A year without saints.
The Coven Annual Wheel follows no divine calendar.
Nineteen festivals mark the cycle – each of these nights disfigures a familiar ritual, desecrates a symbol, breaks a law.

What began as a reversal is no longer a break.
It has settled, left its mark, inscribed itself in every subsequent step.

The old meanings still hold true,
but they are losing weight.

And with each festival, it becomes clearer
that this year is not passing –
but closing.

What others celebrate as light, we transform into embers and shadows.

WELCOME TO THE ERA OF BLOOD AND SILENCE.

The sixth festival in the Coven Year.

It is said that fire once fell from the sky – not destructive, but purifying.
Tongues of flame settled upon the assembled, giving them a voice that everyone understood, no matter where they came from. For a moment, everything was clear. Words held weight, meaning was non-negotiable, and what was spoken needed no explanation.

Thus it is handed down.

But traditions change. Not suddenly, but slowly, until eventually one can no longer say whether one still remembers the event – or merely what it has become.

At Infernal Pentecost, this fire returns.
But it no longer brings clarity.

What once seemed like a shared voice crumbles into fragments. Everyone receives something, but no one checks if it still fits together. It feels right, and that alone is enough.

The assembled stand there again, looking up and waiting. Not out of doubt, but out of habit.

And it comes.

Not as a dove.
Not as a sign.

But as something that remains in the sky, never disappearing.

The tongues settle on skin and forehead again,
but they say nothing more.
And yet everyone acts,
without realizing that they have long been obeying.

Welcome to Infernal Pentecost.

It is said that they had gathered because they knew something would happen.
Not out of faith, but out of memory.

The room was filled with voices that quieted over time. Conversations died down, glances repeatedly wandered upwards, as if an answer lay there, one that had not yet revealed itself.

Then the wind began.

It did not come from outside, but seemed to arise from everything at once – from the air, from the walls, from the people themselves. A steady rustle that spread until no one questioned it anymore.

With it, the fire appeared.

It did not fall like a flame that burns and passes, but like something that divides and distributes itself. It settled on each individual, almost calmly, almost purposefully.

And they began to speak.

In earlier times, it was said they understood each other. That language was no longer a barrier, but a connection. But later accounts tell a different story. They speak of the words remaining, but the understanding vanishing. That everyone speaks as if they are certain – and that is precisely where the error lies.

Meanwhile, something moved above them.
It did not stand still, did not reveal itself clearly, and yet it was impossible to ignore. Something moved in patterns, steadily and without interruption, as if observing without interfering – or interfering precisely by doing so.

No one could say when it had begun to be there.
But at some point, they were certain it had never left.

And in one of the last surviving fragments, there is only one sentence:

“Before, we carried the fire.
Now, it carries us.”

Since then, it has been true:
When the tongues descend again, it is no longer a gift that wishes to be understood.

It is something that is received,
without anyone asking if it is still the right thing.