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The door opened before dawn.
Mark was still on the floor. Still in the same wrinkled button-down and khakis he'd been wearing when the floor of his apartment disappeared. His knee hurt. His back hurt. Everything smelled like cold stone and incense, and he'd spent the last six hours replaying the conversation he wasn't supposed to understand.
Disposal. Re-summoning. Mana refund.
The girl who stepped through the door looked maybe twenty. White robe, silver trim, same uniform as the older woman from yesterday. But her hands shook when she set the tray down. The wooden surface clattered against the stone.
"Um." She cleared her throat. Tried again in that fluid language he shouldn't know. "Food. For you. The... the summoned."
Mark sat up slowly. Watched her face.
She wouldn't meet his eyes.
The tray held a clay bowl, a small cup, and a piece of bread that looked stale even from six feet away. The cup had some kind of tea in it. Pale green, like matcha but thinner. It steamed in the cold air.
"You drink," the girl said. Still not looking at him. "It will... help. With the transition."
Transition. Right.
Mark's last "transition" had been when Linda's lawyer handed him the divorce papers at Starbucks. This felt worse.
The girl stepped back toward the door. Too fast. Like she wanted to be anywhere else.
"Wait," Mark said.
He used English. Kept his voice confused, helpless. The tone every American tourist used when they needed directions and didn't speak the language.
She froze.
"I don't—" He gestured at the tray, then at himself, then shrugged with his palms up. The universal *I have no idea what you just said* gesture. "Sorry. I don't... understand?"
Her shoulders dropped half an inch. Relief.
She thought he was harmless.
Good.
She pointed at the cup. Made a drinking motion. "This. You drink." Then she pointed at her own chest. "Good. Safe."
Safe.
Mark looked at the cup again.
The liquid inside wasn't moving right. Too thick. And the color—now that he looked closer, it wasn't uniform. There were darker threads suspended in it, like someone had stirred in powder that hadn't fully dissolved.
His stomach dropped.
Oh, you have got to be kidding me.
The girl was already backing toward the door.
"No, wait," Mark said. He stood up—too fast, his bad knee protested—and moved toward the tray.
She flinched.
He froze. Held up both hands. "It's okay. I just—"
He mimed drinking, then made a face. Rubbed his stomach. The international sign for *I feel like crap, can I get something else?*
She stared at him.
"Please?" He tried to look pathetic. It wasn't hard. He was forty-one, unshowered, and wearing business-casual in a medieval death cult. Pathetic came naturally.
The girl's mouth opened. Closed.
"You have to drink it," she whispered.
Her voice cracked on the last word.
Bingo.
Mark kept his face blank. Confused. "I don't understand."
She swallowed. "The tea. You—" She stopped. Looked at the door behind her. It was still open a crack. "Please. Just drink it. It'll be easier."
Easier.
Jesus Christ.
Mark's pulse hammered in his ears. His hands felt cold. But he made himself smile—confused, grateful, dumb—and reached for the cup.
The girl's eyes went wide.
He picked it up. The clay was warm. The smell hit him—bitter, chemical, wrong. Like cough syrup mixed with dirt.
He raised it halfway to his mouth.
"Wait—"
The girl lunged forward. Her hand shot out.
Mark jerked back. The cup slipped.
It hit the stone floor. Shattered. Pale green liquid spread across the ground, pooling in the cracks between stones.
For three seconds nobody moved.
The girl stared at the broken cup. Her face went white.
"I'm sorry," Mark said quickly. English, still playing dumb. "I didn't mean—I'm so sorry—"
Footsteps in the hall.
The girl's head snapped toward the door. Then back to Mark. Her eyes were huge, panicked.
"You drank it," she said.
Mark blinked. "What?"
"You drank it." Louder this time. She dropped to her knees, started scooping up the broken clay pieces. "You already drank half. Before I came in. You—you were thirsty, you didn't wait, you drank it too fast and—"
She was lying.
For him.
Mark's brain stuttered. He opened his mouth. Closed it.
The door slammed open.
An older priestess stepped in. Same white robes, but hers had gold thread at the collar. She looked at the broken cup. At the girl on her knees. At Mark standing there with wet fingers and a confused expression.
"What happened?" Her voice could've cut glass.
The girl didn't look up. "He drank it already, Sister Mara. Before I could give instruction. He was very thirsty. I tried to take the cup to slow him down, but—" She gestured at the mess. "I was too late."
Sister Mara's eyes narrowed. She looked at Mark.
He gave her his best *I'm a clueless foreigner* smile. Shrugged apologetically.
She stared at him for a long time.
Then she looked back at the girl. "Did he drink at least half, Ella?"
Ella. So that was her name.
"Yes, Sister. I think so. Maybe more."
"You think?"
"I—yes. Yes, he did."
Another pause. Mark focused on keeping his breathing steady. On looking tired and harmless and completely unaware that he was supposed to be dead right now.
Finally Sister Mara nodded. "Clean this up. Bring him bread and water. Nothing else. The tea was a kindness, but if he's too foolish to accept it properly..." She waved a hand. "Let him suffer the transition naturally."
She turned and swept out of the room.
The door slammed shut.
Ella didn't move. She stayed on her knees, broken clay in her hands, staring at the floor.
Mark waited five full seconds. Then he crouched down next to her.
"Thank you," he said quietly. In English.
She didn't react.
He switched to her language. Kept his voice low. "Thank you, Ella."
Her head jerked up. She stared at him.
"You—" Her voice came out strangled. "You speak—"
"Yeah." Mark glanced at the door. Still closed. "We need to talk fast. What was in the tea?"
"I don't—how are you—"
"Ella." He grabbed her wrist. Not hard, just enough to snap her focus back. "What was in it?"
She looked at his hand. At his face. Her lips trembled.
"Sweetroot," she whispered. "And blackvein moss. It's supposed to be painless. You just... fall asleep. And don't wake up."
"Who ordered it?"
"High Priestess Calia. She said the summoning failed. That you're not the hero. That keeping you alive is a waste of resources and—" She stopped. Sucked in a breath. "And that the circle might accept another attempt if you're gone."
Mark's stomach turned over.
"Right." He let go of her wrist. Sat back on his heels. "Okay. So they definitely want me dead."
"I didn't want to," Ella said quickly. "I swear I didn't want to, but Sister Mara said it was a mercy, that you'd be confused and scared and it was kinder than letting you starve or—"
"I believe you." And he did. She looked about ten seconds from throwing up. "But I need you to tell me something."
She nodded. Her face was still pale.
"Why did you stop me?" Mark asked. "You could've let me drink it. Let me die. Why didn't you?"
Ella opened her mouth. Closed it. Her hands twisted in her robe.
"I don't know," she said finally. "You just—when you picked up the cup, you looked so... tired. Like you'd already given up. And I thought—" She stopped. "My mother used to say that the gods don't make mistakes. That every summoning happens for a reason."
"Your mother was a priestess?"
"She was the High Priestess. Before Calia." Ella's voice went flat. "They executed her for heresy three years ago."
Oh.
Mark filed that away.
"So you think I'm here for a reason," he said.
Ella looked at him. Really looked, for the first time since she'd walked in. Her eyes were brown, red-rimmed, and far too old for twenty.
"I think," she said slowly, "that the circle brought you. Not a hero. You. And I looked at the runes last night after everyone left."
Mark's pulse kicked up. "And?"
"And the standard summoning array has forty-seven symbols. It calls for a champion. A warrior. Someone young, strong, pure-hearted." She swallowed. "The one we used last night had fifty-one symbols."
"What's the difference?"
Ella met his eyes.
"Someone changed it," she said. "Someone wanted you specifically."