Inside the Counsil The First speaks into a room full of ghosts and statutes. He is older than the present and younger than the past. He is a being who keeps his regrets like gemstones behind his eyes. Across from him, a figure moves like a knot of shadow.
The Weaver. Thats what The First calls him. It has slender tendrils of gold through the air. Each thread draws a map that vibrates with futures, an almost-playful weaving of what might be. The Weaver's voice slides like oil. "We can reweave. The pattern is frayed, but its not completely ruined yet master." His fingers leave luminous scars on the table, and destinies shiver like silk.
In the corner, The Silent watches and observes the coversation between the First and The Weaver. He is taller than memory, wrapped in a black cloak that drinks light. A mask hides his face at all times. The mask that is not merely for hiding but for shaping. His movements are something special in itself. Its minimal and precise. He is the farthest thing from a human. His presence feels like stepping into a place where rules have been put on leave.
The First's hands are pretty small, clever hands. "Lucien chose the human road. The final hunter couldn´t make him the God of Vengeance," he says, the sentence tasting like a verdict. "He refused ascension."
The Weaver smiles. It was not a warm smile, but The Weaver looked pleased. "That detour complicates the weave," he says. "But complication is not failure. Thread can be rerouted to our greatness."
The Silent tilts his head, and the mask's voice is low and without ornament. "Reroute you say?" he says, like someone trying on a newly learned word. Then the Weaver said. "We do not merely reroute. We reclaim whats ours."
"How. Do you have a plan in mind?" asks The First, soft because he is asking of himself as much as of the others. The question hangs in the space like smoke.
The Silent steps forward. Face to face with the first. For a moment, the room holds its breath. He drops a single phrase that is not loud but lands like a stone: "I have a plan."
No one laughs. No one dares to take a breath. The Weaver's threads still for a heartbeat. Even The First, who has ages in his chest, feels the small, sharp hope of a soldier who hears the whirr of a weapon being wound.
Back in the Grand Canyon.
The King's smile is like a blade inside velvet. He can be seen as a kind of hologram that projects him. The king sits in a canyon of gold and shadow, and Archer kneels as if the earth itself is asking him to. The King's eyes are old fires. When he speaks, the words are both offer and edict.
"Only 3 weeks left Archer Irving," the King says, voice sounding like thunder "You stood by my side and now you will be rewarded."
Archer keeps his head low. "I stood with what I believed and thats with you my King," he says. His voice is steady because it must be.
The King folds his hands. "As you know i will make you my heir," he says. "But there is a condition i haven´t told you yet." He leans forward to meet Archer eye to eye. The air between them feels hot. "You will host me."
Archer's body freezes. Host him. The King of Hell? The idea reads like an invasion. It felt like someone asking a man to be house and doorway for a storm.
The King's condition is blunt, and very cruel. The current King of Hell will co-exist within his successor and future King of hell, Archer Irving. The throne is not empty to be taken; it must be shared. "You will allow my essence to live in within you, to govern your way to greatness with you, and through you. You will not be left alone. For the first time you will share greatness and you won ´ t be alone."
Silence bites. Archer thinks of absolute power, of rulership, of the world bended to his will. He thinks of Lucien and the choice he made.
He thinks of what it would mean to have Hell himself whisper in his blood. Power shared is a poison and a promise.
Archer lifts his head. Light slices the canyon and paints his face with a hard, honest line. "I accept your condition," he says.
"If co-existence is the price to seize the throne of hell, then let me be both the hammer and the cradle."
The King smirkes like a man who loves bargains. "Good. Good Archer," he says. "Then let us begin."
Archer bows. The agreement is sealed.
Rylen stands at the center of a battered warehouse that smells of oil and old rope. He issues orders to the rest of Divison five that are short and precise. Its the kind of order that leave room for improvisation and courage. He is a leader because he forces others to be better.
Lucien watches from the edge of the warehouse. He is no longer the axis around which destinies orbit. He is a nightguard soldier again and he accepts that with a complicated kind of relief. For the first time since the trial he wore a Nightguard uniform. It fits differently now, heavier in ways that are honest. He pins the emblem to his heart not as a crown but as a job.
"Move the evac point to Block D," Rylen says. Jason you flank the west approach now. Jason, you also take comms from now on; Lucien, you and I clear the alley route for the civilians." His commands are efficient; his eyes lock on Lucien like a promise.
Lucien nods. "Understood." The words feel great. They are perfectly said. Rylen is not leading the world; he is saving it block by block. That is enough for now.
When they move out, Lucien walks by Rylen's left side. Sometimes he falls into the background to watch Rylen's back and kill potential monsters. Rylen is the one who schemed the training drills and designed quick traps. Emiluna taught different neighborhoods how to fight in ways monsters would not expect.
They take the alley to leave the warehouse. The city smells like a wound. Nightguard members fall in and out of formation with the practiced ease of soldiers who have seen worse and will see worse still. Lucien's eyes scan everything thats in his sight. He no longer commands storms.
At night, they gather by a small fire. Lucien passes a flint. Rylen alwats starts and tells a serious story that makes them all grin. Jason's jokes roll out like pebbles on a quiet pond. Emiluna's careful hands distribute food.
Lucien sleeps with the badge warm against his heart. He is not a god. He is not a king. He is a Nightguard Corps member. It is a role that fits him for now, and he will shape it into something that can hold people.