Dylan didn't answer right away.
He let the silence thicken, stretch out like a taut rope between them. The kind of silence one uses to weigh the risks, to gauge the greed in the other's pupils. He knew what he held. And more than that, he knew what he wanted them to believe he held.
So, slowly—almost theatrically—he slipped his hand under his tunic, just slow enough to seem hesitant. Not cautious, no. But… desperate. Like someone about to give up a part of themselves.
He pulled out the gem.
A soft pulse of light flickered from it now and then—amethyst in color, troubled by ink-black glints, as if the very light inside it was trying to break free.
A thin vapor drifted off the gem at intervals, almost invisible but definitely there. And when he held it over the ritual table, even the jars lining the laboratory seemed to react. Bubbles rose for no reason. An eyeball floating in greenish gel rotated slightly toward them.
The Skinweaver approached, slowly.
