Page 45 of Spirit Storm

Some of them are damaged, and I'm not sure if the hairline fractures running through the edges of the outer ring were caused by age or by Tharuzel breaking the lockstone. Likely the latter.

There's a section near the base that has crumbled completely, the symbols there reduced to dust. That's Tharuzel's work, I'm pretty sure.

That's what the ritual did.

I reach forward and brush my fingertips across the stone. The world tilts, and the chamber disappears…

CHAPTER ELEVEN

As my world pivots off its axis, I'm plunged into darkness. It’s not a vision, exactly. It’s more like sinking into a memory that doesn't belong to me. The edges are unsteady, the colors wrong, everything saturated with the particular texture of terror.

Nine witches. It’s this cave they’re standing in, but it’s different. There are torches everywhere, a fire burning in the center, the rune circle on the wall blazing with light so fierce it should be blinding.

The Nine are standing in a circle with their hands linked, and fear in their eyes. They are not composed or ceremonial or certain.

They are terrified.

One woman is shaking so badly the man beside her has his hand clamped around her wrist to hold the chain. Another is weeping openly. The youngest of them can't be any older than I am.

This is the famous Nine?

The emotion rushing through them is ancient and raw. It washes over me like the icy water of a polar plunge. Pure animal dread.

They’re filled with certainty that whatever they're sealing inside this circle is so far beyond them, so utterly beyond any of them, that the only reason they're doing it is because the alternative is worse.

It’s not heroism. Not chosen sacrifice. It’s desperation so complete it’s curdled into a terrible resolve.

They had no idea if it would work.

Huh. They weren't the Nine confident witches of Freya's stories, standing tall and facing the ultimate power. They were nine brave spirit witches who'd run out of options, pouring everything they had into a ritual they weren't certain would hold.

They were just scrambling and doing their best to pull a positive result out of their asses like the rest of us.

Because the world would end if they didn't try.

The vision fractures and shifts perspective…

I’m still seeing the same cave, but it’s a different moment. The same faces are there, but the fire in the center of the room is lower now, and the circle is sealed.

Two of the gathered witches are lifeless on the ground with cloaks laid over their upper bodies. Two more are kneeling beside the bodies, crying. The others are gathered in a huddle around something I can’t see.

And they're arguing.

Their heated words are urgent and quiet. They’re deciding what to do about something important, and they don’t agree, arguing as if they’re in the aftermath of a catastrophe.

Which, given the death of two of their members, they were.

“The key must be separated from the stones. If the secret of its importance is discovered⁠—"

“But is there anywhere far enough? Demons are⁠—”

“—The new world.”

A collective gasp sounds from the group.

“Has your sanity left you, Arik? To lose the key to the journey across the waters is as dangerous as keeping it hidden here.”

“If the stones fail, it was all for naught. There won't be anywhere or anyone left to protect.”