The first strike has sown confusion. Maintaining pressure from concealment is the optimal tactic. I let the crowd's momentum push me a few steps to the side, putting a cluster of sobbing villagers between me and the second cultist—a lean, sharp-faced woman trying to grab a fleeing farmer.

  From my new position, partially obscured behind a burly man who is shouting incoherently, I repeat the gesture. A flick of my fingers, a whispered syllable of cosmic discord.

  Another shimmering dart of psychic energy lances through the air, striking the sharp-faced woman in the back of the neck.

  She jerks forward with a sharp gasp, her hands flying to her head as a spike of psychic pain lances through her mind. Her eyes lose focus for a critical second.

  "Pierce!" she shouts to the third cultist, her voice tight with pain and alarm. "It's coming from the crowd! The Silver-Sighted one must be here!"

  The third cultist (Pierce), a younger man with a shaved head, abandons his attempt to corral villagers and draws a club, his eyes scanning the press of bodies with newfound urgency and fear. The first cultist (Bearded) is still shaking off the mental assault, nose bleeding.

  The villagers continue to stream out, some now fleeing into the dark alleys between houses. My cover is still effective, but the cultists are now actively hunting for me within the chaos.

  The tactical advantage remains. They are injured, mentally compromised, and searching for a needle in a panicked haystack.

  I flow with the crowd again, using a stumbling old woman as momentary cover to shift position once more. My target is the third cultist, "Pierce," the one who has just drawn his weapon. He is the most alert now, and thus the most dangerous if allowed to coordinate.

  My hand rises from within the press of bodies. Another silvery dart coalesces and streaks toward his temple.

  The dart strikes true. Pierce grunts, his free hand clapping to the side of his head as his face screws up in pain and disorientation.

  All three cultist overseers are now reeling from psychic assaults, their minds battered.

  Their discipline crumbles.

  "Form up! Back to back!" the bearded one roars, but his voice is strained.

  They try to obey, stumbling towards each other in the yard, turning their backs to form a rough triangle. They are no longer trying to contain villagers; they are defending themselves against an invisible attacker.

  This creates an opportunity. Their focus is entirely inward, on the perceived threat within the crowd still spilling from the longhouse.

  A shift in tactics. Ranged harassment has served its purpose—it has wounded them, broken their formation, and turned their focus inward. Now, to exploit that focus with overwhelming, intimate force.

  I let the last of the fleeing villagers pass around me. As the crowd thins, I am momentarily exposed in the moonlight, but the three cultists are huddled back-to-back, scanning the shadows and the remaining stragglers, not the open ground directly before them.

  My feet fly over the frosty earth with unnatural speed. In a blur of motion, I close the distance from the edge of the crowd to their defensive circle.

  I come to a halt ten feet away from them—the perfect radius for my spell.

  They see me too late. The bearded leader's eyes widen in recognition—"Silver eyes!"—but the words are choked off as I raise both hands, my voice dropping into a guttural incantation that seems to drain warmth from the very air.

  "The Dark Hunger wakes!"

  From the shadows at my feet and from the empty space around me, thick, black tendrils of necrotic energy erupt in a 10-foot radius sphere centered on myself. The cultists are at the very edge of this sphere.

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  The black tendrils whip around Cultists A and B, lashing through their bodies. They scream as the necrotic energy rots flesh and spirit on contact. The bearded leader collapses to his knees, robes smoking, his skin visibly graying where the tendrils touched him. The woman is thrown onto her back, convulsing silently as void-energy courses through her.

  Pierce staggers back with a cry of pain and terror, but remains on his feet, his club held shakily before him. He is wounded but still functional.

  No hesitation. The standing target must be eliminated to maintain control of the engagement.

  I raise a hand, fingers curling as I channel raw force from the spaces between stars. A crackle of emerald energy gathers around my fingertips before lancing out in a searing beam.

  The emerald bolt strikes Pierce squarely in the chest. There's a sound like shattering stone and a burst of ozone. He is lifted off his feet and thrown backward several yards, landing in a heap near the defiled shrine. His club skitters away across the frost. He does not move.

  That leaves the two on the ground: Cultist A (Bearded Leader) and Cultist B (Sharp-faced Woman), both writhing in agony from the necrotic wounds of Arms of Hadar.

  Interrogation. Data is more valuable than mere elimination. The bearded leader appears more senior, but also more likely to be fanatical. The woman may have lower pain tolerance or less commitment.

  I stride to the sharp-faced woman (Cultist B). She is on her back, gasping, her skin pale and blotched with necrotic patches from the tendrils. I place a boot firmly on her wrist, pinning it to the frozen ground.

  My silver eyes gaze down at her, devoid of anger or pity—only analytical focus.

  "The ledger mentions a 'Convergence at Twinstone Spire' and 'Project: Silver Key'," I state, my voice flat and cold. "You will explain the timetable for the Convergence, the location of Twinstone Spire, and the nature of the Silver Key project. Begin."

  She stares up at me, terror and pain warring with cult indoctrination in her eyes. She's wounded, mentally battered by Mind Sliver, and utterly at my mercy.

  The cultist woman flinches under my boot, her eyes wide with terror. The pain is evident, and the memory of the black tendrils seems to haunt her every breath. But a fanatical fire still burns behind the fear.

  "The... the Convergence..." she gasps, her voice ragged. "It is... at the new moon. Three days from now." She spits a mouthful of blood onto the frost. "Twinstone Spire... a day's hard march northeast. In the Deadrock Crags."

  She hesitates, clamping her jaw shut when it comes to the last part.

  "The Silver Key," I press, my voice dropping to a whisper that carries more threat than a shout. "My pattern. What is the project's purpose?"

  She shakes her head violently, a sob escaping her. "I don't know the specifics! Only Dreamer Karthok and the high scribes know! It's... it's about unweaving... using a unique pattern to... to stabilize the bridge so more than a Whisper can pass!" The words tumble out in a panicked rush. "They need you! Your sight! To complete the Grand Unweaving!"

  The bearded leader on the ground nearby groans, trying to push himself up. "Silence, fool..." he rasps.

  The woman has given me what she knows. She is broken, weeping quietly now.

  The woman has given me the skeleton of the plan. The leader may have the meat.

  I shift my boot from the woman's wrist and step toward the bearded cultist. He has managed to prop himself up on one elbow, his face a mask of pain and fury. The necrotic wounds on his arms look grievous.

  I crouch down to his level, my silver eyes locking onto his.

  "You are Dreamer Karthok's subordinate," I state, recalling the name from the ledger. "You understand the geometry of this ritual. The 'Grand Unweaving.' Explain its final shape. What passes through the stabilized bridge? What is the True Dreamer's goal?"

  He glares back, hatred burning through the pain. "You... you think you can stop it?" he sneers, blood staining his teeth. "You are a component. A prized cog. Your pattern will be unraveled and rewoven into a lockpick for reality itself."

  He tries to sit up straighter, defiance giving him strength. "The Dreamer does not seek to whisper. It seeks to wake. To bring its full consciousness into this frayed reality. The Silver Key—you—will hold the gateway open long enough for that awakening to begin."

  This is more than just summoning a monster. This is an incursion.

  "Where is Karthok now?" I ask, my voice still calm.

  "Gone ahead... to Twinstone Spire... to prepare the final sigils," he coughs. "You'll walk right into our hands, Silver-Eyes. You're drawn to patterns... you won't be able to resist."

  He smiles then, a bloody, terrible smile. "And your patron... the cold little weaver of threads... it cannot protect you from what dreams."