The tent smelled like old incense and something worse, something rotting under the silk-draped table. Sam ignored it.
„Sit,“ she said. Not a question.
Her eyes were dark, endless. He thought of tunnels. Of falling.
She flipped the first card. The Tower. Lightning split the sky, a blackened figure tumbling. His stomach twisted.
The second. The Hanged Man. Upside down, arms outstretched. Waiting.
His breath hitched.
The third. Death. A rider on a pale horse, hollow eyes staring through time.
Cold fingers brushed his wrist. „You’ve been running,“ she whispered. „You won’t make it.“
His mouth dried. „I don’t know what you mean.“
She only smiled, tapping the cards. They trembled, edges curling. Smoke rose from the table.
Something rumbled outside—deep, guttural. Like breath from a vast, unseen mouth.
Sam shot to his feet. The tent flaps hung limp. No exit.
A shadow stretched behind him. Too tall. Too thin.
She leaned forward. „It’s here.“
A hand, cold and boneless, gripped his shoulder.
The candles flickered.
The cards burned.
