Chapter 13
The Ritual of Truth
I participate in a dangerous ritual where I must face a dark truth about my past self, risking everything to gain forbidden knowledge.
The chamber was smaller than I had imagined it would be, and far colder. The air carried the weight of old stone and older incense—frankincense, myrrh, something else I could not name but which clung to the back of my throat like a whispered secret. The Hermetic Order had prepared this space for me with a precision that bordered on reverence, and that reverence terrified me more than any threat could have.
I stood at the threshold, my hands trembling at my sides. The circle had been drawn on the floor in a substance I chose not to examine too closely. Its lines were intricate, weaving in and out of symbols I recognized from weeks of study: the pentagram, the seal of Solomon, the alchemical sigils that spoke of transformation and death. Candles burned at each of the five points, their flames unnaturally still despite the draft that kissed the back of my neck.
"You are afraid." The voice came from behind me, soft as silk over a blade.
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