The deep, rhythmic chant filled the room with a heavy, suffocating silence—like the stillness before an execution.
Jeanne slowly lifted her elbow from Sather's head and straightened her posture. She looked down at him, eyes narrowed in wary observation. The fire crackled in the hearth, and as she stepped back a few paces, she realized the heat was intensifying—or rather, the flames were creeping, inch by inch, toward the black sorcerer.
Sather's bearded face was solemn. He slowly raised his arms, and shimmering runes the color of fire appeared across his skin—etched in fine, curving lines like the paths of a mythic labyrinth. The glowing sigils spread across his entire body, forming a tapestry of alien symbols that turned his face into a living scroll of ancient script.
He inhaled deeply, though the sound resembled the rasp of bellows feeding a forge. Then, in a voice clear and resonant, he resumed the invocation:
"Expectant animimolemque futuram,
Suspiciunt: fluateas; voxerit: edeus!"
The chant deepened. Suddenly—though no one could say exactly when—rings of glowing firelight began to spin around him like halos. The runes on his skin pulsed, then peeled away from his body, trembling as they rose into the air and formed a hazy corona of white-hot incandescence.
Sather's eyes didn't blink. They burned like coals, their pupils contracting to fine, vertical slits—demonic in every way. His voice, soft and hoarse, murmured like a fever dream, dragging the room deeper into eerie stillness. Jeanne could almost hear her own heartbeat pounding in the silence.
She didn't understand the language, but certain phrases slipped through:
"…ehomo…"
He folded his arms together. The final lines of his incantation drifted across the room like whispers of the dead, brushing past Jeanne's ears with a chill like the sigh of weeping phantoms. Despite the rasp, the voice swelled with a gravity and grandeur that was vast and almost ceremonial.
"…misericordia…"
Jeanne took a slow, deep breath. A dizzying fog crept over her thoughts—the kind of stunned stillness that struck when facing something incomprehensible. Her connection to the divine felt... muted here. Like her soul was being pounded from the inside out. She gritted her teeth and tried to steady her mind.
The chant's resonance bypassed her ears entirely, vibrating through her entire nervous system.
The flames twisted and swirled into sprite-like spheres that floated into the air. But Jeanne couldn't look away. In the hearth, within that never-dying fire, a face began to emerge.
A human face. And not.
It resembled a mask, false and fixed—but beneath it, something stirred. The eyes opened—lively and bizarre, crafted with an elegance no flame should possess. Jeanne stared as the fire advanced toward Sather, licking ever closer.
She knew.
It was a projection—an avatar of something otherworldly. A god. A dark god summoned not by accident, but by intent.
The blood-red flames danced wildly, illuminating three faces in the room with shifting light. The fire hissed like a living serpent, leaping and twisting, its tongues licking toward the ring of flame surrounding Sather. That face in the fire—its eyeless sockets rotated slowly, as if appraising the summoner… and then, glancing curiously at the two unrelated intruders beside him.
Three enormous shadows spilled across the floor.
"…misericordia."
The spectral face gave Sather one last look. Then it dispersed—becoming a part of the flames, fading into the rising tongues like mist melting into morning sunlight. It vanished… and was drawn into Sather's body.
Lord above...
Jeanne's breath caught in her throat as she watched.
It was fear, she thought.
She felt fear.
But why?
Because of something she could not name. Something she could not explain.
Sather suddenly rose to his feet. The fire still burned fiercely, and the runes carved across his body had not yet faded. Before Jeanne could get a proper look, he seized her arm and brushed aside the sleeve of her formal coat, revealing her freshly washed, pale wrist.
"Black sorcerer, what are you doing?" Jeanne asked instinctively. His fingers were scorching to the touch, and her wrist began to sting. "Is your ritual not finished yet? What are you trying to do?"
Sather paused, his sharp, lizard-like pupils narrowing on her.
"I need a disguise," he said. "A way to openly use a limited portion of magic—without immediately being branded a black sorcerer. I can't just walk out and pray to your God to cover it up. But in this final moment of the ritual—I can mask it, using minimal cost."
Jeanne frowned, confused, her skin still burning beneath his grip. She forced herself to shake off the oppressive feeling from the god's projection and asked, "Be clearer."
"Give me a portion of the power you receive through your faith in your God."
The revulsion on her face was immediate and unmistakable. She glared at Sather, then looked away with an audible scoff.
"So… what do you want me to do?" she asked, sourly, like someone being forced to clean a latrine.
"When I draw upon the oath of allegiance this body once swore to you—and as the energy passes through where our skin connects—don't resist." His voice was even, devoid of emotion.
"You still remember that was your oath of allegiance?" Jeanne's mood snapped back into its usual barbed state. Her venom was returning in full force. "Let me ask just once—are you really just borrowing my divine energy to cover up your vile spells?"
"You're really stubborn," Sather said, raising a brow. His tone made it sound like he was wondering what more do you want from me?
"That line's usually what I say to heretics strapped to the iron chair. Just answer me—yes or no," Jeanne growled. "Because if you lie, I'll know. You can't lie about this."
"Oh, I won't," the sorcerer said, his beard parting with a smirk. "But it's going to hurt," he added nonchalantly. "Quite a bit."
"…Fine."
Jeanne gave a stiff nod and, though clearly reluctant, gestured for him to proceed.
She likely didn't grasp what he meant by "quite a bit."
This wasn't about courage. It was a difference in perspective. A failure to comprehend what "painful" meant to a black sorcerer.
Sather tightened his grip on her wrist and casually chanted a single incantation.
Pain struck instantly.
Agonizing, spasming pain—enough to nearly bring her to her knees.
Light burst beneath her skin in twisting, branching arcs. It writhed like someone else's veins had been injected into hers, squirming outward through her body.
"You trying to—gah—!!"
"—Get myself killed?" Sather finished her sentence calmly. He watched her double over with a twitching jaw and gave her a half-hearted pat on the shoulder. "You'll get used to it. Maybe. Probably."
"Who would get used to this!?" Jeanne screamed, forcing her head up through clenched teeth, eyes wide in fury. "How about you get used to being burned alive!?"
"Sure. When this is over, I'll let you experience the whole process first," Sather replied coolly.
They were back to trading insults—perfectly fluent, never repeating a word.
Viola sat on the floor, dazed, watching the two adults. Her gaze drifted in a dazed stupor.
For a brief, chilling moment, she felt that her future looked very, very bleak.