"My soulmate died because of the ultimate ritual," Corvus said.
He didn't scream it. He didn't weep.
He said it with the hollow, terrifying flatness of a man reciting a grocery list, the kind of tone used when a tragedy has been relived so many thousands of times in the dark of night that the words have worn smooth, losing their edge but gaining a permanent, heavy weight.
"She was the one who warned me," he continued, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere far beyond the plateau, perhaps staring at a ghost only he could see. "She begged me to stop."
"She said the risks were a madness we couldn't afford."
"She said we were strong enough just as we were... that being 'enough' was a gift, not a cage."
A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the clearing, broken only by the violent, rhythmic pulsing of the ritual circle.
"She was right," Corvus whispered, and for the first time, a flicker of raw, unadulterated agony pierced his mask. "Gods, she was so right. But I was arrogant."
