"Please distribute these to the Keepers of the Rift, the Veilwardens, and Judicars."

We receive our copies and flip to the first page at his instruction.

"Pages one through three contain testimonies from neighbors, friends, and family regarding Mr. Willow’s behavior toward Miss Neethling. Please refer to page one, paragraph three; a statement from the deceased’s sister."

I scan the text, but Magister Kaelith reads it aloud, his tone carrying the weight of its contents.

"Mr. Willow is an egotistical man. I understand that he loves my sister, but any slight from her, real or imagined results in him turning others against her. He isolates her, controls her, and has both physically and emotionally abused her. He always makes it seem like it was her fault. My sister was a nervous wreck, and her secret messages to me are the only reason I know the truth. I have attached them with this letter."

The chamber is deathly silent.

Magister Kaelith exhales sharply, as if ridding himself of the weight of the words before moving on.

"Now, please turn to Addendum A."

We do. The letter is handwritten, shaky but hopeful. He reads it aloud.

"Hi, sis. I’m doing much better than last week. My wounds are healing nicely, and the sect has approved my week-long leave. I’ll be back to work Monday, so don’t worry. Greg is spoiling me now, coming home early to take care of me. He promised he won’t take his anger out on me anymore. He believes me now, that my relationship with Aubrey is innocent. I love and miss you. See you on Monday. Isabella."

A tragic attempt at reassurance. A desperate attempt to believe things would change.

And yet, the shadow moves again.

The edges stretch unnaturally, creeping like ink spilled across the stone floor. My stomach tightens. Something else is present.

Magister Kaelith places the letter at the back of the stack before glancing up, his voice quieter but no less firm.

"Now, Addendum B."

His gaze hardens.

"Before I read this, be advised, it is disturbing."

He doesn’t embellish. He doesn’t need to. The weight of the words does all the damage.

"Hi, sis. I’m not doing well. I was happy to see you on Monday, but I wish I could have stayed longer. Every time I leave the house, he becomes paranoid, and we fight when I return.

He came home tonight, furious, because I spoke to Luke. Yes, it’s Luke now, not Aubrey. Greg has changed so much, and I don’t think this will ever end. I need to leave him, but I don’t know how. No one believes me anymore. He’s convinced everyone that I’m crazy, that I’m the one at fault.

Tonight, he lost control. Again.

I was ironing when he started yelling, calling me a whore, a backstabber, a homewrecker. When I didn’t fight back, he ripped the iron from the table and…"

A breath. A pause. The weight of an unspeakable moment.

"… he hit me over the head with it."

Someone in the chamber gasps.

"As I fell, he pressed the hot iron into my back. The pain is unbearable, and he won’t let me see a doctor. Please. Help me."

The room is frozen in horror.

Magister Kaelith carefully sets the letter down, his expression unreadable. But his knuckles are white against the parchment.

Beside him, Gregory Willow’s shadow writhes.

For the first time, I realize, this isn’t just a man.

There is something else standing in Gregory Willow’s place, something lurking beneath his skin, curling in his shadow like a thing waiting to be let loose.

Magister Kaelith remains composed, though I can’t tell if it’s sheer experience or a refusal to let the weight of the moment crack him. I suppose in this line of work, your nerves either turn to steel, or you don’t last long enough to need them.

His voice rings through the chamber, firm as stone. “I have a testimony from his neighbor, Mr. Saul, regarding disturbances over the past year. He is a prayer warrior himself. And as we are all aware, only sect members reside within this enclosure. Every word given here comes from our own kind.”

A pause. His sharp eyes scan the room, daring someone to question it. No one does.

Returning to the document in his hand, he reads, “Mr. Saul testifies that over the course of a year, Gregory Willow would leave his flat frequently, only to return before sunrise. One evening, Saul noticed a smear of blood on Willow’s door handle and questioned Isabella about it the next day. She knew nothing. Fearing for her safety, he warned her not to mention it to Greg. She agreed.”

Kaelith flips the page, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Saul’s suspicions deepened as Willow’s violence toward Isabella escalated. A few neighbors confronted him, warning they would report him if it continued. Willow pleaded, shifting blame onto Isabella, painting himself as the wounded party. He was convincing enough that most backed off. But Saul did not. He kept watching.”

A weighted pause.

“And then the bloodstains started appearing again. On the handle. On the floor outside the door. But one night, it wasn’t just a smear, it was a few droplets. Enough to make me raise my suspicions. That’s when Saul decided to follow him.”

Kaelith exhales sharply, like each word costs him.

“He tracked Willow to an abandoned warehouse nearby. Three men entered, and Saul, keeping to the shadows, spotted a young girl tied up on the first level.”

The air thickens.

My breath slows.

My grip tightens around the file until the paper crinkles, fragile as my restraint.

“What he saw next,” Kaelith says, voice flat but vibrating at the edges, “was beyond anything he imagined. One by one, they cut the girl’s wrists, letting the blood drip into a bowl. They drank it.”

Gasps flutter like startled wings through the Sanctum.

“Then, they placed their hands on her head. And it was as if…”

He hesitates.

“…as if they were drawing something out of her. Saul described it like watching her soul unravel, pulled thread by thread. She collapsed. Unmoving. Gone.”

I feel the throb of my heartbeat behind my eyes.

“Saul reported the crime. But when authorities arrived,”

Kaelith’s lips curl in revulsion, “the girl was alive. Awake. Smiling. No marks. No bruises. No sign she'd ever bled.”

A murmur slithers through the chamber, no louder than breath, but barbed with unease.

Kaelith moves to the next document with mechanical grace, as though if he stops, he’ll shatter.

“Saul waited. Two months later, Willow reemerged. Different place. Same performance.”

Another pause. A glance at the accused, still seated, head bowed like a statue waiting for judgment.

“This time, Saul knew exactly what he was seeing.”

Silence.

Kaelith places the paper aside. No rustle. Just weight.

“Upon investigation, it was confirmed. Gregory Willow and his associates were practicing black magic. Rituals designed to manipulate spirit, influence, and authority.”

He lifts a brittle page. Inked glyphs stain its surface like bruises from another world.

“This diagram is over three hundred years old. Taken from the Labyrinth of Books. And I remind you, those texts never leave their sanctum.”

He clears his throat, voice fraying. “Willow and his companions are using forbidden methods. Ancient rites that were meant to stay buried.”

Then, the shadow moves.

Not a flicker. Not a breeze.

It slides. Left, then right.

Too fast to be natural.  Too slow to be missed.

I see it. And when I turn, Eric sees it too, his eyes hard, jaw locked.

Lady Elsa’s gaze meets mine.

She knows.

The chamber stills.

But it’s wrong, the kind of stillness that listens back.

Then, she rises.

Her robes rustle like drawn blades.

Chairs groan as the circle responds, some unsure why they’re standing, only that their bodies obey something older than instinct.

“May I request a reprieve?”

Her voice is smooth. Measured.

But it carries weight. Now.

Silence answers.

And then, it happens.

The shadow swells.

Not Willow’s.

Something else.

It stretches across the floor. Up the wall. Over the ceiling.

Massive. Intentional. Hungry.

Then, the bulbs die.

Not in a flicker.

Snuffed out, one after the other.

Darkness presses in, alive and watching.