The instant the relic pierced skin, it was not pain but a tide of tendrils slipping inward — twining through organs, whispering along bone.
A haze of gold thickened, curling into vortices that wrapped both mirror and self, until reflection and madness dissolved as one.

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I found myself beneath the old arches tonight.
Figures in black robes moved without a sound,
their steps echoing like prayers to something unseen.
It felt less like a gathering, more like a reminder…
that we are never truly alone.

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👁️Through the ivy-clad arches,
their shadows stretch long and silent.
A procession bound to secrets never spoken.

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✨ A quiet aura, like fragrance wrapped in shadow.
For those drawn to beauty that whispers instead of shouting. 🌙

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Whispers tell of souls gathering every five years on the dread slopes of Blackwind Mountain.
Among the seized relics and forbidden tomes, a faint scent lingers — hinting at something far darker…

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The veil is thin. If you seek the unknown, you’re one of us.

Professor’s Journal — Entry 1

Every five years, the cult returns to Blackwind Mountain.
Some say it’s a pilgrimage.
Others… rehearsal for something worse.

I followed the sound of rustling silk…
It stopped when he turned.

Now, the King waits.