The gods. They were here. They were watching.

But more than that—they were calling to him.

Selis stepped forward, his shoulders taut with a pride that was not fully his own, a pride fed by something ancient and hungering. His eyes gleamed, and his hands lifted, fingers trembling as though barely able to contain the power he was summoning. He was the shaman of old.

He began, his voice low and guttural, the words twisting out of him as if pulled from the depths of his being:

"Anuk’seh ra... spirit of shadow and water... Anuk’seh ra... god who weaves through the lake’s veil...”

The words slithered across the air, each syllable seemed to settle over the townsfolk, weighty and dense, lingering in the breath of each onlooker as Selis circled the pool, his staff punctuating each step with a resonant tap.

“Beh’tumi… the bones of the lake, the bones of all who sleep … the depths that hunger, the depths that bind...”

The words, seeping with dark intent, flowed faster now, layering over one another, his tone twisting between reverence and something more fevered, something verging on desperation.

“Yehu’ar sel’ara… drowner of soul and light… stir, rise from the cradle of waters…”

A shiver moved through the room as his chant grew louder, each phrase laced with shadows, as if he was pulling something unseen into the hall, binding it, coaxing it to awaken.

Selis paused, then leaned over the pool, his voice now a hoarse whisper that carried through the hall as though spoken by many voices.

"Rul’mekar... rulers of the hidden dark… I bring them to you—body, soul, spirit… touch them, drown them, cleanse them…”

He looked to the council members, nodding with a reverence that was both a summons and a command.

"Bring forth your offerings,” he intoned, his voice a low murmur that resonated through the hall, “for we each hold a part of the lake’s will. Lay them here, so that the lake might know us—our strengths, our burdens, our faith.”

Reaching beneath their seats, they withdrew their offerings—objects they had kept close, sacred to each of them. One by one, each council member rose, moving toward the pool in solemn procession.

Orla stepped forward first, her spine straight, her expression unreadable. In her hands, she held a silver bowl, polished to a mirror shine, its surface capturing the flickering torchlight. She moved with purpose, each step precise as she approached the pool. As she reached its edge, she knelt, bowing her head before setting the bowl at the north point of the pool.

“For tradition,” she whispered, her voice carrying across the hall like a breeze stirring leaves, “for the strength of roots and the honour of those who walked before us.” She rose and stepped back, her face as calm and unwavering as stone.

The pool shuddered, a single ripple stretching across its surface as the bowl sank.

Daithi followed, his face drawn with lines of weariness and compassion. In his hands, he cradled a bundle of dried herbs, bound with a simple twine—fennel, yarrow, and rosemary. His fingers brushed each sprig, and for a moment, he closed his eyes as though feeling their potency.

He stepped to the eastern edge of the pool, his gaze steady as he looked down, then gently placed the herbs onto the water. “For healing, for growth,” he murmured, “May we mend what is broken, and may our wounds close as one.”

The herbs rested upon the water’s surface before they were pulled under. The ripple spread further this time, darkening the pool, a faint scent of herbs rising and mingling with the damp air.

Leora approached next. She held a shell, a delicate, iridescent thing, its colours gleaming like the morning sun on water. She approached the southern side, her steps softer, almost hesitant, as though the weight of her offering stirred something within her.

“For purity,” she whispered, holding the shell over the pool. “For clarity in dark waters, for the light that guides.” She lowered it into the water, releasing it with a faint sigh. The shell sank, the glow within its smooth, curved surface fading as it joined the depths.

Finnian stepped forward last, his eyes unreadable as he held a small wooden idol, its carved face worn and simple, the expression both reverent and sorrowful. In his hands, it seemed almost fragile, yet there was an unmistakable weight to it, as if it carried the collective sacrifices of the town upon its shoulders.

He moved to the western edge, his steps silent, his gaze never leaving the water.

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“For sacrifice,” he intoned, his voice quiet yet unyielding, resonant with a solemn authority. “For the devotion of the people, for the offerings given to the lake, and for the lives bound to its depths.”

With a final, deliberate motion, Finnian lowered the idol to the water, releasing it from his grasp. The carved figure drifted for a heartbeat, its surface reflecting the torchlight, before it slipped beneath the water, claimed by the pool’s dark embrace.

Shadows deepened, stretching and shifting like living things, and the torches flickered, their flames dimming to smouldering embers as an otherworldly blue glow began to seep from the pool.

“Eresh of the deeps, guardian of secrets,” Selis intoned, his voice rolling like thunder, each word thick with reverence. “Rise from below, cradle of shadows. Show us your face, O hidden keeper. Let your gaze pierce the veil, let your voice rise from the darkened deep.”

One by one, the four great pillars responded, their ancient runes flickering to life, each one blazing with a pale, eerie luminescence that danced across the stone walls in undulating waves. The boundary between solid stone and liquid water blurred, as if the room itself was transforming, becoming a part of the lake.

“By the hand that stirs the waters,” he continued, his words sinking into the stone like roots, twisting and binding. “By the breath that drowns all light. Come forth, silent watcher, hear your children’s call!”

The pool began to ripple and shift, its surface no longer reflecting the ceiling but an endless expanse of deep, still water—a void without end. It was as though the floor had fallen away, leaving only the vast lake beneath them, stretching into a fathomless darkness.

The townspeople sat spellbound, their eyes wide and glassy, as if captured in the lake’s endless depths. Selis’s voice filled the hall, transforming it into something sacred and terrifying, and each word held them tighter in its grip.

“Let the old ways be honoured. Let the pact be reborn,” he intoned, his hands raised high, fingers clawed toward the heavens. “Echo of the dark waves, pulse of forgotten hearts, take from us the weight of our fears, and give us strength in return.”

With each pulse of light from the pool, each whispered syllable, Selis’s words drew them deeper into the lake’s embrace. Shadows lengthened, the hall felt as though it were sinking, a slow descent into a world where light had no place, and every face was caught in the hypnotic pull, bound by Selis’s ancient words.

As his voice climbed, shapes began to rise from the water’s depths—flickering forms, shadowy figures that twisted and writhed just below the surface, visible only in fleeting glances, like echoes of something old, something lurking just beyond sight.

“In the dark mirror we see ourselves,” Selis declared, his voice reverberating through the hall, filling it with a chilling clarity. “In the depths, we find our truth. Hear us, keeper of the abyss; take this gift, bound by blood and breath.”

Selis lifted his hands higher. His eyes glowed with the pool’s spectral light, and his voice seemed to fill every corner, resonating with an otherworldly authority that sent a thrumming energy through every bone, every breath in the room.

The lake had come to them, in all its dark majesty.

“Anuk’seh ra... Beh’tumi… Yehu’ar sel’ara… Rul’mekar...”

His words had become a siren’s call, seeping into every corner, slipping past the listeners’ ears and sinking deep into their minds. They stared, transfixed, their breaths shallow, eyes wide and glassy. Even the council members, each normally so composed, seemed captive, their expressions slack, mesmerized as though they glimpsed something beyond the veil of the physical. Together, they were bound by reverence—a unity with the lake and the ancient magic pulsing through Selis’s words.

Selis’s voice rose, fierce and demanding, filling the hall with a relentless rhythm. He drew closer to the centre, his hands held out, trembling with energy, fingers splayed as if reaching for something unseen.

“Through this vessel,” he whispered, “we speak the words of those who came before.” His hands hovered, the water beneath him rippling, shifting, a mirror no longer reflecting his face but something darker—a shape twisted and obscure, something ancient and watching.

“By the breath of the unseen, by the blood of the living, we bind ourselves to the lake and to the depths beyond.”

The townsfolks’ breaths slowed in unison, their hearts thrumming in time with the pulse of the water. Selis lowered his hand slowly, his palms brushing the water’s surface, and in that instant, the pool seemed to deepen further, as if a doorway had opened beneath its surface, reaching into something vast and consuming.

A low hum resonated from the water, through their bones, a promise sealed in silence. The lake’s ancient magic had bound them all—its will mirrored in their own, its depths forever entwined with their fates.

With a slow, measured exhale, Selis raised his hands, and as his fingers left the water’s surface, the hall began to shift. The illusion—so potent, so encompassing—began to unravel, drawing itself inward like mist retreating at dawn. Shadows shrank back, torchlight regained its warmth, and the ethereal glow that had blanketed the room faded into memory. The four great pillars stood solid once more, their runes dimming until they became faint etchings in stone.

The audience stirred, blinking in dazed silence, eyes adjusting to the ordinary world around them as if emerging from a dream. Some glanced at their neighbours with uneasy expressions, as though confirming they had all shared the same vision. Others sat in stillness, the lingering echoes of Selis’s chant playing in their minds like whispers from another realm.

Selis’s voice cut through the lingering haze, rich and resonant, each word heavy with the weight of ritual. He lifted his hands, palms open in a gesture of invitation, his eyes reflecting the dark surface of the pool as if he saw something within its depths that the others could not.

“Come forth,” he intoned, his voice a low, “Come, each of you, and drink from the pool. Let its waters cleanse your soul, bind you to our lake, and bless you with its gifts.”

The villagers exchanged wary glances, hesitating as the weight of his words sank in. Selis’s gaze swept over them, intense and unyielding, as if daring anyone to resist. His voice softened, almost tender, yet steeped in an eerie authority.

“This communion is not merely a drink—it is a covenant, an affirmation of our place by the lake’s edge. We drink to honour what sustains us and to remind ourselves of what binds us.” His words wove around them, drawing them forward, one by one, like a tide pulling them to shore.

He gestured to the pool, his smile inscrutable. “Drink deeply, and let its darkness reveal what lies hidden within.”

And with that, the people began to rise, moving slowly toward the pool, each step a surrender to the lake’s will.