The summoning circle was complete the moment James Morgan set down his brush. His breath was white. Deep into October's night, the third floor of the Morglen Research Institute had no heating. The concrete walls drank in the outside air, and the entire room hung heavy and cold. A fluorescent light hummed as it cast its white glow across the floor, illuminating the geometric patterns spread beneath it. Just over two meters in diameter. A summoning circle drawn with absolute precision over three hours. The mineral ink—a special compound made by crushing specific stones and mixing them with distilled water and binders—had dried to a luster-less black, darker than any ordinary black, carved into the floor. James walked the outer edge of the circle, checking the patterns for any breaks or irregularities. There were none. Like mathematics itself. Correct input produced correct output. In the corner of the room, notebooks filled with transcriptions of occult texts were stacked in neat pil