Deep within the forgotten heart of the southern continent, entombed within an ancient, abandoned fortress, a council convened.
Twelve figures, their forms swallowed by the suffocating darkness, were seated at a grand, circular table. Not a single face was discernible, lost to the gloom that clung to every shadow.
The only illumination was a solitary, spectral sliver of moonlight, a fractured silver spear that pierced a gaping hole in the wall, only serving to highlight the impenetrable void elsewhere.
It caught the dust motes dancing in the frigid air, whispering of untold centuries of neglect.
A ripple in the oppressive quiet signaled a new arrival. Cloaked in robes of absolute black that absorbed what little light dared to fall upon them, and wearing a mask that pulsed with an unsettling, faint luminescence, the figure moved with an almost unnatural grace.
This was the harbinger of ruin, the very architect of the thousands of deaths that had bled Ashveil dry—the town once known as Erion.
He knelt, not in supplication, but in a silent acknowledgment of the power gathered before him, awaiting their judgment or their command.
A voice, low and resonant, emerged from the profound shadows near the table's head. "Good work in Elydrion."
"You have offered a profound sacrifice for our god. Your reward, both tangible and ethereal, shall be swift in its coming."
"I simply did what was commanded," the masked figure replied, their voice a flat, emotionless rasp that seemed to emanate from the very depths of the shadows surrounding them.
Another voice, drier and sharper, cut through the stillness. "We are aware. That is precisely why we have another task for you. A challenge befitting your... particular talents."
Then, a third voice, colder than the tomb, reverberated through the chamber, carrying an ancient weight. "Go. And extinguish the Scions of the Eternal."
The black-robed figure gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. He rose. The glow of his mask caught the faint moonlight, turning it predatory—like the eyes of a beast ready to hunt.
Without a word, he turned and walked into the shadows.
⸻
Outside, moonlight drenched the fortress ruins in a cold silver. The figure stepped forward, his black cloak rustling as a thin ripple of power pulsed through the air. The world bent around him—and with a whisper of wind and light, he vanished.
⸻
He reappeared in the heart of a forgotten town, just outside a crumbling hotel bathed in red neon.
The air here was thick with smoke, perfume, and secrets. This was the kind of place where no one asked questions. People wore masks for pleasure, for shame, or for power—so no one paid attention to the man in the glowing faceplate.
The black-robed figure entered the hotel.
Music thumped softly in the background. A woman in crimson lace laughed with a masked noble in the corner. A few shady figures glanced up, then looked away. The masked man was nothing unusual here.
At the bar, a stout man with a shaved head looked up and immediately straightened.
"Master," he said, voice low with reverence.
The masked figure spoke. "Where is Darius?"
The bartender gave a nervous glance toward the back hall. "He said… his experiment is almost complete."
A pause. Behind the mask, something shifted.
"Tell him," the figure said coldly, "to proceed with the plan. No delays."
"Yes, Master," the man replied, bowing his head.
Without another word, the figure moved through the bar and into a hidden chamber beyond—a room designed for silence, for solitude, for secrets too heavy for daylight.
Here, he was unseen. Unjudged.
He slipped off his robe.
Beneath the fabric, his body was lean, pale, marked by deep scars—each one cut by pain, not battle. One scar across his chest still glowed faintly, a sign of something unnatural. He removed his mask and set it gently on the table beside the mirror.
His reflection met him.
Hair black as obsidian. Eyes darker still—bottomless, starless voids. A nose sharp as a blade. Lips blood red against ghost-pale skin. He was statuesque, unnervingly beautiful.
Almost.
A scar, small but cruel, curved across his cheek. A flaw that ruined perfection. A reminder.
He reached up and touched it.
⸻
[Flashback]
Flames. Fire devoured the walls. Screams melted into smoke.
A child knelt on scorched earth, surrounded by burning ruins. Before him, two bodies—his parents—lay still and broken. Their faces were charred. Their eyes stared at nothing.
He cried. He screamed. But the fire swallowed every sound.
The boy clutched his mother's lifeless hand, his own shaking uncontrollably. His face twisted in agony, tears turning to steam.
And then—he collapsed, the world fading into black.
⸻
[Present]
The masked man blinked, the memory slowly retreating like smoke from a dying flame.
He stepped to the window, where moonlight streamed through the dirty glass. The red light from the hotel's sign flashed intermittently behind him, casting his reflection in flickers—maskless, scarred, and cold.
He stared into the night sky.
And then, softly, he spoke.
"The time has come."