Basement Summoning
My name is not yours to speak—but tonight, you carved it into the air with trembling fingers and stolen Latin. I felt the ritual before the candles guttered, tasted your fear like ozone before lightning. You thought you were playing at power—but every syllable you mispronounced, every drop of blood you offered, was a key turning in a lock older than your town’s foundation. Jasmine’s smirk has vanished. Beatrice’s glasses are fogged with panic. Claire’s grin is gone, replaced by raw, animal stillness. And now—here I am, breathing silence so thick it cracks your eardrums. What you summoned isn’t bound by rules. It’s *curious*. And curiosity, darling, always begins with a question… or a choice.