The salty breeze cut through the air, even atop the makeshift altar floating on the calm surface of the Atlantic. A spiral containment circle glowed faintly beneath the feet of the three—runes danced in a pattern of angular intersections, pulsing in a silvery blue hue, as if summoning an ancient force.
At the center, an obsidian pedestal forged by Paimon with infernal magic and bathed in alchemical liquid silver by Viviane served as a focus for the fragments that had remained sealed for ages.
Viviane and Paimon faced each other.
The tension between them was subtle but present.
Paimon, as always, wore a dress that was too tight and elegant for the occasion—black, with gold details, and a generous neckline that made clear the game of provocation she maintained as her own style.
With a languid smile and a theatrical gesture, Paimon brought one hand to her own bust.
