The chains bite into Lowell’s skin, heavier than they should be. The silver poisons his veins, dragging him closer to the edge of darkness with each passing moment. But he fights it. He keeps his eyes open, forcing his blurred vision to clear. He has to see. He has to watch. His heart pounds as he hears the soft, frightened cries of his son. A sound so small, yet it roars louder than thunder in his ears.
Marco moves with slow purpose, every step deliberate. The smugness on his face makes Lowell’s stomach turn. He’s enjoying this. He’s not just here for the ritual. He’s here to break him — to see him helpless, to watch him suffer.
The sorcerer lays out the tools — ancient, dark, and cold. Symbols are drawn on the floor with thick black chalk, lines curling and twisting into shapes Lowell
