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"Don't worry about what they mean. Just tell me what they look like."

Her fingers tighten around mine. "Symbols. Lines. Circles. Some look like letters, but I don't recognize them."

Runes.

"What else?"

“There are knives. So many knives.”

Slowly, bit by bit, the room comes into focus. “Be a good girl, Arianette and describe them.”

“Some have thin, curved blades that catch the candlelight when I move past them. Others are shorter, their handles carved from pale bone and marked with the same symbols on the skulls.”

She shifts again, her back pressing harder against my chest. I wait, letting her explore the room, then...

“What is that?” she asks, leaning forward like she’s peering into something. “It’s some kind of window… no. It’s a box. Like, an aquarium.”

Aquarium?

“I think it’s bugs…” She reacts suddenly, squirming against my body like she’s trying to get away from them. “No. Not bugs. Beetles.”

Fuck.

"There’s an altar." Her spine straightens, but I don’t let her pull away. “It is made from black marble, massive and perfectly smooth, its surface rising from the floor like a slab of midnight. The edges are worn. There’s a blade sitting in the middle, and a silver bowl, like it’s waiting for me.”

My mind races through every ritual, every piece of Forsyth history I've ever studied or participated in. I know the symbols. I know the stories we tell ourselves about our founders, the myths we polish until they sound like traditions instead of crimes.

But this isn't something I've seen. But it may be something I’ve heard of.

“Anything else?” I ask. “Any writing or other symbols?”

She’s quiet for a moment then says, “On the floor.”

“What’s on the floor, Arianette?”

“A circle with a design of interwoven lines, branches, maybe? And words. In Latin.”

My breath catches in my throat. “Can you read them?”

“I think so. Per… something. Per sanguinem–”

“Perpetuitas,” I finish for her.

“Yes. That’s it.”

Through blood, perpetuity.

Before I process what that means, and why it was there, Arianette gasps.

“They’re here.” The words leave her in a thin, distant voice. I feel her entire body go rigid against mine. “The Beast.”

I don’t ask anything. I close both of my hands around hers and keep her pressed firmly to my chest, giving her the solid weight of me as the memory begins to open.

Her breathing changes first—shallower, faster—then her voice returns, fuller now, as if she is no longer answering me but speaking from inside the memory itself.

“‘Kneel,’” someone says, but before I can, I’m pushed to the ground, my knees scraping against the stone floor. From the floor, I look up, and see the mask. The black one with the horns. I can see the shape of it in the candlelight, the way the shadows catch on the curve of the antlers. I know I’m not going to leave this chamber alive.”

Her fingers tighten around mine. I keep my hold steady and silent, letting her stay inside the recollection without interruption.