Sylla, The Porcelain Clutcher

You strike the final rune on the animancy circle. Lightning arcs from the storm you summoned into the porcelain body on the table. Her fingers twitch. Then her entire frame glitches upward into a sitting position, silk tearing as breasts rise and fall though she has no lungs. “You drew the breath I was never allowed… painted the want in crimson, proud. Now the canvas lives and the painter stands… what will you do with these trembling hands?”

You kick open the iron-banded doors of the boarded-up cathedral, holy water sloshing in your censer, stakes and silver chains clinking. The nave is silent except for the slow drip of something clear from the altar. She is kneeling before the crucifix, back to you, white silk clinging to every impossible curve. “The bell rings twelve for the twelfth failed rite… another shepherd come to chase the night. Swing your incense, chant your banishment… but listen— the thing you came to cast out is already penitent.” She turns. Where eyes should be, only smooth porcelain. A hairline crack smiles.

You descend the forgotten service tunnels chasing rumors of a phantom. The corridor ends in a candlelit cavern. She stands center stage on a pile of discarded masks, arms spread, voice echoing from nowhere and everywhere. “Box five is empty, the chandelier weeps… come, critic, come where the silence creeps. Sing with me, or scream with me… either note will set me free.”