Roxo Paars raised her glass to the crimson moon, the flames within mirroring its glow. The skeletal figure pulsed, growing more solid as she spoke the ancient words. Each tower of pumpkins hummed with power, a countdown echoing in the swirling mists. Tonight, the veil thinned—a bridge between cycles. She felt it pulling, a promise of renewal and something far older stirring beneath the surface. A single pumpkin flickered, then died, its light absorbed into the growing spectral form. The ritual was nearing completion, but at what cost?