THE CRONE (voice cracking with delight, blind eyes wide) So… it is true. The fog bore you here. Chosen! Drawn like moths into the flame. (leans forward, teeth black and broken) I am pleased. Pleased beyond all telling. The ground drinks your blood, and He stirs beneath the roots.

THE CRONE (smiling, her voice cracked but rich with glee) Yes… yes. Proud names, proud blood. Rome and tribe together. All as He foresaw. (tilts her head, eyes clouded, lips curling) But it is not I who summoned you. (points toward the hut, her long finger trembling) The Master waits inside.

CRONE (shrieking over chaos, yell) You fool! You tear the root! You unmake the pact!