The warehouse in eastern Romania hadn't seen legitimate use in decades. Rusted machinery lined the walls, and broken windows let in shafts of pale moonlight. But the seventeen people gathered in its center didn't care about ambiance. They cared about survival.
Malphas stood before them, his shadow-form carefully modulated to appear almost human. Almost. The silver threads in his essence still caught the light in ways that made mortal eyes ache if they looked too long.
"You've all been abandoned," he said, his voice carrying genuine sympathy. "Cast aside by governments who made deals with supernatural beings. Betrayed by leaders who sold human sovereignty for peace with monsters."
