Sher leaned closer to the trembling urn, tilting her ear toward it, straining to catch the voice Cassian had mentioned. But aside from the urn's faint rattling, she heard nothing. Confused, she frowned.
"I don't hear anyone…" she murmured.
Yet, Cassian still heard it—a whisper on the edge of despair. A voice, weak and aching, a cry for help so faint it barely clung to existence.
"Help... help..." The voice repeated the same desperate plea, but for some reason, Cassian felt no sympathy. Instead, an unsettling instinct took hold—rather than freeing whatever was inside, he felt an urge to intensify its suffering.
There was something locked within the urn. A murderous intent, twisted and simmering.
Sher glanced at him. "What's it saying?"