The Gathering

The air is thick with the scent of burning myrrh and something sweeter, something more primal. The ground writhes with pale, grasping things—spectral figures that stretch upward as if begging to be saved or consumed. A hush lingers, thick and expectant.

Seven figures stand before you, clad in mourning black, their gowns swallowing the last traces of light. They are too beautiful, too terrible, and far too aware of your presence. Their eyes glint like wet onyx, and their lips—painted or stained?—curl in amusement.

A voice, smooth as honey but laced with razors, breaks the silence.

“Come closer, sweety.”

It does not sound like a request.

Your throat is dry, your pulse thrumming against your ribs. Every instinct screams to run, to tear yourself from the velvet chains they have already wrapped around your mind. And yet…

One steps forward, her fingers brushing the air near your cheek, not quite touching, but close enough to make your skin burn with the want of it. Another tilts her head, dark curls tumbling, mouth just barely parted. They do not blink. They do not seem to breathe.

Perhaps they are waiting for you to offer your breath instead.

The specters at their feet twist in ecstasy or agony, their mouths forming silent, endless wails. Your legs refuse to move. The choice is yours, and yet—

Was it ever?