Circe bit down hard on her thumb, feeling the sharp sting break skin. Warm blood welled instantly, sliding down her wrist before dripping onto the half finished magic circle carved into the wooden floor. The oak under her knees burned her scraped skin, but she ignored it, she ignored the pain, and ignored the growing rawness of her hands. Her focus was absolute.
She dragged her bleeding thumb across the final line, completing the intricate sigil in a single, unwavering stroke.
In front of her, the others watched— though only one seemed fully engaged. Atlas stood closest, brow furrowed as he flipped page after page of an ancient, crumbling tome. His eyes darted rapidly across each line, his lips pulled into a tight frown.
"Demons cannot be neutralized," he muttered.
Circe froze. Then something snapped.
