This isn't just another turning point.
It's the moment when silence stops being safe.
What enters the Sanctum today is more than testimony.
It's ancient. Hidden. Watching.
You may think you understand what shadows are.
After this... you might not be so sure.
Tread carefully.
And whatever you do... don't look away.
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Samuel, our selective mute, lifts a hand and clears his throat. "So, if I got this right, Max shouldn't die. If she does, she'll be rewritten. If she's rewritten, she might lose her humanity. We get it."
That pretty much sums it up. No sugarcoating, no unnecessary fluff.
Lady Elsa raises her hand slightly, her gaze sweeping over us. "Now that you understand the gravity of the situation, and how we all stand to gain from the two of you joining us, we need to know your answer."
I glance at Eric and place my hand over his, giving it a light squeeze. His fingers tighten slightly in response, his eyes locking onto mine. A silent conversation passes between us. One laced with exhaustion, hesitation, and the unspoken we're in way too deep now, aren't we?
I nod. "Yes. We'll join you."
The Keepers of the Rift, because apparently, every secret organization needs a cool, ominous name to begin their doom-and-gloom briefing. Do's and don'ts, contact protocols, and an overarching "don't die" policy that feels oddly personal now.
Then Lady Elsa drops the next bomb. "We have a case coming up soon, a young prayer warrior butchered his girlfriend to death. He claims possession."
Eric lets out a dry scoff, eyes narrowing. "Of course he does. Classic."
The date is set for two weeks from now, and as much as we're slowly getting desensitized to horror stories, we're at the breaking point. Mentally fried. Physically wrecked. Emotionally bankrupt.
We don't even need to discuss it, we all just know.
"We're taking a vacation," I declare, voice flat.
"For a week and a half," Eric adds, mirroring my deadpan tone.
We'll be back before the hearing. But until then?
If another supernatural crisis wants to find us, it's gonna have to wait its damn turn.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Time flies when you're having fun.
Or, in our case, avoiding certain doom.
One week and a half slipped by faster than we could grasp, like sand through fingers or a divine joke at our expense.
We'd barely stepped through the front door when my phone rang. The voice on the other end was high-pitched, nasal, and painfully enthusiastic for this hour, and it chirped, "Obsidian Forum. Keepers of the Rift. Tomorrow. 08h00."
Great. Nothing like being summoned to a supernatural tribunal before we've even unpacked.
A quick briefing later, we agreed to meet at the Obsidian Forum in two days.
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The Obsidian Forum looms like a monolith of judgment, an architectural decree of "you're either guilty or about to be."
Unlike the courtroom where Alec had faced judgment, loud and performative in its fragility, this place didn't pretend.
It didn't need theatrics. Here, guilt wasn't argued; it was unveiled.
At its core, The Apex juts from the ground. A triangular platform that rises ominously, reserved for the accused. It symbolizes a soul being weighed, measured, and, more often than not, found wanting. Concentric rings of stone seating encircle it, forming a descending amphitheater where every single person can look down on the poor soul standing trial.
At the highest tier, separate from the judges yet impossible to ignore, sit the Spiritual Leaders. Their dark stone thrones, inlaid with celestial symbols, radiate both authority and restraint. They do not enforce judgment. They do not hand down sentences. But their presence alone shapes the trial's outcome.
The chamber is already brimming with prayer warriors, spiritual warriors, and leaders from countless sects, their hushed conversations threading through the air like an unseen current.
Eric and I step into an adjacent chamber, where Lady Elsa and the rest of the Spiritual Leaders wait. She runs through the setup with the efficiency of someone who's done this a thousand times.
"The Veilwardens enter first," she explains. "Five of them take their seats. Then the Judicars follow. Then us."
Simple enough, except for the part where Eric and I are about to be thrown into the deep end of supernatural politics.
The chamber hums.
Not with mere noise, but with the kind of energy that knows when something greater has entered the room.
Whispers writhe like shadow-serpents through the gathered crowd, coiling with anticipation.
Two new members.
Their voices drip with curiosity, flicker with speculation, and sizzle, just faintly, with suspicion.
Lady Elsa enters first.
Not a single word is spoken, yet the effect is instantaneous.
The entire chamber rises.
Heads bow in silent unison, not out of duty, but reverence.
Behind her, Neil, Natasha, and James glide in like sentinels carved from starlight and smoke. Their expressions are unreadable, cast in shadows that flicker beneath the Sanctum's strange light.
Then came Gabe and Warren.
We haven't met them before, but presence doesn't need an introduction.
There's something in the way they walk. Something in the way the air parts for them.
The kind of presence that makes the body obey before the mind catches up.
Spines straighten. Eyes widen.
Even the breath in the room seems to halt in place.
And then... Eric and I.
We step through the archway like thunder given form.
A ripple of silence crashes outward, like the pause before Heaven decides to break something open.
The Judicars, ever the immovable faces of law, remain statuesque, but their eyes betray them.
A twitch here. A flick there.
They measure us. Fear us. Wonder who we've become.
I swallow against the dryness in my throat.
The Sanctum is enormous, but the walls feel closer now, like they're leaning in to listen.
And that's when it hits me.
The butterfly effect.
Not the poetic one.
The "you've just walked into a den of lions wearing blood-soaked silk" kind.
We take our seats, the folds of our robes falling like a mantle of command.
Lady Elsa positions herself at the center. Eric to her left. Me to her right.
The message is clear:
Power has arrived.
And it is no longer asking permission.
From below, we must look like myth made flesh. Untouchable. Unrelenting. Ordained.
Then, a voice, low and deliberate, cuts through the anticipation like a blade dipped in prophecy. "The accused, Gregory Willow, stands before this Tribunal, charged with culpable homicide, practicing dark magic."
Magister Kaelith's presence alone commands attention. He wears authority as effortlessly as his badge of office, the silver emblem gleaming against his dark robes. Standing beside Mr. Willow, he delivers the facts with the precision of a blade.
"On the night of March 21st," Magister Kaelith began, voice crisp and controlled, "the accused, Thomas Willow, was in the company of Isabella Neethling, a fellow prayer warrior from his sect."
He consults the parchment in his hand without lifting his gaze. "An argument was allegedly sparked regarding Miss Neethling's relationship with a deliverance warrior."
A beat.
"According to the accused, Miss Neethling retired to the spare room shortly after the exchange. By morning, she was discovered dead."
He closes the file. The silence is sharp enough to draw blood.
"Mr. Willow claims she was possessed."
Another pause. Measured. Intentional.
Then, with clinical finality...
"And that he butchered her in self-defense."
A ripple of murmurs sweeps through the chamber. Every breath is held, every gaze locked onto the man at the center of it all. Mr. Willow keeps his head bowed, eyes fixed on the ground. But something is wrong.
His shadow shifts.
Not the restless fidgeting of a nervous man, but something else, something unnatural. I see it, though I doubt anyone else does.
Magister Kaelith strides to his desk, collecting a handful of documents before handing them to the administrator. His voice remains steady.
"Please distribute these to the Keepers of the Rift, the Veilwardens, and Judicars."
We receive our copies and flip to the first page at his instruction.
"Pages one through three contain testimonies from neighbors, friends, and family regarding Mr. Willow's behavior toward Miss Neethling. Please refer to page one, paragraph three; a statement from the deceased's sister."
I scan the text, but Magister Kaelith reads it aloud, his tone carrying the weight of its contents.
"Mr. Willow is an egotistical man. I understand that he loves my sister, but any slight from her, real or imagined results in him turning others against her. He isolates her, controls her, and has both physically and emotionally abused her. He always makes it seem like it was her fault. My sister was a nervous wreck, and her secret messages to me are the only reason I know the truth. I have attached them with this letter."
The chamber is deathly silent.
Magister Kaelith exhales sharply, as if ridding himself of the weight of the words before moving on.
"Now, please turn to Addendum A."
We do. The letter is handwritten, shaky but hopeful. He reads it aloud.
"Hi, sis. I'm doing much better than last week. My wounds are healing nicely, and the sect has approved my week-long leave. I'll be back to work Monday, so don't worry. Greg is spoiling me now, coming home early to take care of me. He promised he won't take his anger out on me anymore. He believes me now, that my relationship with Aubrey is innocent. I love and miss you. See you on Monday. Isabella."
A tragic attempt at reassurance. A desperate attempt to believe things would change.
And yet, the shadow moves again.
The edges stretch unnaturally, creeping like ink spilled across the stone floor. My stomach tightens. Something else is present.
Magister Kaelith places the letter at the back of the stack before glancing up, his voice quieter but no less firm.
"Now, Addendum B."
His gaze hardens.
"Before I read this, be advised, it is disturbing."
He doesn't embellish. He doesn't need to. The weight of the words does all the damage.
"Hi, sis. I'm not doing well. I was happy to see you on Monday, but I wish I could have stayed longer. Every time I leave the house, he becomes paranoid, and we fight when I return.
He came home tonight, furious, because I spoke to Luke. Yes, it's Luke now, not Aubrey. Greg has changed so much, and I don't think this will ever end. I need to leave him, but I don't know how. No one believes me anymore. He's convinced everyone that I'm crazy, that I'm the one at fault.
Tonight, he lost control. Again.
I was ironing when he started yelling, calling me a whore, a backstabber, a homewrecker. When I didn't fight back, he ripped the iron from the table and..."
A breath. A pause. The weight of an unspeakable moment.
"... he hit me over the head with it."
Someone in the chamber gasps.
"As I fell, he pressed the hot iron into my back. The pain is unbearable, and he won't let me see a doctor. Please. Help me."
The room is frozen in horror.
Magister Kaelith carefully sets the letter down, his expression unreadable. But his knuckles are white against the parchment.
Beside him, Gregory Willow's shadow writhes.
For the first time, I realize, this isn't just a man.
There is something else standing in Gregory Willow's place, something lurking beneath his skin, curling in his shadow like a thing waiting to be let loose.
Magister Kaelith remains composed, though I can't tell if it's sheer experience or a refusal to let the weight of the moment crack him. I suppose in this line of work, your nerves either turn to steel, or you don't last long enough to need them.
His voice rings through the chamber, firm as stone. "I have a testimony from his neighbor, Mr. Saul, regarding disturbances over the past year. He is a prayer warrior himself. And as we are all aware, only sect members reside within this enclosure. Every word given here comes from our own kind."
A pause. His sharp eyes scan the room, daring someone to question it. No one does.
Returning to the document in his hand, he reads, "Mr. Saul testifies that over the course of a year, Gregory Willow would leave his flat frequently, only to return before sunrise. One evening, Saul noticed a smear of blood on Willow's door handle and questioned Isabella about it the next day. She knew nothing. Fearing for her safety, he warned her not to mention it to Greg. She agreed."
Kaelith flips the page, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Saul's suspicions deepened as Willow's violence toward Isabella escalated. A few neighbors confronted him, warning they would report him if it continued. Willow pleaded, shifting blame onto Isabella, painting himself as the wounded party. He was convincing enough that most backed off. But Saul did not. He kept watching."
A weighted pause.
"And then the bloodstains started appearing again. On the handle. On the floor outside the door. But one night, it wasn't just a smear, it was a few droplets. Enough to make me raise my suspicions. That's when Saul decided to follow him."
Kaelith exhales sharply, like each word costs him.
"He tracked Willow to an abandoned warehouse nearby. Three men entered, and Saul, keeping to the shadows, spotted a young girl tied up on the first level."
The air thickens.
My breath slows.
My grip tightens around the file until the paper crinkles, fragile as my restraint.
"What he saw next," Kaelith says, voice flat but vibrating at the edges, "was beyond anything he imagined. One by one, they cut the girl's wrists, letting the blood drip into a bowl. They drank it."
Gasps flutter like startled wings through the Sanctum.
"Then, they placed their hands on her head. And it was as if..."
He hesitates.
"...as if they were drawing something out of her. Saul described it like watching her soul unravel, pulled thread by thread. She collapsed. Unmoving. Gone."
I feel the throb of my heartbeat behind my eyes.
"Saul reported the crime. But when authorities arrived,"
Kaelith's lips curl in revulsion, "the girl was alive. Awake. Smiling. No marks. No bruises. No sign she'd ever bled."
A murmur slithers through the chamber, no louder than breath, but barbed with unease.
Kaelith moves to the next document with mechanical grace, as though if he stops, he'll shatter.
"Saul waited. Two months later, Willow reemerged. Different place. Same performance."
Another pause. A glance at the accused, still seated, head bowed like a statue waiting for judgment.
"This time, Saul knew exactly what he was seeing."
Silence.
Kaelith places the paper aside. No rustle. Just weight.
"Upon investigation, it was confirmed. Gregory Willow and his associates were practicing black magic. Rituals designed to manipulate spirit, influence, and authority."
He lifts a brittle page. Inked glyphs stain its surface like bruises from another world.
"This diagram is over three hundred years old. Taken from the Labyrinth of Books. And I remind you, those texts never leave their sanctum."
He clears his throat, voice fraying. "Willow and his companions are using forbidden methods. Ancient rites that were meant to stay buried."
Then, the shadow moves.
Not a flicker. Not a breeze.
It slides. Left, then right.
Too fast to be natural. Too slow to be missed.
I see it. And when I turn, Eric sees it too, his eyes hard, jaw locked.
Lady Elsa's gaze meets mine.
She knows.
The chamber stills.
But it's wrong, the kind of stillness that listens back.
Then, she rises.
Her robes rustle like drawn blades.
Chairs groan as the circle responds, some unsure why they're standing, only that their bodies obey something older than instinct.
"May I request a reprieve?"
Her voice is smooth. Measured.
But it carries weight. Now.
Silence answers.
And then, it happens.
The shadow swells.
Not Willow's.
Something else.
It stretches across the floor. Up the wall. Over the ceiling.
Massive. Intentional. Hungry.
Then, the bulbs die.
Not in a flicker.
Snuffed out, one after the other.
Darkness presses in, alive and watching.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
If you've walked this far with Max, Eric, and the others, thank you.
You've seen fire wielded like a weapon, watched power rise where it wasn't welcome, and felt the breathless hush of something vast moving in the dark.
But what's coming next... changes everything.
In the chapters ahead, Max will meet someone who sees the truth written into her very soul.
Not just her strength. Not just the burden she carries.
But who she was always meant to become.
Their meetings are brief at first. Subtle, like silver thread weaving through gold. But the shift is unmistakable.
When she begins to fall, it won't be a surrender.
It will be an awakening.
And what she becomes with him at her side?
Even the shadows will tremble.
The real story doesn't end here.
It begins when she realizes... she was never meant to burn alone.