The priests quickly removed the stone from his palm, and hurried him into the great shrine.
He heard no voice during the great ceremonies. No voice answered his prayer. On the way back home, the priest told him they would try again next year, but he must commit himself fully to Balor in the coming months.
At night, he dreamed about that stone, that warm, brilliant stone, with the blue etchings he seemed to know.
That year was rough. The priests shaved his head, and began harsh mediation sessions. He fasted for weeks, he meditated through nights, and all the while, that stone slipped into his thoughts. One morning, during a fast, he heard a little voice in the dusk. Something small and crying. He broke his meditation and followed it. He ran through the tangled overgrowth of the shrine garden, down into the nearby town, chasing the little sound.
And there, in the dirt of the town square, he heard it loudly.
“I’m here!” it cried out.
He bowed his head to the passerbys as he wandered closer, something in the dust crying out to him louder than ever before.
There it was. The red stone.
He shoved it into his robe and ran back to the shrine. It talked endlessly as he sprinted. It thanked him over and over again as he rushed back into his room.
“Shh. Someone will hear you!” Wataza whisper barked to the gem in his hand.
“No they won’t.”