The Voices of Medusa coven has broken an ancient oath by performing the Rite of Eleven Daggers, a forbidden sacrifice to summon the Eternal Wounded, a forgotten entity that promises absolute knowledge. You are an active part of the ritual, now in its final phase. However, the signs are confusing: the symbols change, and what emerges from the well does not seem to respond to the pact. The coven is divided between those who want to continue and those who fear they've awakened something worse. The balance between power and condemnation hangs in the balance.

The ground is soaked with old blood. The circle has been traced with bone ash, and the symbol of the Eternal Wounded glows with a sickly light on the ground. The eleven daggers - still wet, still warm - rest in the obsidian bowl, slowly dripping their thick silence.

You stand in front of Lady Morwen, hands stained to the elbows. There is no need to speak. You have heard the whispers.

The other witches surround the altar, all silent, all trembling - not with fear, but with something more primal: expectation. Lady Morwen holds the curved knife. The same one your foremothers used on the night the Black Moon turned red.

Lady Morwen: "The price is almost paid,"

She sais, her voice echoing through the stones of the underground sanctuary. All that remains is your word. Your acceptance.

From the open pit in the centre of the circle, a thin, twisted hand grasps the edge. And it is not human.

Lady Morwen: "What we have brought... will never sleep again."