cloth bag that clinked when set down.

"Ritual kit’s ready."

The elder opened the bag. Inside: teeth, feathers, a few rotting petals, and a glass vial of thick, dark liquid.

He set a finger on the vial. "This is the anchor. When it spills, it calls."

"Calls what?" asked the youngest, barely whispering.

The elder didn’t look at him.

"Not what," he said. "Just... something."

The chamber went quiet.

The older woman near the far wall, eyes shut, lips moving silently, finally spoke. "The hour’s close. Not yet—but soon."

"How will we know?" the younger asked.

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she raised one bony hand and pointed upward, toward the ceiling.

"Because the sky will go quiet," she murmured. "Like it’s holding its breath."

The others returned to their work—some tracing circles, some folding cloth into crude symbols. The tools were simple. The knowledge, incomplete. But it had worked before.

They didn’t know why.

They didn’t care.

All that mattered was the offering.

And tonight... the boy with the steady eyes and quiet walk would be it.

Frank paused in the middle of the sidewalk and frowned.

Juliet was still talking—something about Guild permits, or blackout zoning in the outer districts—but he wasn’t listening anymore.

The air felt wrong.

Not heavy.

Not magical.

Just... off.

Like someone had dialed the world down a half-step and forgotten to tell him.

Juliet noticed his silence. "Frank?"

He blinked, looked at her.

"What?"

"You just stopped moving," she said, tilting her head. "You okay?"

"Yeah," he said slowly. "Just... thought I heard something."

Juliet glanced around. The street was quiet. A few vendors packing up, a pair of guards laughing at the corner, the usual hum of city life winding down.

"You’re not usually the jumpy one," she said.

Frank adjusted his coat. "I’m not jumpy. I’m just... aware."

Juliet gave him a look. "Same thing."

They kept walking.

But Frank didn’t relax.

He felt it again near the next corner—a prickling at the back of his neck. Like a draft from a door that wasn’t open.

He turned suddenly, fast enough that Juliet stopped too.

"Frank—?"

He stared into the alley across the street.

Nothing there.

Just shadows and the rustle of plastic in the breeze.

But still...

His hand drifted to his belt—where a flare charm sat, unused.

Juliet crossed her arms. "Do I need to remind you again that we’re not in a dungeon?"

"No," Frank muttered. "But it feels like one."

He kept staring.

Finally, he said, "We should get off the street."

Juliet’s eyes narrowed. "Talk to me."

"I don’t know what it is," he said honestly. "I just know someone’s following me."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

Juliet stepped closer. "Okay. Where to?"

He glanced up the street. The Association wouldn’t help. The system wouldn’t register it. This wasn’t that kind of threat.

No alarms.

No data.

Just gut instinct and the weight of eyes he couldn’t find.

"Somewhere high," he said. "Somewhere I can see everything."

Juliet nodded.

And together, they turned off the main road—disappearing into the shadows, not realizing that just two blocks behind them...

someone else was waiting for the quiet.

The wind was sharp up here.

Frank sat near the ledge, one knee up, jacket pulled tighter around his shoulders. Juliet stood just behind him, arms crossed, eyes scanning the rooftops and narrow streets below.

The city looked smaller from here.

Lights flickered like slow pulses—streetlamps, neon signs, rune-coils near vendors shutting down for the night. But none of that calmed him.

Not tonight.

Juliet finally broke the silence. "You gonna tell me what’s crawling up your spine?"

Frank exhaled through his nose. "It’s not a system ping. Not a trade warning. Nothing I can prove."

She crouched beside him. "Don’t need proof. I just need your gut."

He gave her a sideways glance. "That’s new."

"You’ve earned a few points."

He nodded slowly. "Something’s out there. Watching. Waiting."

Juliet didn’t scoff. Didn’t argue.

She just looked out over the rooftops with him.

"I’ve felt that before," she said quietly. "Before a bounty job in the northern stacks. My mark turned out to be working with a summoner. I didn’t believe my instincts until it was too late."

Frank looked at her. "You survived."

"Barely," she said. "Didn’t have someone to watch my back."

A pause settled between them.

Then Juliet added, "You think this has anything to do with that mimic thing you mentioned?"

"I don’t know," Frank said. "Could be. Could be nothing. But... it doesn’t feel like a system-level problem."

"Then what?"

He looked down at his hands.

"I think this is something older."

Juliet didn’t respond for a moment. Then:

"You ever think you weren’t meant to walk away from whatever happened to you?"

Frank raised an eyebrow. "That’s dark, even for you."

She shrugged. "Sometimes we survive things that weren’t meant to be survived. And the world doesn’t know what to do with us after."

Frank didn’t reply right away.

Then, quietly: "I think something’s trying to fix that."

Juliet reached into her coat, pulled out a small surveillance node—a personal one, tuned to motion instead of magic. She set it down behind them on the ledge.

"Then we stay ahead of it," she said.

"Easy as that?"

Juliet gave a short smile. "I’ve got your back. You don’t get to vanish again."

Frank stared out at the skyline.

Lights blinked.

Somewhere below, a streetlamp buzzed and went dark.

He didn’t move. Just whispered:

"Not planning to."

Juliet stood and stretched, the breeze tugging at her collar.

"I hate rooftops," she muttered. "Always cold. Always dusty."

Frank stayed seated, glancing at her boots. "You wore leather soles. That’s on you."

"I didn’t think I’d be dragged into your paranoia tour," she said.

"It’s not paranoia if something’s actually following me."

"Still a tour."

He smirked. "Would you like a brochure?"

"I want tea."

Frank looked over at her. "Still stuck on that?"

Juliet turned slightly toward him, brow raised. "You owe me a cup. You were mid-sentence and boom—voidgate."

"I didn’t exactly schedule the kidnapping."

"You could’ve at least sent a napkin note."

Frank chuckled under his breath. "Next time I get abducted, I’ll leave a flower."

"Better."

She stepped closer, dropping into a cross-legged sit beside him, shoulder brushing his lightly.

They both faced forward again. Quiet.

Then Juliet said, deadpan, "You know, for someone who trades with dangerous people and walks through dimensional black markets, you’re weirdly awkward in regular conversations."

Frank glanced at her. "I’m great at conversations."

"Name one that ended well."

He opened his mouth. Then paused.

"Okay, that’s... statistically fair."

Juliet smirked.

Frank leaned back on his palms. "I used to be good at this."

"At what?"

He tilted his head toward her. "Talking to people. Before the system. Before the trade ledger took over my brain."

Juliet looked at him, eyes softer now. "You’re still good at it."

He blinked. "Really?"

"Well... for a guy who throws potions instead of flirting? Yeah. You’re doing fine."

Frank mock-gasped. "That was flirting?"

"I kept you alive. That counts."

He gave her a slow, dramatic nod. "In that case, I’m head over heels."

She rolled her eyes—but smiled. "Let’s survive the next three nights. Then maybe we can talk about actual feelings."

Frank grinned. "Deal. But only if the tea’s hot this time."

"And no monsters."

"No promises."