The candle refused to stay lit.
Each time it caught, the flame bent sideways, stretched thin, then guttered out as if smothered by an unseen breath. The chamber did not move. The air did not stir.
Still, the light would not hold.
The man at the altar did not look up.
He knelt on cold stone etched with overlapping sigils — crescents fractured by lines of shadow, stars swallowed mid-burn. His hands were clasped so tightly his fingers had gone pale, nails biting into skin.
Around him, others stood in a wide ring. Twelve figures. All hooded. All silent.
The failure of the flame was not a problem.
It was a sign.
"He walks," the kneeling man whispered.
At once, the pressure in the room shifted.
One of the standing figures — taller than the rest, robes threaded with faint violet embroidery — inclined her head.
"The Outsider," she said. Her voice was calm, measured. "The one who faced Him."
A ripple passed through the circle. Not fear.
Excitement.
The kneeling man finally lifted his head. His hood fell back just enough to reveal eyes rimmed with exhaustion and awe.
"He did not break," the man said. "Not when the sky split. Not when the dream-screams peaked."
"He was protected," someone spat. "By the Trickster."
A murmur followed that — irritation, resentment.
Hoopa's name was not spoken aloud.
The tall woman raised one hand, and silence fell instantly.
"Protection is not immunity," she said. "And relevance is not allegiance."
She stepped forward, boots clicking softly against stone, and the sigils beneath her feet pulsed faintly — responding to her presence, not fueling it.
"The Outsider stood beneath Ascended Shadow," she continued. "And He noticed him."
A shiver ran through the chamber.
That mattered.
Darkrai noticing anything that was not prey or collateral meant the balance was already shifting faster than anticipated.
The kneeling man swallowed. "He saw us."
"No," the woman corrected. "He saw someone."
She turned, eyes gleaming beneath her hood. "That distinction matters."
From the far edge of the chamber, a younger cultist shifted uneasily. "If he's walking the boundary again tonight—"
"He will," the woman said.
"How can you be sure?"
Because arrogance always walked before intervention.
She did not say that aloud.
Instead, she moved toward the altar, placing a gloved hand beside the extinguished candle. The wax was untouched. No heat. No smoke.
"He believes we are smaller than the forces we invoke," she said. "That we misunderstand what we've bound."
Several cultists smiled beneath their hoods.
"They always do."
The kneeling man's voice trembled. "But… the Lunar One remains contained. The sigils hold. The chains—"
The woman's hand snapped shut around the candle.
Stone cracked.
Not the altar.
The candle.
It crumbled into ash between her fingers.
"Containment is a temporary illusion," she said coldly. "We do not own Her. We delayed Her."
A pause.
"That was always enough."
The younger cultist frowned. "If that's true… then why does the Trickster not simply retrieve Her?"
Silence fell hard.
Even the symbols on the floor dimmed slightly.
The woman turned slowly.
"Because," she said, "He has rules."
The others leaned in.
"He cannot cross certain thresholds without consequence. He cannot act directly while the balance still exists." Her eyes flicked briefly upward — not toward the ceiling, but somewhere far beyond it. "And because arrogance cuts both ways."
The kneeling man's breath hitched. "You think the Trickster believes himself restrained."
"I think," the woman said, "that he enjoys watching mortals test themselves."
That answer satisfied no one.
But it silenced them.
She stepped back into the circle.
"The Outsider complicates nothing," she continued. "He clarifies it."
"How?" someone asked.
"By forcing escalation," she replied. "Darkrai will press harder. The city will fracture further. Fear will sharpen belief."
"And when the balance collapses?" the kneeling man asked.
A smile ghosted across her lips.
"Then the chains no longer matter."
A low chant began — not words, but rhythm. A heartbeat cadence. The chamber responded, shadows stretching inward, not moving closer, but paying attention.
Far above them, Divide City breathed uneasily.
The woman lifted her chin.
"Prepare the watchers," she ordered. "Do not engage. Do not reveal. Let the Outsider walk."
"And if he finds us?" the younger cultist asked.
She laughed softly.
"If he finds us," she said, "then we have already succeeded."
The chant deepened.
Somewhere distant — impossibly distant — something ancient stirred, not in anger, not in obedience…
…but in curiosity.
And for the first time since the ritual began, one of the cultists dreamed.
Just for a moment.
And in that dream, a ring of gold light watched him back.
Unblinking.
Hungry.